I sat inside a stuffy confession booth. The priest waited on the other side of the veiled partition as I stalled, gathering my thoughts. Being inside of a church made me uneasy. I didn’t care for organized religion, yet my lack of conscience weighed on me like it usually did. Confession helped me feel human, like a juice cleanse for my tainted soul.

  So, I shifted in the muggy stall and signed the cross with my gloved fingertips. “Uh, bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was seven months ago.”

  “What burdens you, my son?”

  “Well, a lot, actually. I lied to my landlord twice last week. That was pretty bad.”

  “Lying is a mortal sin. What other sins burden you, my son?”

  I sighed, already feeling better. “I’m not sure if it’s wrath or gluttony.”

  “Go on,” the priest said.

  “I’ve been breaking a lot of bones lately. Not my bones, other people’s.” I let out a deep breath, the truth setting me free. “At first, I was chasing vengeance, but that’s just an excuse. Honestly, I can’t get enough of it. I don’t know if it’s the fear in their eyes or the adrenaline that comes with the danger. But it’s addicting and I can’t stop.”

  Silence lingered like a wet blanket–an expected outcome whenever I let my mask slip. The quiet before the fear kicked in.

  “Hold on, I’m not a monster. I volunteered at a soup kitchen last week. And I only hurt people who deserve it. You know, like pimps, drug dealers, and other scum.”

  A soft glow illuminated the booth as the priest unlocked his cellphone.

  “Don’t bother.” I raised the plastic device in the palm of my hand to the veil. “This jammer is good for up to 20 meters.”

  The priest held his breath like a chicken wing was caught in his throat, fingers twitching across his phone’s screen.

  “You’re the Midnight Menace,” he whispered.

  I cringed at the nickname the media had given me. Despite seeking utter anonymity, in this day and age it had only been a matter of time before a cellphone camera caught a five second clip of me in a ski-mask beating the living shit out of a wannabe carjacker outside of a Waffle House.

  A day later, news outlets picked up the viral clip, and it snowballed from there. First, the police chief condemned my good deed as vigilantism. Then he formed a task force, and some overeager detective connected me to several open cases across state lines.

  A few national headlines and an ongoing federal investigation later, I realized my time as a free man would soon end. Recently, I started house hunting medium security prisons in my spare time. I’d visit their websites, read reviews, and weigh the pros and cons between the different facilities, their programs, reformation rates, and even what their commissary stocked. I had narrowed it down to Elkton in Ohio or Butner in North Carolina since both prisons offered quality therapeutic treatments and advanced occupational education classes.

  “Let’s talk about your sins, father.”

  The priest shuddered as his eyes sought refuge at his feet.

  “The church did a good job of shuffling you around,” I said, as I pulled out a collapsible baton from my jacket’s inner sleeve. “Well, I guess not that great of a job since, ultimately, I’m here.”

  The priest shot out of the confessional booth, screaming his head off, so panicked he bumped into a pew and stumbled down the nave, arms flailing.

  Catching up to the out of shape forty-year-old was easy enough. With a flick of the wrist, I extended my collapsible baton and swung it down across the back of his legs.

  He crashed into the ground as his screams climbed in pitch.

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  “Oh, shut up.” I lashed the baton down, hard across his heels, manually switching his voicebox from shrill screams to pained, guttural moans.

  Father Gabriel rolled onto his back; black-rimmed glasses strewn across his pathetic face. “Please, stop.”

  “That’s what those kids said.”

  I danced to the music of high-carbon steel resonating with each impact against his shins until he was a blubbering mess, suddenly finding his remorse.

  “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry...”

  “Who are you apologizing to?”

  “T-t-to Micheal, uh, Brandon...” his voice trailed off.

  I curled my lip in disgust and focused my next strike on his left kneecap.

  He shrieked like a banshee. Loud enough for it to echo throughout the church, but not loud enough to reach God.

  “Seems like you’re forgetting a few.”

  Broken, the priest muttered between stifled breaths, “Kevin, Connor, and Charlie.”

  He tried to drag himself away only to collapse again. The priest stared up at me, his bloodshot eyes went wide as I grinned back at him.

  My uncontrollable laughter muted his feeble whimpers. I wiped a tear from my eye, clutching my side.

  “I’m sorry. This is what I’m talking about father, I can’t seem to control it.”

  Slowly, I regained my composure.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he begged.

  I swallowed another round of laughter, suppressing the fire inside me. “You’re right, I shouldn’t.”

  He whimpered with glossy eyes, throat stumbling over a hasty breath.

  “Not in the house of the lord, at least. That’s just asking for bad ju-ju.”

  ***

  A sweeping staircase of worn stone steps outside of the cathedral served as an amazing launch-off point for the 40 year old pedophile. His screams faded into the night as his neck snapped on the first flight of steps.

  The sheer lack of guilt gnawed at me as I strolled past his bloodied body.

  I was already thinking about what I was going to eat for dinner. An intense desire for tacos overwhelmed the quiet voice in the back of my head saying, “Hey, you’re officially a serial killer.”

  Before I set the meeting with Father Gabriel, I hadn’t even intended on killing him. I thought I would put him in intensive care for a few weeks to think about his actions before spending the rest of his life driving one of those cool mobility scooters. That was the plan until he asked if I had any children of my own during our brief phone call to set up my confession.

  It could’ve been a lot worse. And I only lost control for a minute. It wasn’t like time.

  I strolled down the street, enjoying the snowy night breeze as it sliced through my jacket.

  It was time to leave the East Coast. Eventually, without a doubt, I would be caught. Not even I could account for every surveillance camera in New York. Father Gabriel hadn’t been my first victim here, but he was definitely my last. The longer I hung around, the more time I gave N.Y.P.D’s finest to put together a case.

  Instead, I planned on keeping a low profile and taking a train to Chicago. And from there, a bus to St. Louis. One of the murder capitals of the United States was sure to have plenty of worthwhile targets.

  On my way to the train station I stopped at a gas station and commandeered their restroom, using the space to trim my hair, shave my beard, and dump my clothes. I switched into a tweed jacket from my backpack, and put on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

  At half past ten, I arrived at South Station and did a quick counter-surveillance run. I walked across the street and then past the station, only counting a handful of officers.

  I walked across the street, back straight, chest out, wheeling a single suitcase behind me. I moved with a purpose, like I belonged there, head held high. My eyes locked with one of the officers. I nodded, he smiled, and I walked right into the bustling station.

  I grabbed a coffee from a kiosk and made my way to my terminal. Besides a single drug-sniffing dog, security seemed lax. Perhaps the disguise was over-kill. They may not have even had a composite of me anyway. Bitter notes of the coffee hit my tongue as I walked up to the platform and stared down at the yellow line.

  Suddenly, I felt eyes on my back.

  I glanced over my shoulder, spotting nothing out of the ordinary. It was your average late evening crowd of exhausted commuters. Almost everyone occupied themselves with their cellphones, uninterested in anything beyond their digital worlds.

  For a moment, I thought paranoia was getting the best of me. Then I saw a peculiar man that should’ve been impossible for me or anyone else to overlook.

  He stood in the middle of the crowd, wearing a brown hooded robe, compulsively eating chocolate bars as he stared at me with a pair of red eyes. He tossed a wrapper to the ground, pulled another candy bar from his robe, opened it, and devoured it in two bites.

  “These portions are too small,” he said and tossed another wrapper to the ground.

  Nobody batted an eye as he walked toward me, littering and eating, his eyes glowing brighter with each step.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked.

  Heads turned in my direction. The crowd stared at me like I was the crazy one.

  “You’re not crazy. Well, not that crazy,” he said, closing the gap between us.

  A low rumbling sound filled the air.

  I blinked, and he appeared inches away from my face, feet hovering in the air. His eyes were endless crimson saucers, full of fire and madness. Trapped in his gaze, I took one step back as the platform vibrated. His icy palm pressed into my chest, and I fell backward onto the tracks.