Just imagine yourself, booking what you thought was a random true crime convention…
You expected a medium turnout, with armchair detectives who usually leave comments on YouTube videos, but not much else.
You walk into the huge venue, with banners, booths upon booths, photo ops and props. An odd feeling gets you because the ethics of it all clearly seem to be lacking.
Photo ops at a serial killer convention ? With what ? You’ll get to see it later, but still, it doesn’t feel right.
Sellers display books, tools, and pre-stamped photocards ?
Ok that last one feels weird, but to each their own at these events.
The list of the panel names doesn’t ring any bells, but the subject matters are actually kind of interesting in a strange way.
« How to stop chasing them 101 »
« Knife or hammer »
« How a body is dismembered »
« Avoid the woods »
« The hitchhiking trick »
« Cannibal’s habits »
« Don’t fall for their lies »
You think to yourself that those analyses would be a step in the mind of the serial killers, and to help the victims or see how the police files available to the public. It’s intriguing and disturbing at the same time.
Not in a voyeuristic way, but it does pique your curiosity.
You decide to attend the one talking about chemical products « What leaves traces and what doesn’t », thinking you’ll get a peek inside some old police investigations, possibly with crime scenes evidence.
You sit down. You look around the room, and smile politely at the person next to you, nodding here and there to greet strangers in the way you know you all share a common interest.
The room is filled with people from all walks of life. Young, old, in suits, in sneakers, but oddly enough no one really stands out. No bright colors, no accessories, nothing.
And then the panel starts, so your thoughts get to focus again on the subject at hand.
It takes a few minutes to get going, but when it does, something troubles you.
You try to look around, once again, to see if someone else is as confused as you are. To see if anyone notices that the topic is how to effectively drug someone and what chemicals to use to destroy the flesh with, and not a symposium of how serial killers are caught and what doesn’t work to dissolve a body.
And that’s when it hits you.
The looks, the people around you, the topics, the panels, the items sold…
This IS a serial killer convention. Written black on white. They’re not hiding it, you just didn’t read it properly. The convention is FOR them, to get to know how to master their torture and body disposals techniques.
Your breaths are almost audible, you try your best to calm yourself.
You can’t leave yet because all eyes would be on you.
You can’t cause a scene, or they’ll figure out you’re not one of them.
They could use you as a case study, or even far worse… There are so many of them too.
You’re spiraling again. You need to learn how to breathe. To calm down.
As you’re stuck in your own mind, diving into every awful scenario you can think of, the speaker brings out some limbs as demonstration. The smell of decomposing human flesh hits your nose fast. You want to gag but you can’t. The person next to you laughs at the jokes, and looks at you for a brand new nod of approval.
You have to find it in yourself to smile, to acquiesce, to pretend to be one of them.
The smell of the arm dissolving spreads across the room, and, as someone makes a joke about wasting good food, they all laugh.
They make fun of the victims, the hairs to avoid leaving behind, how sometimes fat has issues dissolving, how a bone saw can only do so much, and so on…
And you just sit there. Terrified.
The panel ends with a roaring round of applause. You clap too, your palms sweaty, hitting each other with an almost audible splashing sound. You’re already looking for the exit, but the speaker breaks your train of thoughts yet again by mentioning a mandatory workshop.
« What fresh hell is this ? » You think to yourself, trying to avoid eye contact still.
Each seat is assigned a color. Each color will divide into a group of even participants. Your heart drops. They WILL notice if you leave. You can’t bail now or you’ll get caught.
You reach under the plush red fabric and pull out a small, round purple circle.
The speaker assigns missions to each group.
Drugs preparation, planification of tasks, case study for tools, and, what everyone hoped to get, the « hands-on » testing of the dissolution of human remains.
Of course that one had to be for the purple group. Of course.
You have to keep yourself from crying at the thought of it.
With a big gulp, you stand up. Legs shaking, threatening to collapse under your weight at every step you take.
You follow the group. The person next to you, a middle-aged woman with a black and white floral tote bag, whispers: “I’ve been waiting for this one all year !” You manage a weak smile and another nod.
Nothing could come out of your mouth.
You can’t even pretend to get lost, as the experiment is in front of everyone. On the panel floor.
They brought out tarps, and steel flooring for this one.
Everyone is in a good mood, everyone laughs, people video tape it for memory’s sake.
You don’t even want to think about what they’ll do with the videos. You have to stay focused.
Your stomach drops at every single sound, as you try your best not to flinch.
A table is brought. On it is a white sheet covered in fresh blood… Not a lot, but just enough to make you understand that it’s a « fresh one ». Could it be someone who, like you, tried to bail ? Your throat closes. Your eyes get wetter but you have to stay in control. Mind over matter and all that.
The teacher hands you a pair of gloves. The snap of the rubber against your wrist sounds like a gunshot in a silent room.
He hands out a few tools to your group. The old lady, a bit too eager, gets scolded for trying to remove the sheet a bit too fast.
Preparation is important, he insists.
The drug group goes first. Then preparation gives your group notes on how to act… then comes tools to give you advice on what works and what doesn’t. And your mind goes blank as the sheet gets lifted.
A dead body is laying on the table right in front of you.
Blood everywhere, still dripping. While you’re standing in what feels like a sea of active serial killers.
You try to stop shaking. All eyes are on you, with video evidence now.
Your life flashes before your eyes.
If you do this, you’re one of them, and could go down as an accomplice for murder.
If you don’t ? You’ll be the one on the table by the next panel.
Options are slim and the tension is rising. Luckily, or not, your group aren’t amateurs and they all pull their weights. One cleans the blood, fast, neatly, and a bit too enthusiastically…
The old lady starts sawing her little heart away at the limbs, one by one.
You have to think quickly, all the tasks are being taken and you’re just standing there, looking.
Maybe you could pretend to be a pervert ? One that just likes to look ?
Would that work ?
No, you have to act, now.
The teacher stops your spiraling brain :
“You’ve been remarkably disciplined. Not a single word of excitement. I like that.
The quiet ones are always the most surgical.”
The pressure is through the roof at this point. You smile shyly and take a small bow.
Your ears are vibrating your heartbeat on speaker.
You start to prepare the mixture of chemicals in a huge blue barrel…
It’s not much, but it’ll do the trick to pretend you helped.
You lift your eyes for a second.
You see a room full of people in cardigans and sensible shoes, waiting with so much anticipation that it freaks you out even more.
Then, the teacher leans in, his face inches from yours. “You know,” he says softly, just for you, “most of the people who end up on this table are the ones who didn’t read the fine print on their ticket. They think they’re here for the stories. They don’t realize they ARE the stories.”
He laughs and waits for your reaction, your group already reacting to this statement.
You let out a shy smile, and nod. You manage to improvise a line, fast, that would justify your overall demeanor « I’m just more used to the shadows. » You blurt out without thinking.
The teacher smiles, and tilts his head « It’s hard for stalkers to be in the spotlight, huh ? »
You exhale for what feels like the first time in half an hour. « Yeah. »
The teacher patting your shoulder feels like a blessing and a curse.
You’ve successfully lied to a room full of killers by pretending to be a different kind of monster.
“Stalkers,” the old lady says, not even looking up from her gruesome work. “So much patience. I could never.”
She chuckles, as the sound of the bone saw hitting the table makes your bones ache.
You finish pouring the chemicals into the blue barrel. A small sigh catching you off guard.
« Satisfying isn’t it ? The sizzling ? Waiting for the meat to dissolve… » another one from your group mumbles.
“I think I need some air”, keeping your voice low, maintaining the “loner” persona.
“Too many people. It’s easier for me when I’m alone with… the subject. This feels like being exposed”
The teacher nods, a look of genuine respect in his eyes. “Of course. Go. You did well with the mixture, it’s ready to get rid of the evidence now. Practice makes perfect I guess.” He says as he winks at you.
With one final little bow, you excuse yourself again, remove the gloves, throw them in the bin and walk out. As you step through the door, you hear someone offering to take your place, as they’re about to throw a hand in.
You have no idea how your feet are carrying you, your vision is a blur. You walk out of the venue, thanking the staff in the process as you give your badge back, and go straight to the subway station.
Random people talk about their work, their dating life, their evening plans right next to you…
Just minutes ago you were in front of a dead body surrounded by monsters, and now you’re listening in on strangers’ random lives. Your brain has issues connecting back to reality.
You pull out your phone. Your finger hovers over the emergency call button. But then you remember the video evidence. They have you on camera. On several cameras.
They have your face, your smile, and you pouring the chemicals that dissolved a dead human being. You have no way of proving that was just to get away. You have no proof of your innocence.
You didn’t just attend a convention. You signed a contract in virtual blood. An electric blood bond with serial killers from all over the world has been formed.
You’re not one of them, but no one will believe you.
You reach for something in your bag and the flyer gets pulled out.
The panel names have such a different meaning now.