Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - There’s a Killer in My Apartment Complex, and It Might Be Me

Episode Date: November 17, 2025

When a charming neighbor finally notices him, a lonely man thinks he’s found love—until dinner is served and he learns he’s not the only one keeping trophies in the freezer. Over 80 exclusive bonus episodes are waiting for you. Unlock them now on my Patreon: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep ⁠NoSleep Coffee⁠: Get 20% off your first order with code NOSLEEP20 at checkout. ⁠⁠⁠ Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One:⁠ ⁠https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV⁠⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's the way she moves that draws me in. There's a certain sway to her hips. She keeps her legs tight and shoulders straight when she walks. So those swaying hips become an instant focus. They send a lot of coupons, don't they? She says to me, as we stand at the wall of mailboxes in our apartment complex lobby. Does anyone ever use coupons anymore? Seems like a waste of paper.

Confused. She's a knockout. A hundred on a side. scale of one to ten. Me, I'm average at best, and easily a decade older than she is. I'm sorry, are you talking to me? Well, yeah, she replies, but not unkindly. She looks around, copying my mannerisms perfectly. I don't see anyone else in the lobby. Except for Daryl, I say, and point at the security guard sleeping behind a curved desk close to the elevators. Oh, right. Darryl. She smiles. You know, come to think of it. I'm not sure I've ever seen Daryl awake,

have you? He wakes up on holidays when folks bring him presents and treats and tips. Her smile widens and she laughs. It's the sound equivalent of her swaying hips. Rhythmic, melodic, impossible not to notice. That's funny. You're funny. My confusion grows. Is she actually engaging in conversation with me? I mean, it seems like she's almost flirting. I shrug and pull the rest of my mail out of my box, tucking it under my arm as I pick up the small cooler at my feet. I'm Basie, she holds out her hand. I shake her hand, almost dropping my mail from its place stuffed in my armpit. Her skin is warm and soft. No calluses or signs she does much manual labor. My hand is the complete opposite, very callous and rough from years of masonry work and other construction jobs.

I don't do as much work as I used to, now that I'm management, but I still get my hands dirty on occasion. Well, you aren't an accountant, are you? She says, and laughs that hip-swain laugh. Construction, I say. Masonry, mostly stone and brick. Oh, wow, that's cool. I bet you get to work on all kinds of cool projects. Sometimes, I shrug again, then realize we're still holding hands.

I let mine fall away and take the mail out from under my arm as I raise the cooler. Well, I better get up to my apartment before my ice cream melts. I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Excuse me? Can't let me do what? Leave before you tell me your name. You know mine. What's yours? Oh. I chuckle.

An embarrassed chuckle. Uh, Crabtree. Danny Crabtree. And what's in the cooler, Danny Crabtree? Groceries. Do you usually take a cooler to the store when you shop? Sometimes. She laughs, and traces her fingers down my arm.

I'm on the sixth floor. You? Fourth. It's funny we've never run into each other before. I don't tell her that we've run into each other at the mailboxes plenty of time. Not to mention the laundry room, on the elevator, coming in or out of the building in the parking garage. Oh, I know how many times I've watched those swaying hips walk away without even a glance in my direction. Too many times to count. All of that seems trivial now since she's talking to me, though.

Maybe we'll run into each other at one of the complex's mixers. I frown. The what? The mixers. Haven't you heard? They're going to start hosting little social mixers where they'll have free cocktails and hors d'oeuvres for residents while also inviting prospective new tenants. People from the outside will be there too? Yeah, I guess there have been more vacancies than usual, and they want to fill up the empty apartments.

What better way than for people to talk and get to no current residents? I, uh, don't really socialize much. Well, you should try to do it more often. Get out of your shell a little. Shell? Why do you think I'm in a shell? Her smile falters slightly. Um, I wasn't trying to insult you.

You just seem a little reserved. You didn't insult me. I say way too fast as I tried to fix the situation. I just didn't realize I acted like I was in a shell as all. She looks around the lobby. Totally. She says. And I can tell she's lost interest in me.

I'll see you around. And, uh, Danny Crabtree. Yes, right. See you around, Danny Crabtree. She hips ways to the elevators, which is where I need to go too. But she's already blown me off, so there's no way I'm riding up with her. See you around, I say, and wave as I turn my body, acting like I'm heading in a different direction. Once the doors close, I hurry past the curved desk and the sleeping darrell, and press the up by

hoping I timed it right and the doors don't open to reveal Bacy. When they open onto an empty elevator car, I exhale and get on the elevator, turning quickly to press the button for the sixth floor. Hold that, please. A woman shouts, and I hear heels, clacking hurriedly toward the elevator. I prefer to ride alone, but I do the polite thing and hold the elevator door for the woman. I've seen her around. I think she's a lawyer.

She certainly dressed like one when she rushes into the elevator. Thanks, she says, slightly out of breath. The doors close, and she presses the button for the eighth floor. We ride in perfectly normal, uncomfortable silence for the first two floors. What's that smell? She asks, looking down to my cooler. What do you happen there? I'm ready for these kinds of questions.

It's not the first time I've been asked this. Tripe, I say. Fresh, too. TRIE. You mean cow's stomach? It's the lining of the stomach. And I use goat, which is why it may be a little more pungent than cow tripe. Isn't that used in like Latin cooking?

She looks me up and down. Don't take this the wrong way. But you don't look Latino. Really? I say and laugh. I'm as pale as a redhead can get. Are you cooking Minuto? I dated a guy who used to make Minuto.

It was his grandmother's recipe. I bet that was delicious. that that was delicious. It was. She leans in. So is he. She laughs as the bell dings and the doors open onto my floor. Good luck with your cooking, she says,

waving as I step off the elevator and the doors close behind me. Two resident interactions in one day is almost too much to deal with. So I'm more than grateful when I'm safely back in my apartment behind a locked and bolted door. I toss my keys on the side table and take my cooler into the. the kitchen. Setting it in front of the fridge, I clicked the handle and open the top, revealing the results of my shopping excursion. She was 24, about 5'3 foot 3, maybe 130 pounds. I believe her name was Nikki. I pull her head out of the cooler, careful to only raise it up and not to the side, so that the congealing blood drips back into the cooler and not onto my kitchen tile.

holding her in both hands, I turned the head back and forth, studying it closely. The lack of perfect symmetry is slightly disappointing. I should have caught that before I caught her, but these situations are rarely perfect. Despite all of my planning and preparation, there is a lot of improvisation when kidnapping and dismembering a grown woman. You didn't have to kill me, the head says. Yeah, I kind of did. I reply and open the freezer door.

We heard that. The first head on the right says, Jenny, a nice woman I tracked and butchered about three weeks ago. You can stop any time you want, Danny. Yeah, Danny, you can stop. The head next to her agrees. Allison, she was two weeks ago and not an easy kill. The woman was so busy with work and life

that finding a moment alone with her was a challenge. I like a challenge, though. Leave them be, guys. The third head says, Melanie. She played softball on a neighborhood league. I caught her as she was loading her gear into her station wagon. From what I could tell, she had kids. Still does.

They just don't have her. You'd say that, Jenny barks at Melanie. You're his favorite. I don't have favorites, I say and shove Jenny to the left, so I can fit Nikki in beside her. Melanie has been here the longest, which gives her seniority. Oh, for what? Jenny scoffs.

Is she queen of the permafrost? Lady of the ice cubes. Allison adds. You guys sound fun. Nikki says, as I get her head settled. I'm Nikki. I close the freezer door and let the heads get acquainted. When I open the fridge to grab a beer, Rachel shouts.

So, are you going to cook me or what? I've been in here thawing for two whole days, Danny. I'm going to throw you in the stockpot first thing in the morning. I say, and pluck a cold one from the fridge door. I'm thinking chilly once I boil you down and separate out all the flesh from the other stuff. Other stuff like hair and bone and cartilage and teeth and... Yeah, that stuff. I say and close the door.

She's still in there prattling on as I pop my beer open and take a long, satisfying swallow. I'm hungry, but don't feel like cooking. I'd get DoorDash or something, but I'm not 100% sure that the head's voices are only in my mind. I assume I'm the only one who can hear them, but that assumption could get me into a lot of trouble if I'm wrong. And it's not exactly like I can invite a neighbor over and ask, Do you hear women's voices coming from my fridge and freezer? That might get me into a lot of trouble, too. So I pop some microwave popcorn, grab an apple and orange off the breakfast bar that separates my kitchen from my living room, and head to my little sanctuary. Picture this. It's late at night.

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com slash dns that's shopify dot com slash d ns once in my bedroom i go to the back of my closet and shove the clothes to the side revealing a desk set up with a 4k monitor and a solid broadband connection my little setup gives me access to thousands of security and surveillance cameras around the city i can watch bank tellers at work moms at home feeding their kids postal workers delivering packages even body cam footage of police arrests. I have access to all of it. As I shove a handful of popcorn into my mouth, I boot up my system and wait for the desktop to come alive. Having just procured Nikki, I am now on the hunt for my next target. I enter a few commands and stick the search protocol on the unsuspecting masses. The system now looks for someone like Jenny or Allison or

Melanie or Rachel, or the new girl, Nikki. Five minutes later, my computer ding, and a list of promising targets populates my screen as little squares in a grid of camera views. I don't necessarily have a specific physical type, as much as I have a set of parameters that have to be met in order for a candidate to become a legitimate target. The woman needs to be single, but single moms are fine. She needs to work or live somewhere that is off the beaten path. She needs to be constantly preoccupied, but can't have too many social commitments where she'll be missed immediately. Melanie was an outlier. I hadn't done my proper homework. I didn't

realize she had kids until I snatched her. They were with their dad on an extended vacation, so it was an easy mistake to make. I won't make that mistake again. But I suppose that if you have to narrow me down, you could say that a target has to have that special something in the way she walks. I have a thing for movement. It must be like what a cat experiences, always alert to whatever is moving around them, but only focuses on what they can catch, what they can kill, what they can eat. I munch and sip, my eyes flitting across the screen, studying each square it's produced for my next target. They may seem like victims, but they aren't really. These women need me. They need something to spice up their lives, even if that spice only lasts for a few seconds

before they bleed out or suffocate. The method of their death all depends on my mood that day. Not that my different killing methods have helped me any with the cops. No. The police connected the dots due to the fact all of the women are missing their heads. It's a little obvious. What's this? What is the system found? I set the popcorn and beer aside and lean in close, studying the third window from the bottom, two rows in. Hello, miss, I mutter as I click and zoom, bringing that square to the forefront, then letting it consume the entire monitor. Oh, she's perfect. Look at those legs move. See how she shifts and slides and maneuvers her way through life. My God, she's magnificent.

I take down the location from the camera ID on my handy notepad and let out a long, satisfied breath. What a stroke of luck. Sometimes it can take me days to hunt down a new one. Sure, I could plan ahead and have my targets lined up, picking them off one after the other. But that feels so assembly line, and I'm more of a bespoke killer. I like to have a target reveal herself to me. I like to get slightly frustrated when the process takes too long. Sometimes I can be searching for months and months, and my desire just build. and builds, so when the act finally happens, I'm in pure ecstasy. It's quite a rush, I have to say. It's what gets me going in the morning and lets me sleep soundly at night. With my work done,

I grab my popcorn and beer, close up my closet, and head into the living room for a movie. I surf around until I find Mary Poppins. Oh, I do love me some Mary Poppins. But about ten minutes into it, Jenny and Melanie get into a fight, and their muffled shouts just ruin the movie for me. I'm going to bed, I call out as I turn the TV off. Try to play nice, please, okay? They can't hear me over there arguing. When I wake up the next morning, I'm too tired and groggy to bother with Rachel. I'll throw her in the pot after work and let her simmer overnight.

I probably need more garlic anyway for the broth, so I'll swing by the grocery store on my way home. Then I see the piece of paper sitting on my kitchen counter. The new girl. All groginess is cleared up in a heartbeat, as I realize that making a good broth out of Rachel's head is the least of my duties right now. I've got in-person surveillance to do. I need to research her habits, her lifestyle, her friends, and personal connections. Her roots to and from work. Where she shops, where she gets her coffee in the morning, where she goes on dates.

If she does date, I need to know it all before I pounce. With a new spring in my step, I get ready for work and head out. Hello, Danny Crabtree. Bacy says as soon as the elevator doors open. Coming down? Yeah. I say as I step on to the elevator and stand off to the side of her. Um, good morning.

It is, isn't it? She says, and beams at me. Then her smile falters. Are you all right, Danny? You look a little tired. I didn't sleep well. Oh, that's too bad. Personally, I slept like a baby.

Babies don't sleep much, and I don't need much sleep. Always so much to do, you know? So much to think about and wonder about and worry about and, well, you get the picture. I do, yeah. Anything special planned this weekend? What? This weekend? Do you have any plans?

It's Wednesday. I know, I was just asking. She holds her hands up in mock defense. Not trying to butt in or anything. I'm sure you have a rich social life. I shrug. Sometimes. So, plans or no plans?

Maybe some plans, I say, thinking of my new target. I'll probably be following her around the city most of the weekend, or spying on her at her house or apartment, if she's a homebody. I do love the beginning of the hunt. All the newness and fresh sights. A warmth spreads in my middle, as I think of it. about what discoveries I'll make about this new woman. Damn, Danny. She must be something special.

What? Who? I snap. I must have said it way too forcefully, because Bacy recoils slightly. Sorry. Never mind, she says, a little offended. You just had a look on your face like you were thinking of someone. She starts to turn away, then stops and snaps her fingers. Oh, how dumb of me. I said she, and it could totally have been a he you were thinking of of, I'm so sorry for assuming. No, no, it's not a he.

I say quickly. And sorry I snapped. You caught me off guard. I was thinking of an old flame. The one that got away? Yeah. Not that any have ever gotten away. But I'm playing a bit of fiction now, so I just nod.

It would have been our anniversary this weekend. Now, why the hell did I say that? Playing fiction and piling it on are two different things. The key to survival when you lie is to keep the details to a minimum. And here I am, creating the foundation of an entire story, an entire life. The elevator stops and the doors open. Vacy brushes my arm with her fingertips and steps out. Um, listen, if you weren't doing anything Friday evening, do you want to go with me to the first mixer?

My God, this woman has an uncanny ability to pull the rug out from under me with everything she says. Friday? I stammer. Are you free? Or will you be away in your apartment with a box of wine and a carton of ice cream? She smiles coily. Sorry. That's how I deal with sad feelings over old exes.

I'm sure you have your own process. Friday would be great. Yeah. That sounds great. Well, great. She says and gives me a wink. The mixer is down here in the lobby. I think it starts at six.

But let's say we meet around. seven, best to be fashionably late. Fashionably late. Yeah, yeah. Um, great. She laughs slyly and gives me a wave. Bye, Danny Crabtree. Great. We already have our own inside joke. I watch her hips sway across the lobby until the elevator doors close on me. I'm so stunned by her invitation that I don't notice as the elevator begins to rise. When the doors open, an older couple steps on, and wishes me good morning. I do the same and ride back down to the lobby with them. The image of Bacy's hips swaying is the only thing my mind can focus on. It's an image I can't get out of my head. I'm so distracted at work that I probably cause more problems than I solve.

By the time lunch comes around, I almost decide not to head to the diner where my new target works. But I don't deviate from my plan. It's not like I can do anything about my newfound obsession. Bacy lives in my apartment complex, and if there's one rule to live by when it comes to what I do, it's that you don't shit where you live. It'd be an instant spotlight that I wouldn't be able to avoid. If I were to act on my urges toward Bacy, then that would be the beginning of the end. And I am far from ready for my fun to end. The diner is a hole in the wall that's only a few blocks for my current job site,

which makes it a little tricky. Most of the guys eat lunch on site, having brought food from home, the company I work for barely pays a livable wage. But, of course, there is always a chance that someone will get a hankering for a hot cheeseburger or steaming cup of soup. And from what I can tell by the menu, this place has both. What can I get you, hon? My new Target asks me, as she approaches the corner booth I'm tucked into.

Our lunch special is loaf and mashed. Loaf and mashed? Meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Oh, right. Yeah, sure. That sounds good. Anything to drink? Coke?

We got Pepsi. That'll be fine. One special in a Pepsi coming up. She walks off, and I have to restrain myself from staring at her hips as she sways away. Unfortunately, she pales in comparison to Basie. I shake my head, trying to get my neighbor's image out of my mind. She's ruining the surge of feelings I should be filled with over the sight of this new girl. I need to focus.

One of my other rules has never be seen in the same place as a target more than once. I know this diner has cameras in here, so when the police go to review the footage, they need to see me once and only once. There can be no pattern of appearances followed by a disappearance after the deed is done. Yes, I could go to more elaborate lengths and decide to make myself irregular here. Then when I come in after she's missing, I can worry and fret like everyone else. but that's playing a very dangerous game. Danny? Oh my God, it is you.

I snapped to attention, bringing my focus on the person standing next to my booth. Bacy? Wow! What a weird coincidence! She says, smiling down at me. I've never seen you here before. Um, yeah, no, I, uh, yeah. This is my first time. She tosses her purse into the booth and sits down across for me.

Have you already ordered? Um, yes, I got the special. I say and snop my fingers a few times. Um, something about loaves and mush. The meatloaf and mashed potatoes? Oh, no, no, no. You do not want the loaf and mash, not from here. Bacy raises her hand and waves wildly.

Excuse me, miss? The waitress comes over. What can I get you, hon? Has his lunch already been made? My new target frowns and glances over her shoulder before looking back at Bacy. Probably not. Good. Cancel the special for him. We're both going to have the steak and cheese sandwich, double provolone, melted with fries. She smiles at me, reaches across the table and pats my hand. Did you order a drink?

Pepsi, she shakes her head. Do you like it sweet? Because they mix it sweet here. I don't really care. She shrugs. That's fine. I'll have a ginger ale under water, please. Sure thing, hon. I'll get that right in. The only thing that keeps me from watching the waitress's hips is the fact that Basie's hand is still on mine. I look at the hand, then at her, and smile. She returns my smile with double intensity.

I'm sorry, I say and try to casually slip my hand free. She doesn't seem to mind and puts her hand in her lap. But I have to ask. Why are you all of a sudden talking to me? Then ask, she laughs, and my insides turn to warm, happy jelly. I'm just plain. Is there a reason I shouldn't talk to you? Her hand is back on mine and squeezing hard as she leans across the table. You aren't dangerous, are you? Should I be worried?

Answer her, you fool? Answer fast. No, you shouldn't be worried. Not about me. Never. She gives my hand a squeeze and leans back. Why am I suddenly talking to you when we've lived in the same apartment complex together for a couple of years now? Because I've been watching you, Danny, and you seem like a good guy. I could use a good guy in my life. I tend to collect the bad ones, so someone like you is refreshing. Different.

Different. A echo. That's me, all right. That's not a bad thing. If you were the same as everyone else, I wouldn't have wanted to talk to you. Now it's like fate. We can't seem to avoid each other. This morning in the elevator, now at lunch, and we have a date for Friday night.

Date? Yeah, silly, a date. We're meeting at the mixer. It'll be like an appetizer before the main date. Main date? Dear Lord, this woman has my mind spinning like a whirlwind. I try to laugh my shock off. So exactly how many dates are we going on?

Well, I was thinking that if things go well at the mixer, maybe you could come upstairs for dinner. I make a mean Osabuco. I love Osabuco, I blurt out. It's true. I do love Osubuko. Except I make mine a little differently. Sometimes, when I'm feeling sassy, I'll bring home not just the head, but a leg too,

and turn it into shanks. But that's rare. Transporting a full leg isn't as easy as sticking a severed head in a cooler. Great! Then we'll make the main date official right now. Drinks and naps at the mixer, then my place for dinner and dessert. What's for dessert? I am having such a great time with Basie that I want to keep playing and pretend

forever. And it is playing and pretending. It's not like she's really into me. Good guy or not. This woman could be with a high-powered lawyer or stockbroker or even professional athlete. She's leagues above me. There's no real future for us. What's wrong? She asks. You want to wait for a second there? Oh, nothing. Just a busy day at work, I say and smile. I hear that. She wipes her forehead and flicks her hand like she's mopping up imaginary sweat. My day is slammed. I barely had time to sneak away for a bite. The waitress brings our drinks. Sandwiches will be right out. I don't even glance at her hips as she leaves. My eyes are on Basie and how she takes her straw and slides it into her mouth, sucking half the ginger

ale up in one long draw. By the time our sandwiches are put in front of us and we've chowed them down, I barely even notice my new target. All I can see is Basie. When lunch is over, we say a quick goodbye outside the diner. She even leans in and gives me a peck on my cheek. I stand there, stunned, and watch her walk all the way down the block. I don't move from my spot until she turns the corner and is lost from sight. Lucky man. A guy says to me as he comes out of the diner.

Don't let her get away, pal. I don't plan on it. The rest of the day at work is a disaster. I screw half of my duties up, and have to call my boss to explain that it's my fault we're behind for the day. I think I'm coming down with a bug or something, and tell him. Stay home tomorrow, Danny. He responds.

You've been working hard, and it's better you rest and are out for a day than get worse, and are out for a week. Okay, yeah, I think I'll do that, thanks. When I get back to the apartment complex, I hope to see Bacey in the lobby, but she's not there. I fetch my mail and hope to see her on the elevator. But again, she's not there. I almost think about accidentally riding the elevator to the sixth floor in hopes of catching a glimpse of her near her apartment. Which is stupid.

Why would she just be standing around outside her apartment? Maybe I should just go knock on her door? Except, I don't know which apartment is hers. I guess I could ask Daryl where she... Christ! What am I thinking? I can't ask Daryl where she lives. I can't go knock on her apartment? Damn, this woman has me all mixed up.

When I get home and grab a beer out of my fridge, Rachel screams. You said you would cook me! Looks like you're going to drink instead! Typical man! Making promises he can't keep! You are nothing but a worthless! I slam the fridge door and walk away from her tirade. Sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it.

The women are perfect in the beginning, but once I have their heads in my fridge or freezer, they just turn so bitchy. I down my beer, brave Rachel's wrath for a bit of a bit of a bit of. a second one and head to my closet. I settle in and track my new target. She works until seven, then walks down the street to the bus stop, which is perfect. Bus riders are the easiest to get to without anyone noticing. The cameras on her bus are broken or offline, so I have to track

the bus itself using street cams. The entire time, I'm thinking of Bacy, not the new girl. Bacy, Bacy, Bacy, Bacy. I almost don't see my new target get off the bus on 8th Street, but she drops her purse, which gets my attention as she bends over to pick it up. I must not be the only one watching her, because she stands up quickly and turns and shouts at the bus, flipping someone off as it pulls away from the curb. Her apartment is in a quadplex a block away. That's as much as I can see.

There are no cameras inside the quad or anywhere near it, except for a street. street cam on the corner of her block, which is a good thing. Off the beaten path is my preference, but barely surveilled is my second choice. I finish off my beer and decide to make it an early night. No point in going and watching TV. The heads will just ruin it. Thursday morning is a slog. I sleep in a little, but my mind won't leave me alone, so I get up, shower, and make some eggs. Rachel gives me the silent treatment, which is a little. nice. I eat my eggs while I track my new target. Or don't track her, because she doesn't go anywhere until around 11. Then she's off to work. I watch her work the lunch rush, then

actually start to get bored. Okay, I'm sorry, I say to Rachel when I open the fridge and remove the tray her thawed head sits in. I set her in the tray on the counter. I'm going to boil you up now. It's about time, she says pouting. Another day, and I would have spoiled Danny. I know, I know. Said I was sorry. Muffled shouting comes from the freezer. It's my turn! Melanie yells when I open the freezer door. If she's getting cooked, then it's my turn to be thought next.

For what? Allison asks. You have like no meat on those cheeks. What's he going to make with you? Tapas? Jenny and Nikki Gaffa at Allison's joke. Ladies, stop. I say and pull Melanie's head out. She's right. It's her turn next.

See you, bitches! Melanie cries as I close the freezer and set her head in the sink. Whoa, what's this shit? I only have the one thawing tray. Let me get Rachel prepped, and in the pot. Then I'll transfer you to the tray. You better wash it first. I don't want none of those cooties that skank has.

Fuck you! Rachel shouts from the counter, glaring down into the sink at Melanie. He's going to make chili with my head meat. What's he going to do with you? Make tapas? Oh my God. Can you be less original? The ladies bicker as I hurry to chop the onions and garlic for the broth.

Fill my stock pot with water, add a heaping handful of salt and good amount of crushed pepper, then plop Rachel in and turn the element up to high. What? You couldn't have used warm water to start. Rachel complains. Don't worry, sweetie. It'll get plenty hot in there for you. Just you wait, Eleni says, laughing. The rest of the day is a haze. I need to watch my new target, but thoughts of Bacy get in the way.

Not to mention Rachel's constant commentary as her head boils and the flesh and hair comes free. I'm barely paying attention when I take her head out, pick off the meat, strain the liquid, then move her flesh and the broth to a new pot to simmer down. I don't even reply when her picked, clean skull starts in on me about how I used too much pepper. By the time everything is done, I'm exhausted. I stuff Rachel's skull into my trash, knowing it'll be pulverized to dust by Monday. when I throw the bag into the compactor in the basement. Then I brush my teeth and hit the hay.

All night long, I dream of Bacy. Bacy laughing. Bacy touching my hand. Bacy brushing my arm. Bacy's hips as they sway and sway and sway. It's nothing but Bacy for hours. Friday's work is a blur. I don't think I messed anything up, but I'm not sure. When quitting time hits,

I decline an invitation to go get some beers with the guys, saying I have a date. I laugh at the wolf whistles and catcalls, waving to the crew as I leave the job site. Back in my apartment, I rush around so fast to get ready that I sweat through the first shirt I put on. I have to take a cold shower to cool down and get myself under control. Refreshed, I dress in a new shirt, check myself in the mirror, frown at what I see, look at my phone, and take a deep breath.

I have just enough time to get downstairs and meet Basie for our fashionably late entrance. But when I get down there, I don't see Basie anywhere. Residents I know in passing smile and try to chat me up, but I am so preoccupied with waiting for Basie to come out of the elevator that most people soon walk away from me to find more stimulating conversation. 8 o'clock. 9 o'clock. Still no Bacy.

Then the elevator opens, and there she is. and she is absolutely stunning. Dressed in a sequined cocktail dress that stops about mid-thigh, I actually touch my chin to make sure my jaw isn't hanging open. If it was, my tongue would have rolled out and across the floor like some cartoon wolf. Hi, Danny, she says when she walks up to me. Sorry I'm late. I got behind on my dinner prep, but it's all ready. if you want to get out of this place and come upstairs.

You just got here. And now I'm ready to leave. With you. Yeah, that sounds great. She smiles at our inside joke. I down my drink and set the empty on one of the tall tables the complex set up for the mixer. In seconds, we're alone in the elevator. She takes my hand.

I shiver all over. Her apartment number is 615. Instantly, that becomes my favorite number. I plan on getting a pick three lotto ticket in the morning with six and one and five being my numbers. If my luck holds out, maybe I'll end up rich and get the girl. And not some girl I stalk and track and hunt and kill. No, the only girl I want is Basie. And for a surprising change, not to murder and eat.

I just want to be with her. You have the same apartment model as me, I say when we enter her place. How do you like it? It does what it needs to do, she says. Care for some wine? Sure. White or red. We're having also buco, so probably red.

You know how to pair your wine with your food. Lovely. She pours us both generous glassfuls of wine, handing me mine as she sips hers. Her eyes watching me over the rim of the glass. I sip mine and smile. This is good. I hope it's not too expensive.

I need to waste the spendy stuff on me. Don't worry about that and just drink up. She sips hers again, then sets the glass on her kitchen counter. I'm going to slip into something more comfortable if you don't mind. You look great now, but yeah, get comfortable. You're sweet. She walks to her bedroom door, turns and smiles at me, then has gone from sight. I look about the place, family pictures, knick-knacks, all the usual stuff.

Smells great, I call out. Thanks. She yells from her bedroom. I'll only be a second. How are you doing up there? Fine, fine, I say. But then realize that maybe I'm not so fine. My face is starting to feel flushed, and I'm having a hard time focusing my eyes.

This wine is strong, I say, but I don't know if she hears me or not. Oh, that's not the wine. She says when she comes out of her bedroom, I stare at her, confused. Uh, what's, what's with the, uh, the... I fall to a knee, and my wine glass slips from my fingers. It only drops a foot, so it doesn't break.

But what wine is left spills across the floor and soaks into the knee of my slacks. Bacy is dressed in scrubs, with a full plastic apron over her, and safety goggles on top of her head. She walks past me and into the kitchen. I'm glad you like how the Asubuco smells, she says as I slowly fall onto my side, my eyes watching her move about the kitchen. I wasn't sure how it would turn out. The meat I used came from this total asshole. Sometimes that matters.

Sometimes it doesn't. Tonight, it smells like it doesn't. I try to ask her what's happening, but I can't move. I'm totally frozen. From the tips of my toes to the top of my head, I can barely blink. I didn't really drink from my wine if you are wondering. That was for show. I'm more of a white gal anyway.

I can feel my heartbeat slowing. Slowing. Slowing. Is this what it's like for my victims? The fear and terror mixed with complete helplessness? It's delicious. When I realized who you are and what you do, I just knew I had to collect you.

She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine. The man's head sitting on the shelf in there frowns at me and says, Dude, you are so fucked. Then my eyes start to close as Bacy walks toward me, swirling the white wine straight from the bottle. My last thought is not anger towards Bacy, but how disappointed I am I'll never see those hips sway again or taste that Osobuko.

Bacy, Bacy, Bacy, Baysi. She's just perfect. To hear more stories like this, be sure to hit subscribe and turn notifications on. I'll see you in the next one.