The Last Confession

Detective John Taylor sat in the dimly lit interrogation room, staring across the table at the man who had terrorized the city for months. Raymond Black, a soft-spoken, middle-aged accountant with no prior record, was an unlikely suspect. Yet here he was, sitting calmly, confessing to five murders. Something about him unsettled Mark. His demeanor was too calm, too composed. Most killers, even the cold-blooded ones, eventually showed cracks in their mask. But Raymond’s face was smooth, expressionless, as though this entire process was just a formality.

John tapped his pen on the table, a soft but steady rhythm as he studied Raymond. “You’ve confessed to five murders, all the ones that have stumped us for months. But I don’t get it, Raymond. Why confess now? Why just walk into the station and hand yourself over?”

Raymond’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained void of emotion. “Detective, guilt is a heavy burden. I’ve carried it long enough. It was time to come clean.”

John raised an eyebrow. “People who carry guilt don’t usually wait this long to confess. And they don’t seem so... at peace when they do.”

Raymond shrugged. “I’ve made peace with what I’ve done.”

John leaned forward, his instincts telling him that something wasn’t adding up. “Tell me about the victims. Why them?”

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed Raymond’s face, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“They were guilty,” he said quietly. “Each of them had committed terrible crimes, and no one knew. I did what had to be done.”

John frowned. “You’re telling me these victims—all innocent as far as the world knows—were secretly criminals?”

Raymond’s gaze turned distant, almost as if he were somewhere far away. “Yes. They were guilty. But not in ways that could be proven by your laws. It’s hard to explain.”

John sat back in his chair, letting silence stretch between them for a moment. He didn’t buy it. He’d seen this before—delusional killers who created elaborate justifications for their crimes. But this case was different. Raymond knew things about the victims that hadn’t been released to the public. Details only the killer could have known.

Still, something felt off. “And how exactly did you choose them, Raymond? What connected these victims to you?”

Raymond’s smile returned, this time colder, almost smug. “I didn’t choose them, Detective. They were chosen for me.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, heavy and ominous. John narrowed his eyes. “Chosen for you? What does that mean?”

Raymond met his eyes, “I wasn’t the one who did it,” he said softly.

John froze. “What?”

“I did it,” Raymond clarified, his tone eerily calm. “But I wasn’t alone. There’s something inside me. It’s been with me for a long time, but it’s only gotten stronger. It... makes me do things.”

John felt a chill crawl up his spine. This was starting to sound like the ramblings of a madman, but Raymond’s composure was unnerving. Most killers who claimed some sort of external influence were desperate, frazzled. Raymond, on the other hand, seemed completely at peace with whatever he was saying.

“You expect me to believe that you’re... possessed or something?” John asked, his skepticism clear.

Raymond tilted his head slightly as if considering the question. “Possessed? No. It’s more complicated than that. It’s not an outside force; it’s a part of me. It always has been.”

John's fingers tightened around his pen. He needed to keep Raymond talking, to get to the bottom of this bizarre confession. “So this ‘thing’ inside you—it’s the one that chose the victims?”

Raymond nodded. “Yes. It knows things. It knows what they’ve done, what they deserve. And I don’t fight it anymore.”

John’s stomach churned. He had dealt with all kinds of killers in his career, but this felt different. The precision with which Raymond had chosen his victims, the fact that they all seemed random but were connected by this man’s unseen force—it was disturbing in a way that logic couldn’t explain.

“Well,” John said, trying to shake off the unease creeping over him, “whether you were alone or not, you’re still going away for a long time.”

Raymond didn’t flinch. In fact, he seemed almost amused. “I know. But you’re not getting the full picture, Detective. I’m just a piece of this puzzle.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Raymond leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

A cold dread washed over John, but he kept his composure. “What are you talking about?”

Before Raymond could answer, John’s phone buzzed with a message. His blood ran cold as he read it.

Sixth victim. Same MO. The victim was found less than an hour ago. Same patterns, same ritualistic markings.

John jumped up and headed to the door.

Raymond’s voice echoed behind him, soft and sinister. “You didn’t think it would end with me, did you?”

John spun around, heart racing, but Raymond was gone. The room was empty—no handcuffs, no trace of him at all. Just a cold, unsettling silence.

The Last Confession