Under Twillight's Veil

The one and only part...

Step closer my child, for I will tell you my tale. It is one of both misery and beauty, so much so that it's almost impossible to behold. So step forward, my child, and lay your hand on my bars and I'll tell you my tale.

Now keep in mind, I was never a man of gore, quite the opposite in fact. But I will not deny, that I felt an certain attraction to to these strings of sins. Amidst the vat of boiling anger and wrath, the elegance and beauty of such acts had captured my heart, and therefore my soul. Oh how much I would do to see the bodies of such young ones twisting in cruel agony, and wither in pain once more. But you see, each story has a beginning and an end. So I must wait, and start at the beginning.




From the moment I stepped off the train and took my first breath of fresh air, this demon had begun its advance. Straight from the front lines we were, about twelve men in total. Ordered by the Führer himself, to investigate the unsettling murders of several young children from a rural town. Our orders where strict and clear, find the sociopath and kill him. Rather simplistic in its own right, yet some of my comrades were wary and in fear of this great beast of a man that haunted the Black Forest. Well, between you and me, I think we both know who was going to go first. And so we marched into the den of beasts and all sorts of hellish beings. With Brünhild in front and "little" Franz behind I was as happy as can be, for I knew these bulwarks would protect me from harm, but I would not protect them.

As we ventured deeper into the forest, we decided split up. Four heavily armed groups, against a shadow of a man. With Franz and Brünhild, I headed east. We walked until dusk, and there in the middle of the forest, we set up camp. After the day's hike, my two companions were exhausted, so I offered to take the first watch. And that's where it all began.

It was only an hour or two into my shift when the rustling began. With each second the sound grew and grew. Quietly I went to wake my companions; covering their mouths as I shook them awake, so as to muffle any potential screams. By the time they were alert, we could hear twigs being snapped, followed by a quiet thud as something heavy dropped onto the forest floor. Thinking quickly, we each grabbed a rifle and fired. Our rifles, the Sturm Gewehr, could fire up to five hundred rounds per minute. Lest to say whatever man, woman or beast that stood behind that thin veil of leaves and bushes was dead.

We inched closer to inspect to the kill with caution, our guns trained in front of us. As we manoeuvred through the shrubbery, the body came into view. An ageing man riddled with bullet holes lay at our feet. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining the corpse of a young child next to him. The boy was clearly beaten and tortured. Open gashes riddled his torso and cigarette burns littered his face. Each of his fingernails were ripped off with some fingers missing entirely. It was clear we had found our sociopath.

Whilst Brünhild and Franz celebrated the death in front of me, I was enraged. I refused to believe that the perpetrator of the work I so deeply admired was just an insane old man. No, there had to be something more. It was then and there, that I decided that I would show this town what a true madman could do. For the first time in my life, I aimed my gun at a fellow German. With a small squeeze of the trigger, blood spewed from the back or Franz's neck, his body crumpling as it fell. Panic was the only thing seen in Brünhild's eyes before another bullet laid him to rest.

I held no remorse for their deaths, not even a little compassion for the kids I had just left fatherless. I had grown tired of the endless games mankind plays. My plan was simple. I would rendezvous with the remaining soldiers at dawn and describe the fierce battle that had taken place during the night and how Franz And Bürnhild died heroes. Then I would request leave from the war and continue spreading fear in this town.

Be it night or day, I would follow kids as they played, down streets and around corners until no one was in sight, then I would strike. Grabbing the kid, I would then gag him and run to the woods. The thrill of potentially getting caught made it fun. Then at night I would start on my canvas. Each knife a paintbrush and each cut a stroke, I would only stop once the metallic smell of blood filled the air and the piercing screams had stopped. It was easy really. Sometimes I would take as many as two or three at a time, breaking their limbs so as to make human sculptures.

It was then, that I met my master piece, a young Aryan boy, not much older than seven. The terror on his face was exquisite as he watched me create my sculptures. No doubt he was frozen in fear. I gave him a chance to run and hide; pity he didn't take it. He was destined to be my tenth, so I knew I had todo something special.

Step a bit closer and I'll whisper it to you. As the child moves, my hand shoots out grab her throat. Her eyes well with tears as I squeeze. The moment right before death is something I can enjoy. That small second when a life is snuffed out and their eyes turn glassy. That moment is right now.