I get told I’m a creep. And no, it’s not because I’m a stalker. I’m not a killer or a rapist or whatever other hyperbole bullshit people try to hurl at me. My flaw is I like to send dick pics. Call me a serial sexter. And yes, that includes unsolicited pics… okay, maybe it’s not the classiest thing in the world, but fuck, it’s not like I harass girls on-line via profanity or body-shaming. I don’t call them bitches or cunts or whatever.

I mean shit, guys can be self-conscious too. Yeah, I know there’s more pressure on women to appease society’s standards of beauty. I get it. Only an asshole would disagree with that. But still, women can get attention and flattery so Goddamn easy. Half these profile pics are butt selfies or them cradling their big boobs… and needless to say, they get a bajillion likes. So what’s wrong with me uploading one of my big bulge pics? Why does that make me a creep or an asshole? Even when I go rogue and send them unsolicited, I still get a girl’s attention if she’s in the mood. I’m a nice-looking guy. I’ve got a big dick. I get told I’ve got a nice baseball butt too. I don’t see where me taking booty or cock pics makes me all that different from the Instagram models or all the other single girls with their provocative dating profile pictures. It’s the same motivation. I crave the attention. I collect compliments. Just like they do.

This Friday night was no different for me. I was home alone in the fucking middle of nowhere. Isolated and surrounded by woods for neighbors. I was a college kid with no friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend either.

My parents’ house was big and fancy. But it could get lonely living out here in the boonies. Especially when I knew all my classmates were out getting shit-faced and having the time of their lives. All I had right now was TCM’s black-and-white horror movie marathon for entertainment. A twelve-pack of cheap beer for companionship. And my cherished apps for comfort.

MeetMe, Tinder, Snap, Kik. I hit them all up in search of a sexy chat. In search of compliments. It’d been a nice night so far. I’d talked to a few girls and showed off for them. Oh, you’re so cute, Patrick. Your dick is so big, Patrick! God, what a great butt. That dick though! Yeah, I was doing alright… and my night had just gotten better. I’d just matched with a gorgeous twenty-one-year-old. Nichole. She looked exotic and her style was creative. She’d had on a psychedelic wardrobe in all her pics. Think a hippie Paula Patton. And she was actually fucking cool to talk to. Thank you, Tinder.

Our conversation escalated pretty fast. She liked my bulge pics. Both of us gave out compliments like hot cakes. And holy fuck, she lived close by! Maybe less than thirty minutes from here. For once, I had actually matched with someone within a reasonable distance. Not to mention someone who seemed really quirky and hot. Fuck getting her SnapChat, Nichole was even cool with giving me her number! My joy escalated as I downed my fourth beer like it was a victory cigar.

We started texting and the magic continued. Nichole was an English major like me. And we both loved horror movies. We were both even watching TCM! William Castle’s House On Haunted Hill. This was love at first text.

And then from there, things got hot and heavy. It started out with Nichole’s topless bathroom selfie. It’s safe to say I lost interest in House On Haunted Hill instantly. Nichole was beautiful… and her boobs were glorious. Big and luscious. Just like my dick she’d told me. I realized in the pic her bathroom door was wide open so maybe she was home alone? Just how lucky could I get tonight?

Nichole wanted another pic from me so I obliged. The only problem was having to choose from my gallery of naked selfies. It sounds conceited, I know. But liked showing off. Besides, I was catering to the female gaze. It’s not like I was pressuring Nichole to send me shit. And hey, at least I had the buns and big dick worth showing off too, right?

Anyway, I chose one of my favs. Me smiling with my big dick in the bathroom mirror.

Nichole loved it. I got a reply faster than a William Castle jump scare. God, you’re so big, she’d told me. Music to my ears.

Grinning, I was ready to take another sip of beer when a loud screech startled me, making me spill some booze. Annoyed, I looked toward the T.V. William Castle had got me again. Another Goddamn cheap jump scare. I muted the T.V., ready to focus on my newest thrill instead of the 1950s classic.

Another picture message from Nichole arrived. I beamed with excitement as I clicked it. The photo showed Nichole clutching those big breasts together in the bathroom. A sultry look was on her face. Even when she was trying to be oversexualized, she still had a playful innocence to her. I hoped maybe that’s what she thought of me when I smiled with my dick hanging out.

She sent me a text: Can I come over?

Conflicting thoughts ran through my mind. Sure, I was horny and hadn’t gotten laid since I was nineteen. And yeah, none of my few conquests had anything on Nichole. None of them were ever this hot. Or this cool, for that matter. Fuck, I’m not even sure if any of them were even gunning for a degree, much less one in English. But on the other hand, Nichole could’ve been an old guy catfishing for young dick. Or maybe a creepy old lady. Or Hell, even just a scammer who might come here in the middle of the night and force me to take nudes for them. Nichole’s boobs were so big though. And she’s hot. And I’m all alone. And William Castle nor Vincent Price were gonna do anything to satisfy my sexual desires. So I gave in.

1414 Winston Road, I’d texted back. I also added: Are you sure you’re not too far? I can go over there.

I got another quick response: Yeah, that’s like five mins from here.

I thought you were in Americus, I texted back.

Her quick reply: Naw, my grandma’s in Stanwyck. I’m here for the weekend.

Holy fucking shit, I thought. At this rate, I should be buying lottery tickets!

Another picture soon arrived! Without even asking, Queen Nichole had sent me another nude. This one of her in bra and panties. Here was this gorgeous girl modeling in her bathroom for me. Holy fuck!

I stared at the lovely sight, entranced.

She sent me a text: You like? 😉

Before I could respond, I noticed something in the corner of the photo. And right there, my moment of glory was zapped. Rather than triumph, I felt immense fear.

Someone holding a laptop was standing right outside Nichole’s bathroom. The gleam off the screen illuminated their ski mask, and dark clothing and black gloves. Their expressionless eyes stayed on Nichole. But most of all, the laptop they held shined a light on a shiny butcher knife they held. And Nichole seemed to have no idea someone was standing just a few feet away from her.

I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I took another swig of beer like that was gonna make me any calmer or any more rational. It didn’t.

My eyes stayed on the frightening sight. The dark ski mask. The piercing eyes. The piercing blade. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I guess I was hoping Nichole would send me another message. Or Hell, another picture in that bathroom. This one without whoever the Hell was out there lurking in her hallway.

I downed the beer. I threw can number five onto the coffee table. Fueled by drunken courage, I called Nichole. I’d always hated phone calls. Why else do you think I always texted and sexted? But I knew this was different. Nichole needed help.

The phone rang and rang. Nervous sweat slid down my face. “Come on, Nichole,” I muttered. “Pick up the fucking phone…”

But she didn’t answer. The ominous rings blared through my mind as if my head were a vast cave. And then her voicemail greeted me. At least, Nichole had a cute voice.

I hung up, restless and disturbed. I threw my phone onto the coffee table, right next to the empty can. In that moment, I felt helpless. I barely even knew Nichole and outside of my urge to sext, I probably wouldn’t have ever even talked to her. But I cared about her. I was fucking worried.

My nerves made me crack out another can of cheap beer. I think I downed it in seconds. It was supposed to help calm me but didn’t. William Castle’s skeletons and jump scares weren’t helping either.

I crushed the empty can and dropped it on the coffee table. My phone then shattered through the silence with a cold vibration. The unpleasant sound of it skirting across the table scared the shit out of me.

I grabbed my cell. A new message from Nichole awaited me. A picture message.

Hesitant, I debated opening it. What if this was all some sort of sick prank and Nichole was sending me a virus or a sign-up link to one of those amateur porn sites?

The sad part is, I actually hoped that was the case. That my huge crush was just your regular spambot. Not an oblivious target.

Yet I had to know for sure. I swiped through my phone. I turned away in horror.

Nichole was in the picture, only she didn’t take this one. Rather than modeling in her sexiest pose, her slaughtered body had been positioned in the bathtub. Still in her bra and panties. Her chest excavated by a most sharp blade. Pieces and bits of her organs dangled out like ornaments on a tree. The once-empty tub was almost filled with redness. A literal bloodbath from her body.

Judging by the marks and cuts on her hands she’d put up a fight. But in her vulnerable state, she didn’t have a chance. No one would.

And her big eyes stayed with me. Gone was her cute smile, but her eyes that had captivated me all night were well on display. And they were looking right at me.

I forced myself to face the haunting image once more. I was devastated, but couldn’t help but see how the killer had positioned Nichole so elegantly. It was an artistic pose almost. Even the lighting in the room seemed different. As if this sick fuck had staged everything just for the photo. Just for his audience. Just for me.

“God…” I said in horror. Tears sliding down my face, I went back to my home screen. I’d never met Nichole in person, but anguish ravaged me. She looked to have gone through so much pain. God, it must’ve been awful.

I hoped it was all just some sick joke… but I knew that was just wishful thinking.

I looked off at the T.V. Somehow, William Castle’s schlock was comforting. The staged murders, the plastic skeleton, and the elaborate mansion set were a welcome distraction from the all too real violence I held in my hands.

Like a cattle prod, my phone erupted with another vibration. A text from Nichole.

I opened it and looked on at the message: Hey stud 😉

What the fuck, I thought…

Then another text appeared: U recognize ur little bitch now?

Horror conquered me. The killer was fucking texting me. Trembling, I started to type back.

A third message hit my frightened eyes: Shes a real screamer! 😉

I sent a reply: Who the fuck is this?

And then I thought what the fuck am I doing… The drunken courage really had gotten to me. I wasn’t calling the police or my parents. I was texting a killer! Pissed at myself, I did what I thought any drunk and terrified mind would do. I opened another beer.

My phone vibrated with a new notification. Dreading the next text message or pic, I looked down at my screen. But it was neither. Instead, the killer had emphasized one of the messages I sent to Nichole. A bold exclamation point placed next to my home address. 1414 Winston Road.

My heart sank as the cheap beer slipped through my fingers. The can smashed against the ground and the booze flowed all through my socks. But I didn’t feel it. I just felt fear. Immense fucking horror.

Another message was emphasized. The one where Nichole said she was only ten minutes away. The exclamation point made me realize her killer was less than ten minutes away.

Holding the phone, I hauled ass out the room. I yanked a large knife out of my parents’ wooden knife block. I gripped the weapon tight as I peered through kitchen window. It was hard to see anything with such dim lighting. My mom had been bitching my dad out over the sorryass security lights these past few years. And right now, I’d be bitching him out too. I couldn’t see shit.

I stepped back into the living room. My phone shook in an aggressive rumble, making me jump back in fright. “Shit!” I cried out.

Another message from Nichole’s number awaited my gaze. I opened it. It was a video message. And judging by the thumbnail, I could tell where it was taken. My front yard.

Uneasy, I stole a glance out a window. But that was fucking useless. I couldn’t see shit out there. Thanks a lot, dad.

I confronted my phone and played the video. It was creepier than I expected. The ten second clip showed me looking out the kitchen window. In it, I held my knife like I was actually going to do something. God, I looked stupid.

More terror struck me. Whoever took this was in my yard. And they weren’t scared. The killer was just teasing me with this shit. Toying with me like a skilled NBA player does to a four year old at summer camp. I bet this motherfucker was laughing right now.

Relying on all the drunken courage I had left, I sent the murderer a new message: Leave me alone, asshole! I’m calling the police!

Right before I could steal another glance out the window, my phone buzzed. The killer had replied in all caps: TOO LATE

Fuck it. My beer-fueled courage just left faster than a stream of drunken piss. With propulsive fingers, I dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear. I told the 911 dispatcher everything, regardless of how fucking crazy and insane it sounded. I pleaded with her. Please send someone to 1414 Winston Road now, Goddammit, I’d told her!

The whole time, I clutched the knife while I waited on the line. Just in case. I kept waiting to get another text or maybe see that dark ski mask in my house. I did my best to keep my eyes looking out the window until I saw flashing red and blue lights roll up outside. Thankfully, two squad cars had shown up.

Two policemen came inside my house. One was nice and quiet. The other scrawny and bitchy. He was Barney Fife 2.0. I could tell Deputy Fife had taken one look at me, one look at the beer, and one look at the empty pizza box before making up his mind. But that didn’t stop me from pleading my case. I told them all about Nichole. I showed them the pics. The video. I made Barney Fife believe me! Or at least, believe me enough to take my story seriously. Barney was still bitching, but I knew his partner wasn’t an asshole. The quiet cop believed me and convinced Barney to go check on Nichole’s place. I was relieved when the nice cop even offered to stake out my place until the morning.

After the commotion had all died down, I finally felt safe. I had cops checking on Nichole. I had a squad car parked right outside. And I had my parents coming back in the morning. Believe me, when I told mom and dad everything, they were freaking the fuck out. And for once, I was glad to have such neurotic parents. Either way, I finally felt like I could just sit back and get back to the classic movie marathon. Anything to get my mind off what happened to Nichole.

At least, Carnival Of Souls was on. By then, I had popped a few more beers. I looked outside to see the nice police officer still stationed out there in my driveway. Hell, I felt so safe I’d even thrown my knife on the coffee table.

I finished beer number eight. And then many drunk ideas ran through my mind. And yeah, maybe the thought of getting back on those chat apps did occur. After all, it’d be a temporary distraction from the pain I felt over Nichole. But then I realized, she deserved better than that. I mean what if she was the one? And here I was, still alive and drinking cheap beer. And then I thought, after all this, what happened to her killer anyway? Could it have even been a prank? Was Nichole alive? Hell, was she even real?

Hesitant, I looked back at my phone. There was still no word yet from Barney Fife or any of the other officers. But I needed to know more. I needed to know Nichole was okay.

I muted the T.V. and stared down Nichole’s phone number. Fuck it. I called the damn thing. Partly out of morbid curiosity. And partly out of the lingering fear from not having any closure on the ordeal. After all, I wanted to catch this fucker. I wanted to avenge Nichole’s death.

As the call connected, I waited in intense dread for the killer to pick up. What would they sound like? What would they say? I felt more sweat slide down my forehead. The anticipation was getting to me. An anticipation built off fear.

The first couple of rings only further heightened my nerves. Come to think of it, what was I gonna say? “Hey, you sick fuck, go turn yourself in!” Jesus, this drunken courage… more like drunken stupidity.

But before I could hang up, I heard music. Shocked, I lowered the phone as I looked through the living room.

The music was annoying. Pop music. A sunny chorus.

What the fuck, I thought. Was that Nelly Furtado? I listened up and realized it was. “I’m Like A Bird” in all its cheesy glory.

I looked toward my phone. The call was still ringing. And Nelly was still singing. The connection hit me like a punch in the gut. The unease overwhelmed me. But I forced myself to keep going like the world’s cockiest amateur sleuth. Maybe the alcohol was talking.

I followed Nelly Furtado’s jam all down my long, dark hallway. The music was louder now. The call to Nichole kept ringing and her ringtone just kept playing.

Tracing the song, I followed it to my basement door. I deliberated on what to do. The ringing tormented me. “I’m Like A Bird” teased me. And Nichole haunted me, Under all the weight, my head started spinning. The pressure was getting to me.

I decided to just do it. I opened the door and rushed inside. My drunken courage had returned… or maybe I was just sick and ready to confront whatever or whoever lurked in the house with me.

The basement should’ve been pitch black but it wasn’t. There was a faint glow emanating from the very back. And the song were overpowering. It was as if I had busted in on Nelly Furtado in the studio. “I’m Like A Bird” was so damn loud at this point. The ultra-catchy chorus blared through the room.

I hustled down the stairs. My one-track mind drove me closer and closer to the very back of the basement. Right where the glow and Nelly were coming from. As I got closer, I heard muffled voices. They sounded young and bitchy. Like scheming high schoolers having second thoughts about a graffiti escapade.

Who the Hell were they, I wondered. Were there multiple killers? Was this all just some sort of sick prank? Maybe the one or two people I interacted with in college were actually throwing me a surprise party? Maybe it was all the girls and guys I’d fucked around with before… who fucking knows…

I felt a cool breeze hit me. One of the windows nearby was wide open. But still, I went on. I forced myself to keep going. Fight or flight, Patrick! Yeah, the alcohol was definitely talking…

And then I reached my destination. Amidst the clutter of storage my O.C.D. father had kept stowed away in here for decades, I saw a glowing laptop lying on a table. I recognized it instantly. It was the killer’s laptop.

And Nelly Furtado kept playing right next to it. The song nothing more than a ringtone from a large iPhone.

I staggered up to the eerie sight. I realized the phone was Nichole’s. With grim humor, I knew it had to be waterproof since it was fucking drenched in blood.

Fuck, she’d even saved me as a contact! There was my name Patrick and my Tinder profile pic serving as the contact photo. Goddammit, she did like me…

I hung up the phone, dejected and disturbed. No more Nelly Furtado.

“Look at that bitch!” I heard a teenage voice squeal.

“Yeah, that bitch looks sad as fuck,” another shithead quipped.

The voices forced my gaze toward the laptop.

I now saw a piece of paper taped over the laptop’s screen. Big, crude letters like the killer’s all cap text messages spelled a cruel note for me: HERES EVEN MORE ATTENTION STUD

The killer had even drawn a winking smiley face for me. It was a harsh illustration. Like one a disturbed grown man would draw to emulate the wild creativity of an ADD-riddled child. And unlike the letters, I realized the winking face was drawn from dark red ink. From Nichole’s blood.

Disgusted, I ripped the fucking page off the screen.

And then I saw a multitude of windows on the laptop. They all appeared to be shots from Skype or some other video call site. A smorgasbord of faces looked back at me. Young, old, male, female. The many faces formed a captivated audience.

“Oh, he sees us!” a smiling shithead teenager commented. The kid’s voice sounded like it hadn’t dropped yet. Rather than World Of Warcraft, apparently whatever this site was was his outlet from the bullies.

In another window, an old woman waved at me. “Hi, there!” she exclaimed in a polite tone.

“Say something!” a bald guy hurled at me.

I could just feel their collective eyes on me. They were a mob of intrigued faces.

Uneasy, I took a step back. This wasn’t Reddit’s gaybrosgonewild or ladybonersgw or any other arena where I had previously shown off my dick for all the world to see. This wasn’t the type of audience I was used to. They didn’t look hungry for carnal lust. They looked hungry for blood…

“Ooh, I think I see him!” the shithead teen announced in his pissy high-pitched voice.

My eyes drifted over toward the very top left-hand corner of the screen. And there I saw a small window showing me in the dark basement. A live stream I couldn’t hide from.

“This is gonna be good!” I heard another teenager say.

“It better be, I paid good money for this shit!” the bald guy bitched.

At the bottom of the screen, I noticed a chat box overflowing with comments. Messages like Get him! Kill that bitch! Even casual jokes were being thrown in there about Nichole. Too bad those tits went to waste! She still look good tho.

And then I saw the name of the site I was on. It wasn’t Skype. It wasn’t Omega. No… it was LiveKills. Real Live Kills Streaming. See All The Blood, All The Time.

The address didn’t even look familiar. No .com or .org. This was Deep Web shit. The shit all those creepypastas warned you about but no one ever actually believed.

“Ooh, here he comes!” that same little shit squealed, his high-pitched voice reaching the annoying heights of a shrill alarm.

I looked back at the live stream of me. Even in the small window, I could make out that creepy ski mask emerging through the basement’s darkness. The glimmer of the killer’s long butcher knife reflected off the laptop’s screen. I heard the crowd “ooh” and “awe” in excitement from every window. They were ready for the show.

EDIT: Thankfully, the show was brief. I managed to dodge the ski mask asshole’s first swing before he went flying against the laptop, knocking all his shit over. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if the killer was a guy. It could’ve been a girl I fucked with for all I know. And honestly (maybe hopefully), I’ll probably never know. I ran crying like a little bitch to the nice cop. But the killer was gone by the time we got in. Instead, all was left was their note. HERES EVEN MORE ATTENTION STUD. The cops took it. But I ain’t heard shit from them. And while the note may not have stopped me from sexting time-to-time, the words and its hideous writing have stayed with me.