The Morning Killer was not his real name, no, although he wished it were. It was simply the name he had given himself after he committed his first crime at the age of fifteen when he killed the old couple at dawn on a Monday morning in September.

Now forty, he prided himself on his abilities. On the street, he could pass for anyone. No one suspected a damn thing. There was only one word to describe the sun-kissed Grecian. Where his eyes were the green of fresh dew glinting in the sunlight off a leaf of green emerald. His lips were pale and thin and his nose slender and rounded. A prominent jaw curved gracefully around and the strength of his neck showed in the twining cords of muscle that shaped his entire body; strong arms, bold thighs and calves, a firm chest and abdomen. He was an Adonis among the other men who each pale in comparison. One look and both women and men swooned at the sight of him no matter their sexual preferences and one word passed from his lips had even the straightest of men flushing shades of red that no one ever knew was naturally possible. Adonis.

Legend for people like him says their hearts died in their chest cavities long ago that they putrefied and made a heavy slime about their lungs as thick as underworld tar. That is how men like The Morning Killer became killers and why they did so. The people of the north in Massachusetts where he was originally from say his emptiness is his madness, that he takes life repeatedly as if he may possess the hearts and souls, yet never so. To be healed, someone pure has to love him, or so the rumors say, to reform his heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it to beating with pure nature's essence. Therefore, until he could find such a being to forgive all that he has done, to break the universal scales and set The Morning Killer free to begin anew, the killing goes on. And if he was being honest with himself, he liked it. He liked it a lot.

The Morning Killer weighed the knife in his hand. It was no heavier than a kitchen blade, but would cut on first contact, even with minimum pressure. Its serrations were like waves, but not randomly, so like on the cheaper knives you could buy in a store. They would slide in smoothly and do maximum damage on the way out, like the barbs on a fishing hook. At seven inches, he could easily keep it under his jacket, not his only weapon of course, but a useful back up in close combat. For some reason, when he saw his reflection in the steel, his mind flicked to the new girl, the one younger than him by almost a decade, the pest, the detective who was a thorn in his side. Nancy, her name was, he thinks. He could see her bleeding already and the corners of his mouth twitched upward as he fought back a smile. It would be simple to kill the seller too, rather than pay for such a beautiful weapon, but what if he wanted another sometime. He dug into his pocket with scarred fingers and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. He did not need it all, but it never hurt to show a vendor you could become their best customer. Then the next time he called, his appointment would be all the faster. It was time to take care of this girl and her husband. They were getting much too close to figuring out whom he was, and he just could not risk it. Besides, those two still had to play his little game. His last little game had been fun as he strode along the busy streets, hands in his jeans pockets.

He hated it so when they died too soon, but he had to punish them. They were dirty, their ways filthy and wanton. If they refused his teachings, the Morning Killer sliced them. If they fought back, he cut even deeper, savoring their anguish in killing them slowly. He was firm and fair, they were whiny and without morals. He picked the girls for their painted lips and short skirts, he felt drawn to their high heels and long legs. They made him think bad thoughts, unclean thoughts. They made him lustful and unchaste, something within himself he despised.

The Morning Killer looked up at the old charming Victorian house, like something out of a magazine. He had passed it every day since he had started school as a kid, and to this day now that he was an adult, it still stood tall and proud, waiting for him. It was just like all the other houses on the street, but the front lawn weeds grew past his knees. If there ever was a path, it was gone, buried. The blue door had that sun-bleached look and the window frames were more bare rotting wood than white paint. He bit his lip and pondered his options. A shiver ran through his body like an electric current and the onset of the beginning light drizzling rain blurred his vision. The man waded into the late fall greenery, forcing his legs through it. Sucking in a breath as he knocked on the door, knowing there would be no answer. He twisted the handle. On crossing the threshold, the noise of the storm disappeared. There was a fire blazing lazily in the fireplace, sending its warmth out throughout the room, but he wasn't comforted by it. If anything, the man felt cold.

He turned to leave. "Don't go," said a gentle voice. "We can be such good friends." The voice, whoever it belonged to, sent a chill down his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and a wicked sneer begin to curl on the edges of his mouth.

The Morning Killer turned around, seeing no one.

Oh yes, he thought, kicking aside a dust bunny. This place will do just nicely for our next game. It had been too long since his last game. In addition, already, the Morning Killer was looking forward to the next.

Time to play. You won't win, Miss Nancy. In my game, you play by the house rules. In this game, there is no way out.