“When I read back through my journals from that time, although I can see traces of myself in some of the entries, most of it sounds like the thoughts of an entirely different person,” I told Harry, my best man, frat buddy, toilet-papering partner. “I can’t believe I wrote this, let alone did these things, too grotesque. Is that the right word?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, man. There is some pretty sick shit in here. Have you shown these to anyone else?”

“Nah. Nobody. I didn’t know what to do when I found them. I mean, they’re my handwriting and all, but this thing says I killed a couple people each night.” I turn to a page smeared with dirt and hold it open for both of us to read, although I’ve read the whole thing through a couple of times. “Like this one here:”

‘Fourth night in a row camping in the forest near Yosemite, Bridalveil Falls campground.

Shortly after nightfall, I hiked over the hill and down into the campground. There is a sacred energy that is released when I take a life, and I have missed it dearly since last night. The campsite tonight was in the corner of a curve, like many are. This site has two tents - one larger, obviously the master tent and one smaller, probably with children, usually just one child sleeps with his parents.

I start with the child’s tent, knowing that they are more likely to scream if startled. I must do him first. A freshly-opened box cutter sliced nicely through the siding of the tent. Feet to the sides of the blue sleeping bag, I hovered over the small boy, ten years old, eleven maybe, and brave, sleeping by himself. With similar exacting slices, I covered his mouth with my hand and quickened the incision across his throat. I paused for a moment for him to stop the struggle and realize no air was coming for him tonight.

I proceeded to the master tent, usually easier. I have this down clean, this process. I doubt anyone will find these people for days. All the tags on their posts are paid until at least a week from now. It was with the same ease I entered the side of their tent to find mother and father I assumed in a double sleeping bag. The air mattress they probably filled with a bicycle or a car battery-powered pump will be a soft grave, for a few days anyway. It really depended on the quality of their mattress.

This was more difficult, moreso than the prior days. The father began to stir, forcing me to do him first. I’ve learned that the men are usually deeper sleepers. I always slept much more soundly than my wife. Same method, hand over the mouth, box cutter across the throat, left to right. The wife began to stir, her husband not done with his last life sputter. I moved on to the wife, my worry about her screams more intense and driving than my consideration for the man’s dying movements. She was not as strong, expectedly, and was quieted in mere moments.

I pinned up the sides of both of the tents and slipped into the forest just as I had entered, my moccasins leaving no record of my visit.’

“I don’t think I should be reading these, seriously,” he shuddered, pushing himself a few inches, maybe a foot, away from the table we sat at in the corner of the café.

“For godssake, what do I do with them?” I realized finally that these were my hand, the logic displayed by the writing made so much sense in my head, too much. Abject fear flooded my skin, chasing out all the crimson from the journals, the traces I saw of myself in ink, the confessions of a man not himself but yet still very himself.