How To Catch A Killer

Jonathan Strutt
Jul 28, 2017 · 8 min read

The third lighting strike and thunder clap outside that matched the season finale of How To Catch A Killer went over my head; it was too engrossing.

Darby, a fearsome and brutal man, called up his next target on their cell phone, as he did nearly every episode. A little pang of fear struck me at that moment. It was like a part of my mind had been working in the background, noticing the aligned weather and the off-kilter streetlamp Darby stood under.

My phone rang and I pushed aside the objections raised in my head.

“Hello?” I answered, eyes glued to the TV screen.

“Are you ready to die tonight?” His voice came from the TV screen; it took me a moment to realize it came from the phone as well.

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.” The camera moved to Darby’s back, the axe in his other hand cutting a beautiful silhouette.

“But… you… how?” I tilted my head.

“I’m coming for you, Sergeant.” Darby began to walk.

“But you, you’re not real.”

I shrieked as he whirled and stared directly into the camera, his scarred face and bald head drenched with rain. “You’re gonna see how real I am.” The camera stayed in place as Darby left, his footsteps quickly stifled by the downpour.

My heart pounded as I tried to rationalize this. It had to be a practical joke. The show was stupidly popular; some kids had gambled with a prank, nothing more.

“Stupid kids,” I muttered. I crept to the window and saw nothing but rain, parked cars, and dim streetlights. I watched for as long as I dared before drawing the curtains. Commercials blared as I made a sandwich in the kitchen and poured a drink, after some deliberation.

The doorbell rang before I could eat.

My heart jumped at the sound and kept pounding as I sat, paralysed by fear. I decided to wait for a second doorbell, or an impatient knock, something that signified a person in need; otherwise I wouldn’t get up.

Had I locked it? My uncertainty dispelled my fear and I rose to my feet, taking slow steps out of the living room. The doorway shone with innocent light. The door itself was locked, but the deadbolt was not.

The eyehole in the door was the only way to see outside, but I didn’t plan to check. I took one step towards the door, then another.

The doorbell rang again.

I froze, one foot in the air, arm extended, reaching for the deadbolt. I forced myself to take deep breaths as I listened for any sign of life behind that door, but there was only the rain. I finished my step towards the door.

Someone screamed.

I jumped and whirled around, hands held up in useless defence; the scream from the commercial turned into hearty laughter and a deep voice exclaiming that something was scary good.

I closed my eyes and controlled my breathing. “Come on.” I stormed back and locked the deadbolt.

My phone rang from the living room. I struggled to keep my voice level. “Hello?”

I turned towards the TV. The camera was behind Darby, showing his outline against a white door of a house.

“Guess who?” Darby’s voice echoed.

He slammed his axe into the door and the noise made me drop my phone; it bounced and slid under the couch. It had almost sounded like the axe hit my door.

It had.

It slammed a second time before I cursed and ran to the kitchen for a knife. Of all the days to leave my gun at the station, I chose today. Darby’s laughter rang from the TV and echoed from the door. He seemed to be making short work of it; as I glanced out of the kitchen into the hallway, my assumption was proven correct. I managed to run up the staircase as Darby kicked aside the last splinters of the door, his tall frame nearly hitting the light above the door. The water dripped down his large trenchcoat onto the floor.

He stomped up the stairs with gravity as I dashed down the hall into my bedroom and grabbed the landline resting on my night stand. It slipped out of my fingers and fell onto the floor, after which I heard his footsteps stop. I struggled to control my breathing as my sweaty fingers pressed the phone keys.

“911,” a woman’s voice answered.

“I need help,” I whispered, looking at my closet and my bed, then crawling under the bed.

“What’s your emergency?”

I ended the call as my bedroom door blew off its hinges. I held my breath as Darby took one step, paused, another step, paused, another step, paused. The door to my closet opened with a great creak. He took a step towards the door and paused. I let my breath out with as much care as I could muster. My knuckles were white around the knife.

Darby stood still for a long moment, sniffed, and then took measured steps out the door. I began to breathe with a pattern which was closer to normal. Darby took one, two steps out the door, then froze. I saw his menacing shadow shuffle and turn back towards my room. I choked down a cry as his feet stepped towards my bed, then stopped at the foot of it, water still dripping from him.

The standoff between myself and Darby’s boots continued for an eternity before his hands reached down and threw the bed to the side. I rose with it and plunged the knife deep, aiming for his chest, but only hitting his shoulder. He roared and swiped at me with a huge paw of a hand, but I was already running. I heard his cursing from the TV as well as upstairs as I nearly tripped over the shattered doorframe, and I heard his boots echoing throughout my house as I ran to the staircase and slipped on the slick steps.

I tumbled all the way down and landed on my ankle in a way that ankles shouldn’t be landed on. I heard the sickening snap as it broke and felt the pain all the way to my eyes. I heard Darby laugh as I struggled to get on my feet, but the pain was too much and I let out a strangled moan. My vision was blurry as I crawled towards the door and my heart was screaming at me as each step came closer and closer.

I screamed as his boots came down on my broken ankle, crushing what remained. Pathetic sounds escaped from me as unbearable pain lanced with each rapid heartbeat. Rough hands gripped me, threw me over, then raised me into the air by my throat.

I tried to plead, to beg for mercy, but I couldn’t make any sound. I scratched at him but my arms were weak; I kicked at him but my legs were rubber. He tossed me into the wall with his hands, then grunted as he took out the knife from his shoulder. My head rang as he lifted me by the throat again with one hand. My vision was faint and blurry, but I could make out the outline of the knife in his other hand, dark with blood.

Thunder boomed behind me as his bloodshot eyes were put inches away from mine. “Who will catch me now?” he hissed, then drew the knife back. It plunged into my gut once, twice, I was dying-

“Whoa, easy, buddy!”

I gasped for air, and my vision was white. I blinked once, twice, three times; muffled voices spoke all around me.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, it always takes ’em a while to get oriented.”

“He did pretty well, considering.”

“Yeah, shame about the staircase.”

“Think he had a good trip?” Laughter rang in my head.

The white slowly faded to a white room and three faces looking at me, painted in various shades of concern. A large TV screen in front of me read in menacing red letters “GAME OVER”.

“Where… where am I?” I asked. I went to tend to my wounds, but found my wrists were bound to the chair I sat in.

“Relax, buddy. You were playing the How To Catch A Killer game, remember?”

“Game?” My heart was pounding.

I felt something being removed from my head as a bearded man spoke. “Yes, that’s right. A game. This was all just a game, it wasn’t real.”

My head suddenly felt very light and my mouth dried up. “I…”

“Get him some water.” A straw was placed into my mouth, and I sucked greedily. I never thought water could taste so good. As the water coursed through my body, I felt memories return as well; the memory of me signing up for the game, signing far too many documents and release forms, sitting in the chair, having some strange contraption attached to my head, and then the game.

I shuddered as I thought about the game.

“You did rather well,” a woman told me. “Lots of people panic after he comes with the axe, but you went and got a weapon. Nice job.”

“You were lucky, too,” the bearded man said. “Sometimes he comes with a gun.”

I thought about my gun in the station, and then realized I didn’t own a gun. I wasn’t a police officer, either. Or was I? My memories were all jumbled together.

“Locking the deadbolt was a good idea too, although it never helps much.” The others chuckled.

I nodded and touched my body as they released the bindings. Nothing.

“I think you were on track to beat the record, save for the slip.”

“A spot of bad luck, that.” There were many sounds of sympathy and agreement.

“Next time,” I muttered, closing my eyes against the splitting headache that was invading.

“Headache?” I nodded. A glass of water and a pill were produced, and I took them both without question. “Well, thanks for playing. Once you’re ready, you can head out that door, and there will be someone with a more detailed report of your results there, along with a short questionnaire to do at home.”

The two men beside me helped me out of the chair and held me steady for a moment. I carefully put weight on my ankle, but it seemed fine. “Has anyone beat the game?”

They all chuckled. “Oh, you can’t win this game, it’s just about surviving.”

The cute attendant outside took my phone and downloaded the data to it with a big smile. “Thanks for playing!” she said as I left. I merely grunted and nodded to the next person in line, who gave me a worrying look. I was affecting a limp; I didn’t trust my ankle.

The mall was packed as always on the weekends, and the bright lights and pounding music forced me into a bench just two steps out of the store. Across from me was a rival tech store, selling better but same goodies.

The TVs were all synchronised and playing How To Catch A Killer, re-runs, in sync with the upcoming season premiere and the new virtual reality game I just tested. I trembled as Darby’s face appeared, then controlled myself. It took me a moment to recognize the episode. It was the one where he goes on a killing spree in the mall. I shook my head and grinned. Of course.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

My phone rang.


Thanks for reading. Hit that green ❤ if you enjoyed it.

Jonathan Strutt

Written by

Canadian living in Finland. Copywriting, UX writing, basically writing. If I’m not writing, I’m reading. Why else would I be here?

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