Psycho Magnet

A short story by Tara Moss

Printed here with permission from the author. Copyrights reserved by Tara Moss, 1998

Psycho Magnet, by Tara Moss

What do you do when no one believes you?
What do you do when you’re a girl like me?
Stalked.
Hunted.
A psycho-magnet.
I go to the police and what do they say? We can’t press charges until an actual crime has been committed. “Like when someone gets attacked, or killed?” I ask, as only a girl with experience can, but a young Constable doesn’t know how to respond to a question like that. Truth is, we’re just as much paperwork dead or alive, and were it up to the system, I’d be just another statistic. We must fend for ourselves.

It is late evening as I return from work, and there is another one following me. He is tall, very tall, and he walks with long strides, supported on strong legs cased in fitted jeans. From the corner of my eye, I watch his malevolent reflection shift across darkened shop windows. He walks with his head down, slightly hunched at his wide shoulders, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket. I cannot see his face.

It has been five blocks now, with only myself and my faceless escort to inhabit the road. I have no jacket to protect against the cool, summer night air, and certainly, I have no defence against this man who follows me. My purse is empty, save for a sharp set of keys and a bit of cash. Were it up to me, I would have a capsicum spray, perhaps even a Saturday Night Special. But it is not up to me at all. It is up to the system, and they say I cannot have such protection.

My high heels click on the pavement beneath me, echoing off the empty buildings while his steps are soundless in pursuit. For a man of such immense physical stature, he moves with feline stealth. But though he is wickedly quiet, I know that I would sense his presence even were he invisible. He emits evil as he moves through the night, leeching the freshness from the air.

My heart is racing, and my legs feel stiff and useless with his eyes crawling over them. Walk. Just walk. I concentrate, and with effort my pace does not change. But, nor does his, and eventually I decide it is time to cross the street, to administer the first test.

Dim street lamps flank the road on both sides, and I pass between them with purpose. I walk with great strides, held tall in my blue dress, my fists clenched as if to say, I’m ready when you are. There is no traffic to require me to look both ways, but I do anyway, to catch a glimpse of my stalker. I only allow myself a split second to take him in; his face is long and pale, crowned with light, strawberry blonde hair.

He is quietly observing me, and I quickly turn my head the other way, as if to check for cars.

There.
I see you.
You know that I see you.
I step over the curb on the other side and wonder, Will he follow?

I pass a lamp post, then another, glad of the space between us. My side. Your side. Slowly my heart begins to relax, to unclench just a little, because he is not following. With that reassuring distance, I steal occasional glances, to see what he will do. He is walking on his course, not even looking my way, and my heart slows, adrenaline retreating.

I see the intersection only a block away, and my house just beyond it. The faulty lighting on my porch winks, welcoming me home. I am almost there. As my legs propel me steadily forward, I imagine the safety of my abode, the sanctity of what is familiar and mine. Should I circle the block to make sure I am not followed? I am aware that I appear attractive and vulnerable, and I don’t wish this tall man to know where I live.

From the corner of my vision comes an unwelcome movement. The man is changing pace. He is crossing the street. Oh God, he’s crossing! Over the curb, past the median and moving in fast, his long legs transporting him swiftly to my side of the road. Quickly, he bridges the gap, closing in on my space, intimidating me. He is so close now that if he reached out, his hands would be on me.

My heart pounds mercilessly, fear beating against my temples. The hairs stand up on my neck, and every inch of my skin tickles as it rises in goose-flesh. My knees start to give, to succumb to his command for collapse, but by a thin thread I hold myself up. The chaos in my head grows louder, screaming, until I cannot even hear my own shoes on the concrete as they slow down.

I cannot succumb to panic. I cannot, will not be the prey. Not again.
Never again.
I will my heart to slow as I change pace. My breathing becomes deliberate, controlled. My blood cools. I feel myself transform.
I am not the prey.
Strike the first blow. Take control. I play on my terms.
I stop in my tracks and turn to him, only steps from my front door. In one of his long strides he is upon me, less than an arm’s length away. He looks down on me and smiles with a crooked, sinister grin. He is a full six inches taller than I, which means he must be very tall indeed, for I am no petite girl. I can see now that he is strong and no older than thirty. His reddish hair is slightly greasy, and his long, ghostly white face is horribly disproportioned.

I say nothing, only stare with a level gaze into his pale eyes. They are so intense, they seem to glow in iridescent blue. Unfeeling. Psychopathic. He has eyes like Bundy, I think. Eyes like Dahmer. Eyes like a predator.

I dare him to act, to complete what he has started, but he only steps a foot closer, towering over me. I tilt my head up to hold his powerful gaze. The porch light flickers.
On my terms. We play on my terms.
He is so close that I can smell him. He has a sick, malignant reek that threatens to throw my senses into panic again. But I do not allow it. My heart is ice.
Invulnerable. I am in control. Like a savage animal, I know that he can sense fear, but he will not sense mine, because my fear has fled.
I am not the prey.
“Would you like to come inside?” I ask, and offer a cool, thin smile.
He hesitates. A thought flickers past. Then his rough, eager hands go straight to my waist, to squeeze the young flesh of me, and the game begins. Together we take the final steps to my front door. One step. Two steps. Three. I remove the keys without fuss, and slide carved metal into the lock. It turns on command, the door creaking open. In silence we enter the house. My house. My playing field.
Once inside he wastes no time. I find myself thrown against the wall, his body pressing hard, grinding me up. The keys are flung from my grasp, falling with my purse in a clatter on the floor. His hands are greedy and brusque, pushing, pulling, claiming my body with no intention of anything mutual. I accept his angry kiss, his poison tongue. I am emotionless. A machine. No panic here. Control.

He works at the back of my dress. Fumbling. His passion rises firmly through tight jeans, eager with violent desire. My dress is torn, my smooth skin exposed, devoured by crude, slobbering jaws.
I am a psycho-magnet.
I am bait.
“A drink?” I propose, pushing away from his rough, unshaven face. He pauses, his body unyielding, and raises a hand to my slender throat, teasing in a strangler’s grip to hold me fast. He stares me down, craving control with eyes that are wickedly consuming. But I am unaffected. Gradually, he allows me to pull from his hold, and I leave him to venture to my kitchen.

When I emerge a minute later with two brandies, I find him on my couch. His pants are undone and his shoes and belt scattered on my floor. He accepts his glass, then stands, and grabs me again.
I do not panic.
“Please,” I say. “Can we drink this first?”
I take the first sip, and he smiles a predator’s grin as I drink, not realising that he is the prey now. He seems to mock me as he tips his glass back, his mouth opening greedily to receive my gift in impatient gulps. I am the one in control, and I step back in anticipation. Suddenly, his face contorts, and he breaks into a confused sweat, grabbing his own throat as he gasps for air. His empty glass crashes to the floor, shattering into hundreds of razor-edged shards. A graceless creature, he jack-knifes violently backwards, hitting the coffee table with great force and knocking its contents to the floor. His powerful physique seizes and trembles, savage convulsions consuming him. He flounders like a fish out of water. Pathetic.

I walk away, dispassionate, and put my empty glass in the kitchen sink. I fill it with soap and water, and calmly, I clean it. It’s a shame the matching one had to break. When I return he is twitching. My catch is unconscious, internally asphyxiated, his long, ugly face grotesquely contorted. Finally, the massive dose of cyanide sends him into one last death throw, and his heart stops.

I will tidy the room and dispose of him in my own time. My house. My rules. They will find his poisoned corpse cherry pink, with a blue, shocked face, his pale eyes unseeing. Powerless.
I am a psycho magnet.
I am bait.
I weed them out and kill them.
The half read newspaper has fallen off the table, and I pick it up. The front page headline is bold.

SIXTH CYANIDE MURDER VICTIM. POLICE SUSPECT SERIAL KILLER IS LOOSE.

I shake my head, because clearly, I am no serial killer. Bundy, Gacy, Brudos, Kemper; they were serial killers. But not me. They have it wrong.
Why won’t anyone believe me?
I am a psycho-magnet.

Copyright © 1998 Tara Moss