You had a light blue notebook, the plan was to write everything you could remember down- dates, time, how he had looked when he came home; anything that would be useful.
It lasted roughly two days before Michael got a hold of it, curious as to what the hell you’d been writing about for hours in that damned thing- of course, he wasn’t shocked when he read through the pages of his murder, you had been more jumpy and secretive lately.
He doesn’t bring it up, instead he places the notebook a tad different each time he reads through it. His way of letting you know he knows.
“Michael,” you yelled from your standing position, looking for your keys in your beige purse. “I’ll be back in a bit, gotta drop something off to a friend!” the notebook was held tightly between your arm and side, today was the day you showed it to the police. “Lov-“
Within seconds, you become his newest victim, red pouring from the wound in your back as you hit the wooden floor.
Hannibal
You were working with the police- tasked to get as close with Hannibal as possible. He was a suspect, you agreed.
It started off easy enough, you became one of his patients and you went from there. It wasn’t until he invited you to one of his dinner parties that things picked up.
Soon enough, you were dating. You had been friendly for around 10 months before the first date. Hannibal was a careful man, you noted.
He was hosting a dinner party and you had agreed to help him prepare, until you saw him pull out the human thigh, a knowing smile darkening his features. “I know you know, I’m surprised you’ve let it get this far.”
You tried to run, to call your supervisor and tell him not to come- that Hannibal was in fact the criminal and you we-
Hannibal wasted no time in killing you, a tad disappointed his little lamb was so unloyal- but, you’d make for a fine main course, he decided, getting to work on cutting your flesh.
Billy Loomis
He takes the longest to catch on, Billy doesn’t have the slightest clue until that little black notebook slips out of your purse one day, contents inside confusing him- it couldn’t have been you to write all this,
Billy takes the most humane approach, still hopeful it wasn’t you, and mentions the notebook to you at night.
“I found a notebook with all my murders logged, it was pretty detailed,” he muttered, head turning to face you. “I think someones after us, must’ve planted it in your bag, huh?”
The look on your face, the pure dread at the mention of the notebook confirmed the worst. “(y/n)..” Billy trailed off, eyes widening as he watched you scoot away from him. “You wouldn’t do that to us- to me, would ya?”
You did, but you violently shook your head, denying the claims. “No- no, I have no clue how that got there, Billy I-” you were silenced by a knife to the stomach, looking up to see Billy’s tear filled ones.
“You were the last person I ever wanted to do this to, Doll. Forgive me.”
Last night I posted the latest chapter of Cult Girl: Doctorate after a 7 month hiatus. By complete coincidence, a decision by the Supreme Court to overturn Roe v Wade and and Planned Parenthood v Caseywas leaked to the public.
I know a lot of you have been anticipating the continuation of Cult Girl Doctorate and I thank you all for your patience. You all have given me the platform I’ve always wanted. I cannot thank you enough. But before I am a fanfic author, I am an activist. I want to do my part in combatting this abortion (pun 100% intended) of justice.
If you want to see more Cult Girl, please consider donating to Planned Parenthood. For every $30 raised, I will publish a new chapter of Cult Girl: Doctorate.
Trigger warnings: home invasion, slight violence, violent ideation, police ineptitude
“Mrs. DeMarco really needs to keep her oils to herself.” You commented with a laugh as Hannibal pulled into the driveway. “She mentioned geranium oil and I swear it looked like you were having a war flashback.”
“I can’t imagine a multi-level marketing scheme that peddles watered-down napalm is very profitable.” Hannibal commented, busying himself with the daunting task of backing into the garage. “But then again, it’s not the product that sells. It’s the sense of belonging.”
“Hey, that’s what I said!” You noticed. “You do listen when I talk!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hannibal asked, rhetorically. “You spent the better part of two weeks on that research proposal.”
You planted your elbow against the window and rested your head in your hand. “Still didn’t result in jack about dick.”
“[F/N]?” Hannibal asked, perking up like a Doberman hearing a branch snap in the distance. “Did we leave the porch light on?”
You looked over and saw that the porch light was, indeed, on; even though you had no memory of turning it on.
“That’s weird.” You said, ready to dismiss it as something you did subconsciously and forgot about. “I don’t remember turning it on because it was still light out when we left.”
You unbuckled your seatbelt and put your hand on the door, but Hannibal stopped you.
“Just a minute.” He said, his hand hovering protectively over your bump. “Something’s not right.”
Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion or Hannibal’s sudden but very convicted fear, but you felt yourself growing hesitant. He pulled himself out of the car and hurried up to the porch with the energy of a man half his age. Although he wasn’t the most expressive of people, you could tell from his body language that something was very wrong.
Against your better judgement, you threw the door open and rushed to take a look for yourself. You slowly approached his silhouette, which was backlit by the glow of small, smoldering flames. The smell of burning grass hit your nostrils before you could identify it as such.
Hannibal kept you protectively behind him, though wouldn’t begrudge you a look. At first, it was almost laughable. Generic vandalism, the word ‘slut’ written on the brick in comically bright red lipstick. A few patches of burnt grass on the lawn showed the vandal’s hesitation to just commit to arson.
You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Scary.”
You attempted to take a step forward, but Hannibal put his arm out in front of you. With a small, almost unnoticeable gesture of his head, he urged you to look again.
The picture came into focus. In the dark of the night, you couldn’t see the trail of fake, albeit convincing, blood at your feet. Still cringeworthy, but you’d give some points for effort. It led all the way down the driveway, up the porch and through the door-
Through the door.
Your heart fell into your stomach acid. Hannibal took your hand in his and gave it a tight squeeze. With his protection, you took a few steps closer.
The door was broken off its hinges and the inside was destroyed. Everything that wasn’t overturned, smashed or otherwise demolished was covered in a sticky, pungent bloody substance. You grew more and more convinced of its authenticity by the minute.
Then you saw the eevee.
On the kitchen table, the plush eevee you bought at the gamestop was–for lack of a better term–flayed. Someone had cut her open down the stomach and removed as much stuffing as they could. Her head was expertly, carefully removed from her body and tossed haphazardly to the side. Her large, embroidered eyes and little smile reflected an innocence that the invader reveled in violating.
After a moment of thought, you realized it was a preview of what they’d eventually do to you, but you didn’t care.
“My eevee…” you whimpered, feeling a lump rise in your throat.
Hannibal squeezed your shoulders. He knew what that eevee represented to you, and more importantly, knew better than to invalidate your feelings. You both knew who broke in: someone familiar with your accumulation of comfort items with enough malice to rip them apart.
You felt the telltale sting of tears in the corners of your eyes. You approached the table and gathered up the pieces of your eevee, being sure to hold her tight against your chest.
The police were on the scene in minutes; that was to be expected for such a posh neighborhood. Blue and red lights illuminated street. Neighbors peeked out their windows and drivers rubber-necked to get a glimpse as they passed by. You sat on the front porch, clutching your eevee in your arms.
A balding man wearing Kevlar stepped squarely into your line of sight, not even bothering to greet you. You looked up at him, feeling like a child about to be scolded. “Yes?”
“Well, there’s no sign of a break-in.” He said, full confidence.
“The lock on the front door was broken.” You deadpanned. “How is that not a sign of a break-in?”
“Well,realcriminals aren’t so careful.” He mansplained, tucking his hands into his vest. “Listen, your husband said that it was probably your jealous sister getting back at you for something.”
“I guarantee you that is not what he said.”
“–Nothing was stolen or even that badly damaged.” He interrupted, again, with full confidence. "Sure, a little extreme for a prank-“
Then it was your turn to cut him off. "It wasn’t a prank. My psychotic cousin is trying to terrorize my fiancee and I. She destroyed a toy I bought for my daughter!”
“Oh, she broke a toy, did she?” The officer said with a condescending chuckle. “Well, we’re gonna need some serious backup! Let’s get a SWAT team out here. Call the FBI, while we’re at it.”
You glared at him, every expletive in the English language pouring into your brain at once. You recalled an old adage about if looks could kill.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, ma'am.” He concluded. “Just replace your lock and try to not make your family drama the state’s problem, okay, sweetie?”
You watched the officer drive off into the night, trying to determine whether or not you were surprised by how that went down.
“I suddenly find myself in the mood for some kind of pork dish.” Hannibal said, materializing behind you just in time to vocalize your inner monologue.
When you said nothing, Hannibal knelt down beside you. “I’ve searched the house. Your cousin isn’t smart or ambitious enough to put us in any real danger. It’s safe to go inside. I promise.”
“Did you ever watch the show Dexter?” You asked. Your brain was on autopilot, so you weren’t entirely sure why you’d thought to ask that.
Hannibal, who undoubtedly caught your drift immediately, but was feigning ignorance to encourage you, shook his head. “No.”
“S'about a serial killer who only kills bad people.” You explained. “Watching it, I always thought, damn. Even if they are bad people, how could you have the strength to take another person’s life?”
“Oh?” He said. You vividly remember a slight, but noticeable upturn in his voice. “And what has changed?”
“When you realize how little a person values innocent life…” you began. “You just wanna… turn it back on 'em.”
You didn’t notice it at the time, but Hannibal had the proudest expression on his face. “Yes, my love?”
“I’m going to kill Anna.” You said, feeling clear in the mind for the first time in a while. “And I want to do it right, this time. Purposefully.”
I’ve seen some creators on here offering up their services in exchange for donations to humanitarian relief funds for Ukraine and have decided to join in. If you make a donation to Razom and send me a screenshot I’ll write you whatever you want.
