A very loose plan of action formed for Agatha. After studying his murders and where the victims were found, and knowing what vague direction he lived in, she narrowed down where he might live. That weekend she decided to go towards him. She left the phone at home and took one of her larger purses with her, filled with a few things she might need. She had an idea of what she wanted to accomplish, but wasn’t certain any of it would play out how she hoped.

          She drove, not entirely aimless, pulled by the sensation of where he was. As she reached the town that she assumed he resided in, the sensation shifted. She realized he was also on the move. She decided to stop driving and enjoy a large public park, with children and parents in sight on the playground. She sat, feeling his approach, marveling at the thought that he was seeking her out. Agatha had always heard about these things second hand – the Calling, when a person found their mate. She had settled for the idea that it would never happen to her. Even knowing what she planned, she still felt a small thrill of excitement at the thought of his approach.

          It took everything in her to sit still, to keep her head from swiveling back and forth to find him. She knew he was close, getting closer, there… even before she heard his footsteps and felt his weight shift the bench as he sat down. “So you came to see me,” he said.

          She glanced out the corner of her eye to appraise him. He was staring at her, hard, as though trying to read her mind. “It’s what a lot of people do when they’re… finally Called,” she answered. There was a tense moment as they sat quietly. “I know,” she finally whispered. “I know you’re the Flayer. I saw it.”

          He gave her a long appraising look, and then said, his voice low and deep, “And you came anyway. Instead of going to the police?”

          She finally turned her head to look straight at him. “I’m not going to go to the police,” she said truthfully. She saw the doubt flash across his face, and she forced a smile. “You can search me if you want. I’m not wearing a wire.”

          He stood. “I might take you up on that. Come with me.” She wanted to hesitate but knew that any hesitation would look suspicious. Agatha followed him to his car, feeling her heart beat a million miles an hour. She was going to climb into a vehicle with a man she knew was a serial killer. It was insane.

          It wasn’t long before they were back at a small, well-tended home in a quiet neighborhood. She followed him inside, where he offered her a drink. “Coffee? Tea?”

          “Tea. Lots of sugar.” He nodded as he busied himself with making it, giving her a curious look.

          When he was done, he held the steaming mugs in his hand. When she reached for one, he pulled his hand back and nodded at her. “Well. Strip.”

          “Excuse me?” she asked, flushing.

          “To make sure you’re not wearing a wire.”

          Feeling herself turn bright red, she removed her shirt and pants. He eyed her critically, and seeing nothing strapped to her underwear or the undersides of her clothes, he handed her the mug. As she carefully sipped at the hot drink, he grabbed her purse and opened it. She froze, waiting to see his reaction to what he found, but he only pawed gently at the top contents, not digging far enough down. Satisfied there was no listening device, he tossed the purse down on the couch and sat in an armchair. She took a sip. “Satisfied?” she asked, trying hard not to feel self-conscious about being in her underwear.

          “Yes. A little confused. Are you not scared by… what I do?” He took a sip of his own drink. If he was leering at her near nakedness, it wasn’t obvious – she felt almost comfortable.

          She shook her head. “No. I’m not.”

          “So you’re not going to tell anyone?”

          “I only came because of the Calling.” She held the drink close, trying to sap all the warmth from it. “We’re soulmates. I wanted to meet you as soon as possible.”

          He flushed, and looked away. The slight embarrassment made him look almost boyishly sweet, and she could see herself loving him in another world. “I can’t stop,” he finally said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. His choked slightly on the words as he pushed them out. “I’ve tried before. I know you’ll probably want me to stop, but…”

          She shook her head, making a reassuring sound, and stood to walk over to him. “I… I was shocked learning about… that. From seeing that. But there was also something… exhilarating about it.” That was half-truth, but she suspected the strong exhilaration and lust that had coursed through the dreams had belonged primarily to him. Still, she needed him to trust her. To let his guard down. “Something… exciting,” she whispered into his ear. She could hear his breath catch. “What’s your name?”

          “Frank,” he murmured. His hands slid up her sides as he stood to kiss her. She leaned eagerly into the kiss, trying to forget that she was making out with a serial killer who skinned his victims alive. Soon, they were shuffling down the hall, to the bedroom. He was undressing, undressed… seeing him naked, she thought about how he had been inside so many dead girls and had to fight the urge to vomit.

          He had her on the bed, was kissing her again. She pulled back, and said, “I want to try something. If you’ll trust me.”

          He smiled at her. “What?”

          “Could I… tie your hands?” She hoped she sounded more shy and embarrassed in asking than she felt. He hesitated a long moment before nodding. Then saved her the trouble of pulling out the zip ties she had brought by disappearing for a moment and reappearing with rope. She smiled sensually at him and made a show of tying his hands to the bed. Then she did the same with his feet. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

          Outside the room, she dug to the bottom of her purse and removed the gloves she had brought with her. She went into his kitchen and opened a few drawers until she found the largest knife he had. She walked back down the hall, her heart fluttering – was she really going to do this? Would she even get away with it? Before long, she was standing in the doorway, staring at him, her hands angled behind her back.

          He smiled up at her.

          If he screams, the neighbor’s will hear, she thought to herself. And that decided her first stroke.

          She approached him, keeping the knife out of sight until the last second – and then she slammed it through his throat. His grey eyes widened in shock, and he croaked around the blade in his throat.

          Agatha wasn’t as skilled as Frank. It wasn’t a proper revenge for his victims, because he was bleeding out fast from the hole in his neck. But she set to work, carefully peeling back strips of his chest.

          She stopped just after he died. Her original plan had been to replicate one of his crime scenes fully, but she didn’t have the stomach for it. She stared down at what she had done, at the glazed over eyes staring at her in shock. The awareness of his presence had simply blipped out of existence with his dying breath.

          Numbly, she showered in his bathroom. As she watched the blood pooling at her feet, she began puking, and continued heaving until her stomach was empty, until the water was nearly cold. Then she climbed out of the shower. She was still wearing her socks, which were wet. She began to walk around the house, collecting her clothes and pulling them on, not caring that they soaked through immediately. She left the knife on the bed, and shoved the gloves and the mug she had drank from into her purse.

          For a moment, she stood at the door, feeling panicky and light headed. She was certain she had left DNA evidence everywhere, despite her carefulness. But she couldn’t stay in the house another moment.

          It was dark out. She somehow managed to stumble back to the park, back to her car. Sitting in her vehicle, she turned off the radio and drove home in silence.

          When Agatha felt enough time had passed, she downloaded what she needed to make her browsing truly anonymous. Her first searches were to see if the body she had dreamt of was discovered. It had been found, about a week prior. More than that, she had been right – her boy had been busy. Investigators thought the murder was related to several others, all following the same MO. The flaying, the removal of the organs, the evidence that showed the corpse had been violated after. His activity wasn’t constant – sometimes there was only a week between his murders, sometimes a month. Once a whole three years had passed. They thought he might have a medical background because of the precision in his work, the deft handling.

          The victim’s picture graced every article. Agatha remembered her face well. It made the dream fresh for a moment, and she felt like she might puke again. While she had been waiting, one of the other symptoms of the Calling had manifested. She felt him, like a presence, like a sixth sense, like birds can feel north and south. She felt reassured that he wouldn’t be able to sneak up on her at least – she would feel if he got closer, knew that he was now distant.

          As she looked over the articles, at the pictures of his past victims, she felt very strongly that she couldn’t live with this. She couldn’t love him, or learn to love him. She couldn’t be with him. When the final stages of the Calling set in and he could actively feel her disgust of him at all times, what would he think? Would he fear being turned over to the police? Because she realized she should. She should take what she knew to the police and turn him in immediately How would she be treated by the law and by society for being linked to a serial killer?

And more than that, did she trust that they could hold him prisoner his entire life? Could she trust that they would give him a death penalty? What if he got out or was somehow released?

          Would he kill her?

(Making a post yesterday completely slipped my mind, so in a way I’ve already lost the writing challenge! We’re still going to try to keep the posting schedule up though, so after this I will try to do a second post for tonight or tomorrow and have two in one day to make up for the miss)

          Agatha wasn’t initially inclined to go to the police. If she was having her Calling, could she be implicated somehow in what she saw? For not reporting it sooner? What was the societal impact of being linked to someone who could do such awful things? She realized she had never heard of anyone being linked to a serial killer. And even as she thought the words “serial killer” there was a part of her that knew it was true. She had only seen one body, but something about it was practiced. She could remember the feeling of fascination and lust that had swirled through her – him – in the dream. She was certain there were others.

          She decided to do some searching online first, checking to see if anyone had ever been linked to a serial killer. One of the first things she learned was that serial killers never had soulmates. In fact, most governments kept a watchlist on people that hadn’t been paired. Agatha quickly cleared her browser history, as well as digging deep into the settings to remove the most recent searches saved on her profile’s history. She wasn’t sure if it was enough, and she wondered vaguely if she had triggered her name on someone’s watchlist.

          I’m going to have to download a VPN or dark web browser, she realized. It made her feel deeply unsettled. She reassured herself with the fact that the same website said that men were often more heavily scrutinized for their lack of attachments. Still, she waited a few weeks before researching the best way to remain truly anonymous in her online activities. During that time, more symptoms of the Calling began to exhibit. One morning, she closed her bathroom cabinet to come face to face with the reflection of a man.

          He was, strangely, almost her type. He had smoothed back black hair – it looked slick, as though he had just showered or applied some sort of product. Although he had a healthy looking face, his cheeks were slightly gaunt, giving him a shadowy look. His brows were heavy and low, almost frowning, but the upward quirk of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes balanced it enough to make him look almost friendly. His steely grey eyes were wide with shock – he had seen her too in that instant. She could feel a thrill of surprise and a skip of a heartbeat that didn’t belong to her.

          It was almost exhilarating, except it was followed by the immediate thought that now he knew her face. He knew what she looked like. And he had certainly felt the terror that had palpated her heart in that glimpse.

          She wondered if he would realize she knew about his darker proclivities. She wondered what dreams he had of her, and what visions of her life had exposed her to him. She swallowed hard as she wiped off the mirror, no longer comfortable looking at her own reflection now that the vision had passed.