The Serial Killer Podcast

He swung into an overgrown driveway and killed the engine beside a deserted farmhouse. Gray weathered siding, wind whistling through broken windows—no neighbours, no help for miles. Without a sound, Jerry hauled her out and started beating her. Fists hammered her face, her breasts. Blood filled her mouth, warm and metallic. She screamed anyway, knowing it probably wouldn't matter. He tore at her clothes, gasping that he wanted her naked so he could take pictures.She fought—twisted, kicked, clawed for escape. Sunset was coming fast, and she knew if darkness fell without rescue, she'd never see morning. Her screams carried just far enough. A farm couple driving past heard them, wrenched their wheel, and pulled into the weed-choked yard. They spotted the old car, the big young manlooming over someone on the ground...Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

His fetish expanded beyond footwear to encompass various forms of feminine undergarments and intimate apparel. He became fascinated with brassieres, panties, girdles, and the complex systems of garters and stockings that women used to maintain their appearance. Jerome developed an intense appreciation for the texture and feel of these soft fabrics, finding them almost as compelling as the high-heeled shoes that had initially captured his attention.Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

He was breathing heavily, although it had taken so little effort to swing the length of two-by-four against her head and feel the satisfying impact when it hit. She had dropped like a stone, collapsing without a sound beyond the initial thud. He knelt beside her and checked to see if she was still breathing. He thought he detected a slight movement in her ribs. And then he placed both his hands around her neck and squeezed for a long time, feeling her life drain away beneath his fingers. Her neck was so frail;  he could feel little bones inside crushing under his hands, the cartilage giving way.Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

Blake rested his hand on his service revolver, weighing the morality of gunning Boone down on the courthouse steps, when he heard the news. Boone didn’t have the cash. He possessed neither valuables sufficient to pawn nor property to offer a money lender. By the end of the day, during which he had performed some truly fantastic work, Mr. Bishop began questioning whether he would ever receive payment. Consequently, the other side of the judge’s punishment fell upon Boone. He would serve a month on a chain gang, performing hard labour for the city of Victoria. His wages would be offset against the debts owed to the Adelphi Saloon and Mr. Bishop.Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

His first victim stood blind drunk, pissing on the side of the trading post. Boone simply strolled up behind him, placed the pistol barrel to his nape, and pulled the trigger.Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod

Burton tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his throat had clamped shut, parched and brittle as ancient parchment left too long in the sun. His voice only clawed its way back in a ragged, desperate croak the instant Boone pressed the knife down against the flesh of his right leg, just above the knee, and the first thin, crimson line of blood welled up, hot and sticky, tracing a lazy rivulet down the pale skin. Boone used that old Bowie for everything—carving kindling, gutting game, scraping hides—and its edge had gone so dull from endless abuse that it resembled a rusted sawblade more than a blade. He had to lean in with his full, heavy weight, all two hundred pounds of muscle and grit, to force the tip through the tough outer layer of Burton's skin, the metal grinding audibly against the resistance like a dull file on bone.Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/theserialkillerpodcastWebsite: https://www.theserialkillerpodcast.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/theskpodcastInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/serialkillerpodX: https://x.com/serialkillerpod