The Collector

He hummed softly as he worked, relaxed and unconcerned. He had left nothing to chance so had nothing to fear but fear itself, a weakness he had long since conquered.

She would be found of course, that was necessary and desired. Unlike others before him who attempted to hide the fruits of their labours, he felt no such need. He wanted them to know of his work, secure in the knowledge that his obligatory social façade, while a nuisance, was nonetheless impenetrable. He knew the human race, as a whole, were unable or unwilling to see beyond what their eyes told them. Scornful of and irritated by their blindness, he nevertheless used it to his advantage as it enabled him to walk among them, to hunt.

Soon enough their blissful ignorance would be stripped from them, leaving their fear open and exposed for him to consume. Fear was his elixir of choice. He craved it as an alcoholic craved their libations or a drug addict wept for their next fix. He did not kill for the sake of killing, rather he killed because people feared death above all else. So, he would be the bringer of death, the shatterer of their worlds and he would drink deeply of their fear and be satiated.