June 8th, 2018
Look, I know you guys only read for my tech advice and my (debatable) humour. But, I think I've found something......priceless. You know about that lost-file-recovery thing I have to do for college? I purchased this second hand phone, and what I found was really freaky. Read at your own risk........
The Lost File
In this recording, I will be chronicling my life's greatest achievements. I will, however, refrain from mentioning my name as it is of no importance. While I am truly fascinated by them, I consider myself unlike other well-known serial killers, for my victims aren't chosen at random. I... research mine extensively, and only choose them after heavy deliberation. I remember every life I have taken.
I had a fairly mundane childhood. I grew up in a small town, as an only child. My father worked as an accountant and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. When I was younger, I was willing to try anything once, though I didn't enjoy the same things other children my age did. I never understood the appeal of drooling over boys or going gaga over the latest pop single. Instead, I began an affair with literature, or to be more specific, the dystopian fiction of the 20th century, such as Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World. I remember the first time I read A Clockwork Orange. I could barely understand the nadsat vocabulary of the book, and I found myself consulting an online dictionary in order to make sense of it. This was the book that stemmed my fascination with the human psyche. After my first reading of the book, I spent countless hours researching and studying the effects and nature of insanity, before proudly presenting my work to my mother and telling her that I wanted to become a psychiatrist when I grew up.
However, I quickly abandoned that dream once I discovered how much time and money it would take to become a psychiatrist. As fascinated as I was, I wasn't willing to spend nearly a decade after high school in medical school and graduate programs. This was around the time one of my friends introduced me to the world of slasher flicks. I never found them entertaining, in fact, I considered them quite crass and cheap, but the concept of death intrigued me, similar to how human psychology did. I spent every minute of my spare time pondering about death, questioning the philosophical aspects of thanatology: Why are we born if just die in the end? Who decides who lives and who dies? Is death a thing that can simply be defined in a single sentence? Is it truly immoral to take a life?
Of course, I didn't dare share these thoughts with anyone. I didn't have the luxury of having someone to trust, nor did I feel it necessary. After high school, I went to a private college with a scholarship. I majored in psychology, and graduated on time with passable grades. I was soon hired by a real estate firm in New York City and started my career as a salesperson. I made my first kill a few years later.
My first victim was a retiree named John Gordon who lived in the flat across me. Gordon didn't strike me as a particularly vivacious or loved person, and my thoughts were later confirmed by friendly chats with my neighbours, most of whom were young professionals fresh out of college, just like me. He would open his front door every morning, coffee cup in hand, to pick up his newspaper, just around the time I left for work. He would, however, be missing on the last weekend of every month, and I later learnt that this was because he was making regular visits to a friend who was doing time in prison.
During one of his weekend visits, I broke into his apartment via the fire escape. Gordon's flat was incredibly messy and cluttered. On his kitchen counter, I discovered a large ceramic jar, half filled with coffee powder. It was obvious that this was what he used every morning. I emptied a packet of strychnine I had stolen from a chemist friend, into the jar, and mixed it in, hoping that Gordon wouldn't notice. After destroying any evidence that I had ever been there, I left the same way I entered, and packed my bags, after loudly proclaiming to my neighbours that I was going to spend a few days in my hometown on account of the holidays.
When I returned three days later, nothing seemed to be off, except that Gordon was nowhere to be seen. The other tenants simply assumed that he was spending a long weekend with his inmate friend, since it was Christmas. Everything seemed perfectly fine and dandy, so I had no intention of jeopardising it by asking about Gordon.
Two days later, the woman who lived above Gordon’s portion complained of an unholy stench coming from the vents. When the landlord knocked on Gordon’s door, there was no response, forcing him to use his copy of the key. He discovered John Gordon’s rotting corpse sitting in the kitchen, a four-day old newspaper in one hand and a half-empty cup of old coffee in the other. At least, that’s what I heard from my neighbour, Sarah. I was at work at the time of the discovery.
When a weeping Sarah called me at work that day to tell me what happened, I was prepared. I feigned fear and sorrow and sobbing. After she hung up, I was filled with… feelings. Feelings I had never felt before. Thrill and joy, with a dash of danger and fear, for I knew there was a possibility that the police could link the murder back to me.
Murder… what an intriguing word.
Fast forward a few days, the cops arrested who they assumed was the murderer. My chemist friend, who just so happened to have access to the murder weapon and a weak alibi. Never liked him much. I know that it isn’t right for people to go to prison for crimes they didn’t commit, but my friend has skeletons in his closet. I won’t say anymore, but he was far from a righteous citizen.
A few weeks later, I applied for a job transfer to Los Angeles, afraid that the police would find that they arrested the wrong murderer and reopen the case. I explained to Sarah that I couldn’t imagine living in my flat after I found out what happened to poor old John. Besides, New York rents were astronomically high. That really sold it.
Now that I think about it, that was a terrible move. Thank heavens that my friend never came clean, or else I would be making this recording in prison. When I arrived in Los Angeles, I moved into a building with thick walls, tenants who never seemed to be home, and a vast amount of cyber cafes and costume stores in the near vicinity. I waited a good five or six years before starting my… adventures again, in order to avoid being caught. I wisely used this time for research. I spent hours daily learning anything and everything that would help me. I memorised the map of the city, I procured a fake ID and various disguises, I learnt how to fight and use weapons, I even learnt about forensics. By the end of the first four years, I knew about cadavers just as much as any medical examiner would.
It goes without saying that I obviously made sure that none of this could be traced back to me. I used my fake ID to register for my library card, and I always went to the cyber cafes in disguise. You’d be surprised how different a girl can look with a little lipstick and a wig. I also made sure I never visited the same cyber cafe too many times in a row. All in all, I was incredibly careful, and obviously, it paid off.
However, I found murder to be like a drug. The very thought that John Gordon had died because of me made me feel… It didn’t exactly make me happy, but it made me feel powerful, and I lusted for more. Every night of that brief sabbatical, I dreamt of death. I spent every night wanting more of that pretty little drug, dreaming of ways to use it. While I took pleasure in knowing that I had killed John Gordon, it saddened me that I hadn’t personally seen the light of life leave his eyes. I wanted to see that with my next victims. And not just that, I wanted them to die a beautiful death.
Poison is no way to go, regardless of whatever mayhem it causes on the inside. On the outside, all you see is the subject lose consciousness and drop to the floor, or at most, convulse, twitch, foam at the mouth and then lose consciousness and then drop to the floor. Extremely dissatisfying, if you ask me. Nothing more than a waste of effort and flesh. No, the best way to kill is the old fashioned way- with a blade, regardless of what sort it is, be in a barber’s britva, like Sweeney Todd, or even a classic kitchen knife, like Norman Bates. We idolise these murderers because they have perfected the art that is killing. It’s only natural that an amateur seeks to mimic her muses.
The second I knew that John Gordon’s case was closed for good, I wasted no time in honing my craft. You see, I had already chosen my victims during my sabbatical, dozens of them. Wastrels and loners no one would miss for the most part, but also evildoers who hadn’t paid their dues, with the occasional wild card thrown in.
My first victim after my return was a meth addict with debts higher than she was. Her name was Cassidy Johnson, age 21, 5’’6, black hair, blue eyes, college dropout, homeless. The alleyways of the most disreputable places in the city were her favourite haunts. As you may have already guessed, it was easy to lure her away to a place where I could peacefully practice my art. That’s the thing about addicts, you see. If you tell them you have the thing they need, they’ll follow like sheep. They’re easy kills. Boring for true hunters though. They’re only good for newcomers and casuals.
Johnson’s murder was simple enough. I slit her throat and disposed of her in the sewers. It was months before anyone found her body. Her death was somewhat satisfying, her blood glistening like liquified rubies on my gloves. But that was far from enough to satiate me. I wanted to make a masterpiece of her, drain her blood and empty her body of organs. But I had realised long ago that such an act would only give me the pleasure I deserved if I was patient for it. I had work my way up gradually, you see, so I contented myself by carving a nasty little surprise into her inner thigh. You might have guessed what I did by now, for it was all over the news when they found her.
‘No Name’ soon became my signature. Every time I killed, I was sure to carve those six letters into the unlucky bastard's flesh. I could end this recording right now, you now know all of my victims, for my art is heavily publicised and hotly discussed. But no. I want to tell you my perspective, my memories, my feelings. After all, this is my memoir, isn’t it?
After Johnson was a homeless bum named James Moore. Age 35, 5’’9, brown eyes, blonde hair. Alcoholic, obese, history of convictions and arrests for petty offences and public disturbance and indecency. After slitting his throat, I carved straight, parallel slits into his arms, lopped of his feet, and relieved his body of his organs. I carved my signature on his neck and left him to rot in an abandoned warehouse. His body was found in three weeks by local squatters.
In the aftermath of Moore’s murder, I quite frankly have to admit that I was bored. John Gordon, Cassidy Johnson, and James Moore were subjects that I frankly didn’t care about. Their bodies were discovered long after my adrenaline rush had died off. I then realised what I really wanted: a murder being broadcast live. I would draw blood for an audience, and I could just imagine the thrill I’d get. It’d be on a whole different level.
However, that was for the far future. Such a murder would require planning, patience, but more importantly a reputation, both for me and the canvas. Nobody would weep for a nobody. If I chose some random junkie for this project, it’d be a waste. There’d be no ‘#RestInPiece’ or ‘#JusticeFor’ movements for a nameless, faceless hobo. But more importantly, nobody would fear a murderess with only three kills. I needed to up my resumé.
I got rid of my old list and made a new one. Businessmen, politicians, socialites, and celebrities dominated my second draft. Now these murders, they would be a sensation.
Commissioner Clarence Woolton was number one on my new list. Age 56, 5’’11, brown eyes, brown hair. Head of the Los Angeles Police Department, known on the streets as the ‘Death Sentence.’ I nabbed him as he was walking home, he was dead before he could draw his gun. But then again, he wouldn’t think to draw his gun against a petite woman dressed respectably in high heels and a suit, now would he? I stuffed his corpse into a crate and shipped him to the Police Headquarters, my signature on his bleeding forehead.
The LAPD were beyond enraged, of course. They had their best hounds- sorry, detectives, and even arranged for a task force in my honour. Suffice to say, they failed.
Numbers two and three were Christina and Thomas Wong, CEOs of the Wong Foundation for Orphaned and Underprivileged Children. Hailed as national heroes, been called the reason for the end of children’s poverty in America, even associated with the President. Bullshit. While the Wongs decked themselves out in Prada and Manolo Blahniks, the same children they claimed to help were dumpster-diving for food. But of course, all of the gentry chose to ignore this. They couldn’t care less about the children, they only cared about their image, and the Wongs were the first posers they found. After their darling posers, they would be next.
I broke into their Calabasas home. Mr Wong was still out, but his missus was in one of the several living rooms. I eliminated her with relative ease, signed her arm, and hid her. When Mr Wong saw me lying in the bed that he and his wife used, he assumed the obvious and climbed in, leading his hands where they shouldn’t be led. I cut them off for that offence, and then drove my blade through his heart, reuniting him with his beloved. I posed the both of them by their front door and returned home. The next morning, I woke to the good news.
I waited a few months, gave them the calm before the storm. Number four was Wilhelmina Kettering, a senator’s daughter. Age 16, 5“7, blonde hair, hazel eyes. I abducted her on her way home from school. The foolish girl had wandered a little too far from her friends, so it was little more than child’s play. I took her to a warehouse, tied her to a chair, blindfolded her, sent a video to daddy dearest, the whole shebang! I had more fun with little Wilhelmina than anyone else, I’ll be honest with you. Well, except for a very special someone, that is.
Senator Kettering offered me unimaginable things in ransom. Money, jewels, status, even membership in secret societies. As you can guess though, I had no interest in those things. I made the good senator watch as I destroyed his daughter. No Name, No Name, No Name, I scribbled with my knives, over the perfect parallel slits I had cut previously. He shot himself instead of watching, he did. He didn’t live to see his daughter’s throat slit. Two birds with one stone.
Next, I decided to move on to public assassinations. Not with a gun, no, but with my trademark knives. I took another sabbatical, a year long, to master the art of knife throwing. They hunted for No Name, they did, but they never suspected little old me.
Number Six, Lord Samuel of Deptford, marked my grand return. Age 61, 6’’2, grey hair, grey eyes. Foreign ambassador, industrialist, public speaker. I made sure the old man died doing what he loved. Lord Samuel was delivering a speech in front of the British embassy, spectators and journalists in the thousands. He spoke redundant crap about how No Name would be brought to justice, and how Great Britain was there to help the States. What an ironic death yours will be, I thought as I let my blade fly. Neatly polished, perfectly balanced, and of course, signed. The second the blade hit his forehead, I knew he was as good as dead. I watched the mayhem and the maddening from a safe distance. The police were all over the scene, trying to tame the crowd and failing miserably. The rational part of me wanted to run, but I refused. Instead, I watched as the proles rioted, and greedy reporters snapped shot after shot after shot. This pandemonium continued, until a severe-looking woman in a black suit walked up to the podium.
‘I am Agent Elena Sterling of the CIA,’ she began, but those were her last words as my backup blade met her chest. The crowd went wild, and I’m sorry to say, the rational part of me won. As such, I cannot provide you, my beloved listeners, with a first hand account of what happened. All I cared about was my freedom. For the first time in the ten years since Gordon’s death, I feared the law. I had just murdered a dignitary, which I had planned, but murdering a CIA agent, I hadn’t. My willingness to murder the powerful didn’t extend to the federal government, apparently. I fled, sure that I would soon be apprehended and shipped off to some island prison. But I wouldn’t go without fulfilling my dream.
I hitched a cab to Calabasas. My target was Nita Sanchez. Age 23, 5’’8, black hair, brown eyes. Celebrity, rapper, social media star, exhibitionist whore. I despised her. Miss Sanchez was still asleep at high noon, aftermath of a long night of drinking and partying. As such, it was more than easy to break into her house. Sanchez was so hungover that she didn’t notice me strap her to a chair, or turn her computer on. I logged onto her Instagram account, and started a livestream. The wretched woman had over a hundred million followers, and I was damn sure that none of them would miss this. After all, seeing your idol being murdered- live, no less- is the opportunity of a lifetime.
I woke my victim in quite an unorthodox manner, I must say, by which I mean that I made quick work of scratching my signature on her face, her screams like symphonies to my ears. My last hurrah, I thought. I lost myself in her murder. It is too sweet for words, my listeners. Not just me, no poet, not Poe, not Shelley, not Shakespeare, could describe it, my friends. I revelled in her spilling blood, sweet and ruby red. I could hear the sirens, but I did not care.
I escaped, my friends. I do not know how, but I did. I escaped to the woods, and in the woods, I met a man. Those of you well-acquainted with the horrors of the internet will know him well. Though I admired him, he wasn’t strictly a serial killer. His talent lied in abduction. However, this man had an associate who was much like me, one whom I respected. However, most regrettably, I cannot tell you the names of these men, though I presume you know by now. After all, I can’t have you thinking I’m insane.
This man said that he recognised my talent, and he offered me a deal. Youth, a new identity, and even a few supernatural abilities, all for the low low price of taking care of some business for him. And what did I do? The obvious.
I know that I said at the very beginning that my name is unimportant to my story, and it is. My new name, that is. My old name was Winona Atkinson, and Winona Atkinson is dead. However, No Name still lives. The man kept up his end of the bargain, now it is my turn.
I'm sorry if I freaked you out or anything with this. I know I probably should have put a trigger warning or something like that, but Winona Atkinson's story has been told so many times that it's no longer frightening. She was a criminally insane murderess. Her ending is false. She didn't escape into the woods and meet some internet bogeyman. Instead, she killed herself after murdering Nita Sanchez. Her body was found and disposed of by the authorities. Winona Atkinson is dead. She died like the scum she is.-Aditya
Written by Felony Stephanie