Prompt Day #150: It is the night of the full moon. Your character responds in an entirely unexpected and unusual way to this.




He thought of himself as The Reaper. He liked it because it sounded like The Ripper (his hero) or The Raper and he was both. This was his third victim. Number three had to be special because number three made him officially a serial killer. That was what had caused him to make his first mistake. Thankfully it was a minor mistake—choosing his victim with less forethought and research than he had the first two. He’d been anticipating his third death, how he would pose her, the things he would do to her that he let his excitement get the better of him. So tonight when he saw her jogging along the moonlit trail, her hair rolling behind her like silver waves, he acted without thinking.

She fought. She was stronger than he’d expected. She kicked and thrashed. She clawed his face and made it bleed. She bit him. She tore a chunk of skin off his shoulder. That had pissed him off and he snapped her neck then and there. No torture, no rape, no fun. Well, he still had fun with her afterwards, it was weird to have sex with a corpse but he worked fast, she was still warm. Then he opened up her belly with his knife and washed his face in her blood.

The night had obliged his transgressions thus far by buffering the stars and moon with clouds. But a warm breeze began to sweep them away and the Reaper’s fun was cut short. He needed to set up his murderous tableau under the cover of darkness but the wind revealed his second mistake of the night; he’d chose to kill on the brightest night of the month. As the last cloud’s tail brushed past it, the moon shone proudly in her full glory.

He was carrying the girl like a sack of potatoes when the first cramp hit him deep in his lower abdomen. He stopped and bent over. His back ached too so he let her body slip off him. He stood there holding his belly. Was it his appendix? He’d heard it started in the middle but he hadn’t thought it would start so low. He started to drag her but it was hard. He felt like crying. He really wanted to just stomp his feet like a toddler and cry. Why was it so hard tonight and why had he picked tonight of all nights?

He grabbed the bitch by the hair and yanked her. With each step, he yanked harder until the whole clump of hair pulled away from her head.

“Damnit!” He whined. “I hate this.” He wanted to just leave her and go have a cheeseburger or a pizza, maybe some French fries and you know what else? Chocolate. He wanted chocolate.

He bent over to pick her up again and he heard his pants rip. They were so tight against his belly. When had he gotten so fat? He rubbed his stomach. Ugh, he was bloated. Bloated and sluggish and he had cramps. And he was all of a sudden aware of his nipples. They rubbed against his shirt (which felt a lot tighter now than when he’d left the house) and they were so sensitive. He rubbed at them and as he did so he could physically feel his breasts enlarging. Another cramp hit and he fell to his knees beside the hollowed out dead girl beside him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Why do I do things like this? I’m so worthless.” He said to her and was surprised to find himself sobbing. “You had so much life ahead of you.”

Maybe he should just leave her there. He could find a shower because he felt so gross and sticky from the blood and because maybe the hot water would help his back pain too. He reached over to touch the dead girl’s hair and he felt a burning catch in his shoulder and remembered how she had bit him. Instead of caressing her he shoved at her loose and wobbly head.

“You know what, you can just lay there and rot you stupid bitch.” He said, wiping his tears and snot on the back of his hand “I hate you.”

The light of the moon shone down on him as he lurched away, bent over from the cramps. He walked as fast as he could in that state along the jogging trail until he felt something warm plop out of him somewhere between his legs. He stopped, brow furrowed. Another thick, warm trickle ran out and down his leg. Without thinking, he ripped his pants down. There was blood running down both legs which was shocking but not as shocking as the realization that there was nothing there to obstruct the view. No external genitalia. He was menstruating; no, HE was no longer doing anything, SHE was.

“What is happening to me?” He cried, rubbing the throbbing bite wound on his shoulder.

As if in answer to his question, the bushes beside him/her shivered. A large anamorphic wolf leaped out and grabbed her. She screamed and the wolfman through her to the ground and mounted her. He forced his hairy beast member into her again and again until the scent of her blood saturated the air around them. The blood sent the wolf into a frenzy. He ripped the new woman apart viciously. Bowels flew left and right, her small, mint-condition uterus was amputated and sent spinning through the air like a football. The blood lust was slaked only by the clouds that had returned to blanket the moon, tucking it in for the night. The wolf and his victim where quickly reduced back to the men they once were and the live one ran off naked into the woods.



“These are some vicious killings, Chief” The young officer said, surveying the scene.

“No, kidding. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The police chief replied.

“Must have been a couple, huh?” another officer walked over having just examined the female corpse who had been disemboweled and scalped. The three of them stared at the male vic; he too had been disemboweled. A hole had been—what—ripped? Cut? into his crotch and his penis lopped off. It lay six feet away from the body.

“Makes me think of Jack the Ripper or something.” The rookie said

“More like The Reaper.” His partner countered.