Poet with a drill

I

We met this afternoon, at a cafe. Among the people around us were several couples in love. I felt just like them. A normal person, who can share life's joys with other people. I reveled in that feeling. I am hardly suited for the theater, but I was extremely convincing, playing the part of an enamored lover. I drowned in her brown eyes and lost track of time. I read her my poems, exploring her thighs under the table with my fingers. She covered her mouth with her palm to muffle her moans when I followed her to the restroom and buried my face between her thighs.

Veronika, you are beautiful. Or Varvara? Your tender whisper, your intelligent gaze, your laughter—will make me smile on my deathbed. My brief life will not have been in vain, for I have once again known fleeting moments of happiness. The hours spent with you were filled with the purest delight. You invited a stranger into your home—now you are asleep, while I enjoy the tranquility on your beautiful face. I carefully pull back the blanket. This is what I will return to in my memories. To the curve of your back, to the chestnut hair scattered across the crumpled pillows. To the crimson marks of my fingers on your thighs and buttocks. To the drops of semen trickling between your thighs onto the sheets. To your trembling, your passion, your warmth, your scent, your voice.

The time when we touch something beautiful is fleeting. All that remains for us is to create a space in our memory where we can return, guided by the echoes of the experienced delight. I shift my gaze to my satchel, and my heart begins to beat faster. I feel a tingling in my fingertips. Anticipation grips me. I place the satchel on the table, fish out an extension cord. I take out two massive battery packs for a cordless drill, set them to recharge. I need a couple of hours to put my feelings in order and tune myself to the right frame of mind. With all my soul, I love these quiet night hours, these minutes of calm and peace preceding something new, majestic, grand. I take out my old laptop, turn it on, create a new text file. I will spend this time with you, my readers. I hope my lovely young lady does not wake up and interrupt us.

II

Eleven thousand years ago, in the early Neolithic era, people first invented monsters for themselves. Exploring Paleolithic cultures, you will find images of animals, clay figurines of tribesmen, charcoal-drawn hunting scenes. But you will find no traces of monsters—there was no place for them in people's consciousness. The monsters of our ancestors were wild beasts, the howling wind, the rumble of thunder. Having overcome the primal fear of nature, emerging from caves, man began to search for something to fill the vacated niche. The tales of all the world's peoples are filled with bloodthirsty, irrational creatures. Following monsters, man invented gods. And then endowed the gods with the qualities of monsters, for fear made them weightier, more real, closer.

Nightmarish images are imprinted on clay tablets from Mesopotamia, woven into the legacy of Alexandrian sages, recorded on goatskins by the ancient Greeks. Monuments of ancient writing tell of terrifying, bloody deeds committed by gods, monsters, and men. With the development of printing, people gained the ability to share fears, create grotesque and horrifying images affecting entire generations. Authorship made the fears of one person the fears of entire nations. All European literature, from Mediterranean epics to 13th-century Arthurian legends, is filled with monsters. By the mid-18th century, an independent, monumental genre had emerged—horror literature. Gothic novels of the Romantic era, the scary stories of Stevenson and Fanyu. Fear, horror, nightmare, death—became an integral part of almost any work of fiction.

Edgar Allan Poe, Stoker, Lovecraft, Bloch, Howard—a whole host of writers past and present have given the world fictional monsters for every taste. Zombies, vampires, werewolves. Unimaginable ancient beings stretching their tentacles into our world from beyond the boundaries of existence. The Modern Age brought new monsters and new fears. Alien invaders, deranged machines, visions of man-made apocalypse. Devil-summoning sorcerers were replaced by mad scientists. Teenage vampires took the place of Byronic heroes.

The imagination of a talented and skillful author makes monsters as real as fiction can be. When encountering such a monster, on the pages of a book or on screen—you scream in horror and delight. But the scream is followed by a sigh of relief. You know—it's fiction. You will not meet a walking corpse in a moonless park. Your legs will not be grabbed by slippery tentacles from under the bed. You will not witness a vampire turning into a bat and flying up the chimney. Fictional monsters are appealing—they divert you from the horrors and fears that exist in reality. They entertain, amuse, tickle the nerves, but do not irrevocably change consciousness, do not leave severed limbs on bloodied pavements.

But I will deprive you of cheerful serenity. I will steal the soft armchairs molded to the shape of your backsides. I will air out your rooms from the smell of cookies and semen. I will burn the blankets you wrap yourselves in before the screen on autumn evenings. I will wipe the sleepy apathy from your faces. I will push you into reality.

III

Reality terrifies more than urban legends and scary stories whispered around a campfire. Reality is scarier than the stories you invent hoping to frighten, entertain, and amuse each other. Reality is meaner and madder than the sticky nightmares that vanish with the first rays of the sun. Supernatural horrors and fears retreat before scenes of crimes committed by people. Rational and methodical madmen, who walk the same sidewalks as you, fill reality with the worst conceivable horrors.

I will tell you about a man who has been bringing nightmares into the world for the past eighteen years. About a sinister sociopath, rapist, cannibal, serial killer. His signature was established in 2004, in Rostov-on-Don, plunging the city into horror with a bloody double murder on Lesistaya Street. This man is predictable—like most maniacs, his actions are always systematic. Like other maniacs, he tries to capture public attention. Newspaper headlines are as necessary to him as the suffering of his tormented victims. But his actions have one peculiarity—he needs the attention of his victims long before the moment of the crime. Journalists nicknamed him "The Poet with a Drill."

Twenty-four murders in the Southern and Central districts of the Russian Federation have been linked to the name of the Poet-with-a-Drill. Due to the condition of the bodies, the cause of death could only be established in a number of cases. Presumably, all victims were killed using a manual or electric drill. Twenty-one women and three men. All victims were members of online communities dedicated to literature or poetry. Some of the victims

A typical example is a poem received in a message on one of the internet forums by 21-year-old Oksana N., who became the thirteenth victim of the madman:

You speak to me of love,

But do not tear your soul anew,

From the prison of languid thoughts I'll free—

I will drill out your youthful mind.

Oksana N.'s body was discovered at her place of residence no later than ten hours after the serial killer struck again. Criminologists were presented with a horrifying picture of mangled pieces of flesh, entrails, and limbs attached to the walls and ceiling using about a hundred drill bits. Traces of the killer's saliva and semen were found on the body fragments. The victim's internal organs were partially eaten.

Another victim—218-year-old Olga P., an aspiring writer, author of many articles and publications. Including stories of an erotic nature. A regular contributor to one of the major websites dedicated to this theme. The killer corresponded with the victim for about a month and a half, dedicating an entire cycle of surrealistic poems to her. I will quote one of them:

You are perfect. You are smart.

So lovely that you stand apart.

Accept the Poet's glorious gift—

With you, I will fertilize the park.

The crime took place in a southern city. In an old park, laid out even before the revolution. A child playing on the playground found a severed woman's finger. Using the find in his games, the child brought it home. The next day, while washing the toddler's clothes, the parents discovered it. The finger was later identified as a fragment of Olga P.'s body. Two days later, a new nightmarish find appeared. A woman's ear, attached to a park sculpture with a broken drill bit. The terrifying shadow of the Poet-with-a-Drill loomed over the city. The Investigative Committee took over the case. The park was closed, several teams of dog handlers were brought in, and it was searched for two weeks. As a result, 60 body fragments belonging to Olga P. were found. To the horror of the townspeople—fragments of bodies belonging to three more unidentified victims were also found.

The townspeople deemed the park a bad place. The watchman of the rental areas leased in the park for trade applied to a psychiatric dispensary every autumn. He complained about the screech of a drill waking him at night. Three years after his first application, he committed suicide by slitting his wrists in the park fountain. Parents stopped bringing their children to the park. The operating companies terminated their contract with the city for cleaning and landscaping. The park became deserted.

But I visit this park every autumn. It is the best place in the world to indulge in autumn melancholy. Having become deserted, the park became more beautiful than before. I stroll along the alleys covered in autumn leaves. I admire the rose bushes whose growth is no longer restrained by the gardener's shears. Away from the city bustle, I enjoy the chirping of birds. Every year I try to bring to this park someone who can share the intoxicating autumn days with me, whose beauty and youth will create a delightful contrast with the pictures of slumbering nature.

Usually, maniacs seek their victims among women or children. Men quite rarely become victims of madmen. Three murders have been linked to the name of the Poet-with-a-Drill. The details of these murders are so vile that the editorial boards of most newspapers and news agencies refused to publish them. But I have no right to deprive you of the pleasure of savoring these details.

I will tell you about one of the victims. It was 43-year-old Solomon V., a literary critic, author of about a hundred critical articles, the volume of which exceeds the criticized work by dozens of times. A blogger, founder of the online journal "Critical Literary Discourse As A Consequence Of Deep Postmodernist Reinterpretation Of Traditional Judeo-Christian Values In The Era Of Long Titles." The Poet-with-a-Drill dedicated the following lines to him:

You are legion. You are far from the muse.

The poet's ancient burden,

You poison any creation—

But I will occupy your mind.

These threats were carried out in a strange and terrifying manner. Solomon V. was found in his country house, with a hole drilled in the parietal region of his head. The body was immobilized using several dozen thin drill bits, pinning the unfortunate man to the chair. Forensic experts determined that the killer made a wide opening in the skull of the unfortunate victim. And then used this opening to commit a disgusting and unnatural sexual act. This was the cause of death. The relatives of the deceased could not separate the killer's genetic material from the victim's brain and cremated the body. In the news, the cause of death was listed as "brain injuries incompatible with life."

IV

You will think—perhaps this is true. You will ask—but how did you, the narrator, learn of this? I answer—I was present.

The most perceptive among you have understood who I am and what I seek. For the rest, I have written poems. These poems will enter police reports and then take their place in criminology textbooks. Poetry and the drill are inseparable. Many years ago, I realized what glorious fruits their union could bear. The pulsating delight that binds these two objects together guides me to this day. I believe—my deeds will become a beacon for young poets, dispel the darkness, show the way in their creative search. I await, impatiently await followers. Not bored imitators, but followers in the full sense of the word. I await you, sincere and talented young people! You, who have comprehended and internalized my legacy! You, who have cast aside humanity for the sake of Understanding! You, who have dared to heed the Call! Following me, you will experience moments of true closeness between people.

You will hear the singing of angels, piercing the membrane between reality and the perfect world. These solemn, majestic sounds will instill confidence in you, calm you, steady the trembling in your hands. You will receive messengers from other, ideal worlds. The singing of angels will replace the whispers of imaginary friends. Angels will become witnesses and participants in your deeds. You will feel reality bending, creating conditions for the Search. In dreams, in reveries, in visions, you will recognize the faces of your victims—and rush towards them! Among shattered bones and torn organs, you will begin the Search. You will sift through warm clumps of bloodied meat with your fingers. Taste, color, smell, texture—will show you where to look. Laughing and crying with delight, you will feel for the letters hidden in the shackles of flesh. Each time there will be more letters. Years will pass, and you will form words from these letters. These words will reveal the elusive meaning of existence, fill your mind with Understanding. How I envy you, inexperienced but passionate youths! How many wonderful discoveries await you! I often ask myself—what will you choose as the instrument of your talent? I flatter myself with the thought that this instrument will be the drill.

Be indulgent of my weaknesses. Like any author, it is difficult for me to resist the temptation to share my thoughts and hopes. Dawn is in about five hours. The drill bits impatiently call me, and with each second their call grows louder. Here are the poems I promised you, and now it is time for me to get to work.

Cast your gaze upon the inner circle—

I am closer than your best friend.

The hour of autumn harvest has struck—

I will take three of you.