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    Just Things: Diary of a Serial Killer, #1
    Just Things: Diary of a Serial Killer, #1
    Just Things: Diary of a Serial Killer, #1
    Ebook207 pages3 hours

    Just Things: Diary of a Serial Killer, #1

    By Erin Lee

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    About this ebook

    Sometimes, the cravings just take over. Jimmie Putnam is an ordinary man by any measure. By day, he works as a law clerk. At night, when he can't fight the cravings, he becomes a collector. He takes great care of his human Things; buying them cherry lipstick and reading to them from his journal. When they've been on their best behavior, he even takes them out of his freezers... Sometimes, the need is just too deep. Florel Ross has been mostly invisible since the death of her twin, who died twenty years ago at the hands of a serial killer. Obsessed with justice, Florel is willing to risk anything for the answers she craves: What goes on in the mind of a serial killer? When the two yearnings collide, will it be justice or just Things?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCrazy Ink
    Release dateMar 30, 2018
    ISBN9781386373971
    Just Things: Diary of a Serial Killer, #1
    Author

    Erin Lee

    Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

    Read more from Erin Lee

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      Book preview

      Just Things - Erin Lee

      Dedication

      For the dark things we think about but dare not say aloud; the things that keep us awake at night.

      Warning

      This book is dark fiction dealing with disturbing, undiagnosed psychological issues. It dives into the mind of a twisted serial killer and includes violent, graphic material only suited for adults. It is not suitable for minor children.

      This novel is intended for entertainment purposes only, not for clinical research, case study, or diagnosis. Just Things was born as the result of multiple interviews with men convicted of murder in three states, combined with years of graduate level research on the pathologies that contribute to violent acts of murder and their architects.

      Interviews, correspondences, and all research—including clinical case reviews and professional journal articles—for this project was conducted in the author’s capacity as a novelist, not a psychologist.

      This book is a work of fiction and is not based on one particular man’s story alone. Instead, it is a combination of stories fictionalized to give one portrayal of what may (or may not) go on in the mind of a quirky serial killer during active killing periods.

      For those who elect to read further, don’t expect a happy ending or things tied up in a tidy bow. Some things just don’t end up that way.

      (At least, not when you’re tying them up with duct tape and freezer wrap.)

      For those who are curiously brave, prepare to enter the mind of a serial killer, where there’s beauty in the darkness if you look long enough...

      And, yes, James William Putnam, Jr. will break the fourth wall. It’s intentional. He has no use for rules. He intends to get into your head, the only true Thing he hasn’t fully mastered yet. For now, he’ll allow you into his – just to get you acquainted, to build your trust, and, ultimately, to turn the tables. Enter at your own risk.

      Have you ever been in the mood for ice cream?

      Like really in the mood?

      You can’t explain why that craving comes on.

      You can’t control it, even if you wanted to.

      You can’t sleep, even at two in the morning, until you get it.

      So you put your sneakers on...

      Killing is like that for me.

      Fear is ice cream.

      Terror is the jimmies on top.

      Tonight, I’m in the mood for mint

      chocolate chip with hot fudge.

      Care to join me?

      Chapter One

      I can’t sleep. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. My mind has raced since I was a kid. I probably should be used to it by now. But I’m not: Worry. Worry. Worry. Stop. Worry some more.

      It’s like the ringing in my ears. That won’t stop either. It drives me crazy. I sleep with a fan, but the steady cadence of the blades whirling doesn’t help much. It just mocks me, blowing dust around the room and forcing me to pull the covers tighter around me, the way I do with the Things’ bandages for wounds. (Not that I hurt them all that often. I’m a nice guy.)

      Don’t mistake nice for not callous. Some people count sheep. I count their screams. If it wasn’t so darn cold out, I’d go back to visit my Things. I like checking up on them, seeing how they’ve changed. Sometimes, I bring a bag of make-up. I fix them up the best I can. You see, I’m not all evil. It’s complicated. I guess there’s one good way to describe it: I’m a collector. Because of that, I mostly take good care of my Things.

      Back to the screams: I lost count at forty-seven. Forty-seven bellows, pleas, and Mister, why are you doing this to me’s? Forty-seven blissful moments of feeling—no, knowing—I was God. Go ahead, roll your eyes, give me a dirty look. It doesn’t matter what you think of me. Until you’ve killed, you can’t possibly understand. ‘Til you’ve become a collector and taken pride in your things.

      It’s in those final breaths before surrender where I get my high. Submission comes first through their eyes, which bulge, and, when I’m lucky, turn red. It’s even contagious. Mine turn red too, reflective of the panic. In that moment, we’re connected most. If you’ve done it, you know that the terror races through them and into your own hands toward the finish line. It enters your fingers, likely wrapped around their necks if you’re anything like me, and doesn’t leave until they’re finally dead. (I never kill from behind. That’s for cowards. I want to see it. I want them to see it coming too, so they know who’s in charge. What good is owning a Thing if it doesn’t know who its master is?)

      Maybe it was forty-eight screams. I can’t be sure. The last Thing mumbled at the very end. I can’t decide whether to count it or not. I guess it would depend on what she said. I think it was help, so that would count. But if it was only a grunt, it doesn’t.

      Silly little Things, they are. As if I haven’t anticipated their yammering. As if I don’t have a place where I can do my best work. As though I don’t have routines and a spot. As if they have a chance of escape. Like I haven’t prepared for this my whole life since that bitch in high school thought she was better than me. The one who made Momma laugh and say I was too pansy to ever land a girl like that. Whatever, Momma. Look at you now.

      It’s cute, though. The screamers, as much as they annoy me, are also the most fun. There’s something more satisfying about possession after you’ve really earned it. That last one, well, she certainly gave me a run. I’ll have to pick up lipstick—cherry red—for our date this week. I’m a considerate man. I take care of my Things. I told you that already. I don’t think I’d like her so much if she hadn’t screamed. I wish I could be sure how many times it was. It’s really haunting me. I need my rest. It’s not going to happen ‘til I’ve completed my mental inventory.

      I catalogue everything – journal entries of why I do the things I do, scrapbooks as reminders of my Things, and even logs of activities and research. I take this seriously, you see. And numbers, well, sometimes, they bother me.

      Forty-eight is better than forty-seven. I don’t like odd numbers. I don’t like a lot of things. I don’t like Things that think they are better than others. I can’t stand pumpkin latté, and I’m never late. Punctuality is the first step of being in control. The wonderful thing about Things is that once you possess them, they can’t ever be late. Better? They have to respect you. And they are fully in your control. Always. In all ways.

      My wife, Shelia, she was always late. Couldn’t even show up to church on time. What kind of woman of God was she? Never trust a ginger. Doesn’t matter now anyway. She’d never have been good enough to be one of my Things. And I’m not saying they’re all perfect. My Things come in every shape and size. I’m sure lots of them were like Shelia – loud-mouthed, white trash and big. Lopsided titties. Hell, Thing Ten is the perfect example of that. When I get to her, you’ll hate her too. You’ll thank me for doing what I did. The world’s a better place with her− mostly− out of it.

      Wait. That’s it. That’s why I can’t sleep: odd numbers. Currently, I only have fifteen Things. I never sleep right when I’m stuck on an odd number. I hate odd numbers more than mocha with extra cream. I despise odd numbers even more than I hate Halloween—a holiday for posers. Odd numbers are the worst, especially thirteen.

      Trick or treat? Some shitty little kid with a sheet over his head and oval cut-out eyes isn’t of any interest to me. Nor are these kids’ mothers, who couldn’t be bothered to put together a proper costume. No. Not for me. For me, I prefer to find my Things in much more refined settings – book clubs, the library, the local university. I like my Things tidy, educated, neat. Sadly, it doesn’t always work that way. My research says it’s because I’m impulsive. Whatever.

      Sixteen will feel so much better to me. I look at my nightstand, squinting in the dark to see my alarm clock. Its blue numbers read 3:16. I smile. It’s a sign. I still believe in those. And I don’t believe in a lot of things – like God and soulmates. I close my eyes and quickly fall to sleep, dreaming of the gym. Tomorrow is killing time. Tomorrow is my sweet sixteen. I’ll have to dress the Things up and throw her a party when I get her to the freezers. I bet she’ll like that, being the center of attention and all.

      ***

      This is my journal. My space. I’ll write in it how I want. Nobody is going to tell me what to do. It helps me to organize my thoughts. I don’t stutter here. It’s impossible. Here, it’s safe for me. Sometimes, the stuttering, that’s hard. It’s been that way since I was a kid, and probably why other kids called me dumb. It might be why they still think that I’m stupid at the firm.

      I tried to keep a journal as a kid too. Momma asked me if I was a fag. So I set it on fire. It’s so uncool for her to count that one time she caught me behind the tree with a bigger kid from school. It wasn’t my idea. And I know that the truth is that she was just jealous. Momma didn’t like anyone or anything that took the attention away from her. In fact, she screwed him herself only a week later. Said he liked her more than me.

      I’m not trying to complain about her. Mostly, she left me alone. Things were mostly good when it was just the two of us. Of course, there wasn’t a lot of that. Men were always coming and going. When they came over, Momma kicked me out of her bed. I never really knew how to feel about that – happy or sad. Probably, it was a mixture of both. Eventually, I just stopped feeling. See? I don’t need a shrink. I already know what my issues are and why I do the things I do. Still, I can’t imagine ignoring, or even replacing, my Things...

      But even though I never knew where things stood (or had to make a guess by what car or truck was in the driveway) some things were consistent. There were certain things I could depend on, and I appreciated that. I’m a very appreciative person. Even Momma would tell you so. She taught me to say thank you by the time I was two years old. I was a quick talker, she said. Just like her, I guess. Back then, I didn’t stutter so much unless we needed to upgrade the state aid check she was always making me fake things for so we could get.

      With Momma, strictness and discipline were always important. I learned fast, if I stayed out of her way, she’d mostly stay out of mine. So I did. Still, I wish I’d kept and hidden that journal. I like hanging on to things. It would be neat to read back. I’m surprised she didn’t understand that. Or maybe she didn’t want a record. I’m good at keeping records and taking care of my Things.

      Momma was, too, mostly. Sometimes, I think that’s how she saw me – as one of her Things. I mean, I paid her bills better than any of her men. I was how we got food stamps and even disability for some kind of learning disorder (not some kind of crazy, so don’t start making assumptions). I did whatever she told me. I faked a cough at the doctor’s office. I never spoke of men. I smiled politely at the guys she brought home and didn’t warn them that the diamond on her finger would be in the pawn shop by week’s end. I was a good boy. Or, I tried to be. Being one of her Things, her good Things, probably the only good Thing, made her love me. That was important to me.

      I still wear Shelia’s ring. I do it because, in a weird way, she reminds me of Momma. And, I don’t want to be like Momma, selling off something that was supposed to be sentimental. But maybe I should – it’s not like Shelia would know or care. See? I can be pretty compassionate. I can be a lot of great things. Don’t make judgements about me just because of things I’ve done. It’s like that saying, Never judge a book by its cover. For me, it’s Don’t judge me by my bad deeds.

      On Shelia: I wanted to be a good husband, I really did. I wanted to be a father, too, to make Momma proud and to show her I could do what she did. I wanted to do it even better. But Shelia killed our babies. She said she never knew what color they’d come out and didn’t want me to get mad. She said I couldn’t possibly be man enough to knock her up. Then, she made fun of me for my stutter and told me to stop talking so much; no one wanted to hear me. It reminded me how Momma would say, Children are to be seen and not heard. I guess I feel that way about my Things. Maybe I can’t blame them.

      I try to treat my Things better than that. With Sue, I was only putting her, Thing Eleven, out of her misery. When you learn more about her, you’ll understand. I did her a favor, really. Yeah, I admit it, I knew I was hurting her, but the urge to finally be able to taste the forbidden fruit just became too strong. By the time I got to Sue, killing was an addiction. It just got out of hand.

      There were rumors about Sue after she went missing. They said she’d run away to become a prostitute in Nevada at the Bunny Ranch. To this day, I can’t figure that out. It was laughable, really. Sue was the worst sex I ever had. But then, Shelia had a lot of practice. So did Momma.

      Momma, though, was the type of woman you respected, no questions asked. Of course, for many years, the sting of her old man’s leather belt helped a lot with that. She told me she had to hit me like a man because that was the only way I’d become one. She said she wanted me to grow up to be a strong man. That I have...

      I’m not what you think I am. I’m not some drifter who snatches up children off the streets. I haven’t escaped from a mental hospital. I’m perfectly sane and probably a whole lot less interesting than the myths about witches and killers who live in the woods. It’s not like I’m doing creepy experiments in my barn or anything like that. I’m just a collector, doing the best to take care of my Things. You don’t have to get it. Nobody really would. It’s just another reason I need them. My Things have no choice but to get me.

      When I go in my barn, I am not alone. Like me or not, my Things understand. They’ve seen it all. They’ve listened hundreds of times to my scrapbook – something else I collect to remind me of them when the smell gets too bad. Opening those freezers can be difficult for me. I told you, I’m not mental. I tried moth balls, but it doesn’t cover the smell of death and disease. Mostly, I’m just used to

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