Killer Fiction Novels & Stories

His leg bent the wrong way as he collapsed screaming, bone jutting through skin. I watched, unable to look away. Hilda was a killer. Not just someone who could kill—someone who had killed many times before. Killing was as natural to her as breathing. She didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch at the blood. Didn't show any emotion as she ended lives one after another. But there were too many. For every rogue that fell, two more took their place. And Rennick was recovering, his face already healing as he circled the fray.

Art added coolly. The police exchanged looks, then nodded. “Thank you. That will be all for now.” After they left, Hilda turned to Art. “What was that about?” Art replied quietly, “Someone killed the four men who harassed you.” Hilda froze. “Who… Who would do something like that?” Art confirmed what he had learned just hours ago—Aron was the one responsible. Khan had seen everything and reported it to him. At first, Aron ignored the harassers when they crossed paths, but something in him must have snapped after he saw Hilda crying.

With a powerful jerk, he hurled the gray wolf into the air; the sickening crack of bones on impact confirmed his death. Without hesitation, Killian snapped the brown wolf’s neck between his teeth, ending the fight with one final, guttural growl. Then, he wiped the blood from his muzzle with his foreleg, his chest rising and falling heavily as his gaze swept over the lifeless rogues. Low growls still rumbled from his throat, his breath heavy through his nostrils as his dangerous gaze now shifted to the woman who always managed to make him feel miserable—because she never stopped putting herself in danger.

The entanglement of his muscular legs with hers seemed to create an inescapable web, effectively trapping her naked form. Yet, with each passing moment, the embrace began to suffocate her, squeezing the air out of her lungs and serving as a constant reminder of the horrors that had unfolded. It was a chilling reminder of the atrocities committed by these very hands, the countless lives that had been mercilessly killed. The weight of their actions pressed heavily upon her, a burden that seemed impossible to shake. Killian Schmidt, she whispered in her heart, a name that dripped with darkness and despair.

Fueled by old rage, I emptied more bullets into the self-proclaimed legitimate asshole of the Kins family. Gunpowder and blood filled the air. The sounds of gunshots, bones cracking, and screams;somehow, it was all therapeutic. The smell of violence. I continued to aim, breaking bones with precision. If I had the time, I would slow their deaths;dragging them into agony. Slow and painful was always the best punishment for insignificant humans who killed for pleasure. The Kins Factor wasn’t the worst anyway. The Each Sage Factor was the real master of all this. I don’t go after enemies who don’t disturb my sleep.

“Because of you.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Barely.” We stood in silence again. This one is different. Not angry. Just… full of everything unsaid. “I went out to the border this morning,” I said eventually, shifting the weight of the conversation. “With Kira and Valerie. Remember?” He nodded. “Aleksander briefed me.” “Well, he didn’t see what I saw.” I met Viktor’s gaze again. “The kill style. The symbols carved into the bodies. The branding. The wires. The mutilation—it wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Surgical.”

Kai An onslaught of morbid emotions corrodes every cell in my body, and I think my humanity must have broken from how murderous I'm seething. I leaned back in my chair, arsenic flooding my veins, with the smoky sting of nicotine fogging my senses. I had killed once in self-defense, but maybe it was time to rekindle old sins. Not with survival, but taking my time, slow and steady, and picking out every strand of arteries inside those motherf**kers, until they bleed dry, and arranging their bones in alphabetical order.

The smoke disappeared into the air. The candles and incenses were lit on the table to create a flicker in the breeze blowing through the kitchen. She placed the crystals in the oven. Red for blood, fire, violence, health and danger. Orange for change and yellow for mourning. Black for evil and dark. She began stirring the crystals in the oven with a wooden spoon as she chanted a spell. The oven became so hot the spoon began to catch fire. She reached over to the sink and filled a glass with water. She propelled the glass of water onto the fire. The steam spelled out Slaughter Hill. The spell was completed.

My mother, Samantha, believed I was born a liar. Because she was deceived by my father's sweet words in her youth and abandoned after giving birth to me and my sister, Mia, she harbored a deep, bitter hatred for lies. She begged a witch for two magic rings. The rule was simple: if the wearer lied, the ring would glow red and burn them with magic. Mia's ring never hurt her, even when she broke a vase and blamed it on me. But if I simply said, "I'm thirsty," my ring would sear my flesh until I screamed. At first, I tried to defend myself, but Mom would just say, "The ring doesn't lie. Only through repeated punishment can your wicked soul be cleansed." After thousands of burns, even I started t

The next second, the heavy rubber sole of his dress shoe stepped directly onto it. On screen, his lips moved. “Just apologize to your mother first,” he was telling the heavy wood. Inside the living room, no one spoke. The silence was suffocating. The detective reached into his folder and pulled out the preliminary toxicology sheet forwarded by the hospital. "The chemical analysis of the residue inside the nebulizer container confirmed the presence of a concentrated, chlorine-based industrial cleaner," the detective stated flatly. "By dumping the contaminated fluid, the victim’s actions directly prevented the infant from inhaling lethal chemicals."