Orange Street News


READ THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!Confession of a Media Killer Part 2

2018-07-16 (2)


By Hilde Kate Lysiak

Karen lifted her naked left foot. Then her naked right.

She continued lifting her tiny pale feet until she found herself surrounded by the checkered blue and white walls.

Those doll white feet pulled her to the painted stone sink under the large square of glass.

Look up!

Karen was in her small bathroom.

Inside the square of glass stood a person looking back at her. A young woman who seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn’t recognize.

The button nose. The short, thin sunshine blonde hair. The white tank top covering a thin, frail looking body.

But it was those large blue eyes that caught her. Pulling her closer. Making it nearly impossible to look away.

Look away!

The inhumanly large blue eyes seemed to almost shoot out of the porcelain face. Crying out with intensity. A glowing a bright version of green that she didn’t think could possibly have believed existed.

Don’t look away.

But those eyes DID exist. And she knew this because they were staring right back at her. And it was happening right now. At this very moment.

The strange vision in the square glass held her frozen.

Her left foot still.

Her right foot still.

Then she gave her body a command; to reach out and wave.

Her hand reached out.

The hand in the square glass waved back.

Then it hit her. The image looking back at her was not that of some stranger — but it was of herself.

Karen stepped back as a rush of pins and needles ran up from her toes, flew up her spine, then settled in her head where she began to feel so heavy she worried she might lose her balance.

Her hands pressed against the cold red and black stone of the little sink.

Suddenly, she became overwhelmed with the realization that she could feel both the wonder everything and numbness of nothing swirling all around.


The sharp bones in her elbows rubbing against the cotton in her pajamas.

Bath mat.

Her pale naked toes against the soft pom pom filled bath mat under the sink.

How nice it felt.

How hurtful the feeling of her hand pressing against the sink. The pain of her shoulders pointing straight to the air above her forced her to look back up.

It all seemed richer. Not just feelings. Shapes. Colors. Sounds. Movements.

The many small carvings in the large wooden frame of the mirror. There were many carvings on the mirror.

Are those messages?

Only for my eyes?

But they were not messages. They were just pictures of farm animals.

Karen stared at the frame of the mirror for a long time. Each animal carving was painted a different color. A blue elephant with its trunk up in the air.

A red ape with its tail shaped like a question mark.


Her eyes rolled back to the face in the glass box. That face.

My face.

Those eyes.

My eyes.


She didn’t know.

But now the wonder of everything and the numbness of nothing were spinning. Faster and faster.

And she was spinning with it.


But it didn’t stop.

The wonder of everything and the numbness of nothing of spun faster.


Karen clenched her fist into a tight ball and smashed it as hard as she could into the glass square.

Right through the frail face.

Bashing through the inhumanly large blue eyes.

The collision set off an angry storm of glass sprinkles all around her.

They were coming at her. She didn’t move. One piece sliced open her fore head. Another her upper lip.

Karen stood motionless as a single drop of blood dripped into her mouth.

Tastes like copper.

The girl in the glass square smiled. Karen smiled back.

Penny for your thoughts?

Karen looked down.

A large chunk of glass had fallen on the red and black stone sink.

She placed the mirror piece in the center her hand. Her pale fingers squeezed tightly. Karen opened it back up and looked down in wonder.

The spinning had stopped. He wonder of everything and the numbness of the nothing had retreated. Now there was just her hand, the blood, and the taste of copper.

Penny for your thoughts?

She took the mirror piece out of her hand and slowly dragged it down her wrist.

Karen knew it should hurt. But that was where the numbness of the nothing lived.

Then came the sound.

It was the sound of her own heart beat.

Louder. Faster.

Karen lurched up — conking her head against the reading lamp that reached over pillow.

She felt her wrists. They were dry.

A dream. It felt so real but was just a dream.

She checked the time. It was 4:12 am.

Maybe she should begin taking her medicine again, she thought. She looked up at the prescription on top of her dresser. It had been nearly three weeks since she had taken her pills.

Maybe they would stop these crazy awful nightmares?

She shook the thought out of her head. She reminded herself that the medicine made her mind feel foggy. She needed to be sharp. There was too much at stake.


The beeping noise wasn’t her heartbeat. It was coming from her phone. There was a message. It was marked urgent.

She stretched to pick up her phone and opened the message.

“It happened again. 88th Street and Pine. Victim 28-year-old female. First name Emma. Last name unknown.”

The message was from her source at the Bloomsburg Police Department.

Karen sighed. She knew exactly what that message meant.

If she was right, this would be the fourth unexplained murder in the last three weeks.

Even worse, she knew the first three victims. Not very well. But she knew them. Not that strange in a town of 900 especially when you are the only reporter in town, but still…This wasn’t just a reporting assignment to her.

She took it very personally. She did with every murder.

Karen grabbed her press pass and lurched out of bed, knocking the pile of criminal complaints she had been reading on to to the hard wood floor.

She through a pink hoody over her white tee-shirt, put her press pass around her neck, and grabbed her tan messenger bag before exiting out of her apartment door.

88th and Pine. Thats only a few blocks away.

Karen began sprinting through the light cold early morning drizzle and got to the crime scene just in time to see the medical examiner truck pull up.

To the right of the truck, in a patch of grass under a large oak tree she saw a large black tarp with bright yellow nike cross trainers sticking out.

A chill rode up her spine.

Emma Luna!

Like the other victims, Karen knew Emma Luna.

Karen looked around for witnesses. No one.

Crime scene was still investigating. She decided not to approach, yet.

Behind the tree there was a driveway leading to the house. She made a note that they would have to door knock later.

Karen knew it was risky to go closer. The police were touchy. She lifted her camera and zoomed in on the scene, looking for clues.Karen continued studying her pictures when a young male police officer began walking over. She didn’t recognize him. Younger police officers are always more likely to talk.

“This is an active crime scene,” he muttered.

“Hi I am Karen Trucy, a reporter for the Bloomsburg Press and I was wondering if you could give me any information about what happened to Emma Luna.”

“I know who you are,” he said.

The young officer took a step closer. His name tag read M Fitz.

“Well, all I can tell you is that they are taking the body to a lab to get tested for any evidence that could lead to who ever did this,” he said.

“So did they confirm that Emma Luna was murdered?” Karen asked, her voice rising with excitement.

The officer rolled his eyes.

“I’m not confirming anything,” he answered. “Now you need to call the Chief if you have any questions.”

“Right,” said Karen, sarcastically. “Because the Chief is always so chatty.”

Officer Fitz shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

The light early morning drizzle had turned into a steady downpour.

Karen realized that her excitement in her voice when she mentioned the murder must have sounded weird to Officer Fitz. Usually she always felt excited because it was the thrill a journalist gets from working a good story. But this time it felt different. Karen thought about how Emma Luna was someone she hated.

Karen and Emma used to be best friends when they were little. But when they were both seven Emma started lying about a lot of stuff, cheating in the games they played, and more. Finally Karen had enough and confronted Emma about her lying. After that they got in a huge fight and they were never again friends.

Karen grabbed a picture of the body being loaded on to the Medical Examiner truck. The crime scene began wrapping up. The officers didn’t like standing in the rain any more than she did.

She stared down at her notepad. Her mind began to race.
Karen tried not to feel satisfied when she heard the news that Emma had been murdered. Was she a bad person for feeling so satisfied for her death?

She didn’t know. But then her mind wandered to the dream she had. Was there a connection?

She didn’t know. She may not have liked Emma, but it didn’t matter. She had a job to do. Who was committing these murders? If she didn’t find out, the incompetent Chief of Police certainly wasn’t going to find out.

After thirty years where there were no murders up until this week, the town of Bloomsburg was on edge. A serial killer was on the loose. And while it might have been terrible for the town, it was great for business. Before the murders began she was stuck covering plant vandals and fallen branches. She was nearly on the verge of having to shut down.

But now that a serial killer is on the loose, the only reporter in all of Bloomsburg saw her subscribers to the Bloomsburg Press triple for 200 to 600 in a week.

That number would probably double again after this latest murder.

She thought about possible book deals, like the Son of Sam.

Maybe a television show.

Or a movie deal.

She had a small dance to her step as she walked home, when she opened her door and saw the words written on the living room wall.

“I have been watching you closely. I am a huge fan of your work. I think you are very talented. If you do not publish this letter on the front page of your newspaper another person will be killed,” read the first few sentences of the message.

Her messenger bag dropped to the floor. The words were written in blood

Karen sat right down on her living room floor. She was startled, it was a letter and she knew exactly who wrote it; The murderer, it had to be.

I really appreciate you.

Today there are so many reporters who do not respect the truth. And if you do not respect the truth then how can you live with your self, let alone be a reporter. 

Reporters hold a very special ability. They can either use it for good and get the truth to the people or spread lies all across the world. 

It makes me really happy to see that you are getting the truth to the people.

The reason it makes me feel pity, and sadness is because with out reporters and newspapers then people don’t have knowledge.

Freedom is information. Information is freedom. 

 Without knowledge people become slaves to their own ignorance. 

She stared at the bloody letters and a smile creeped on her face.

Karen felt a sense of flattery when she read the words on the wall.

She had felt the same way about the importance of newspapers. And about knowledge. And slavery.

She shook her head. This was a

Karen picked up her phone right away to call the police. Then she paused.

Wait, why do the police need to know about this?

She began to think. If she called the police her apartment would become a crime scene, but even worse, one of the officers would leak the story to the national media.

Goodbye Exclusive! 

Goodbye bookdeal!

Goodbye made for television movie!

In all of her years of crime reporting she had never confronted an issue like this before.

Karen had seen a lot of movies where the killer had sent letters to papers, and she had always wanted it to happen to her. But this letter was a lot different than those letters. It almost seemed more like a thank you letter.

She started to feel a need to erase the killers words, and quickly. First, she grabbed her phone and took pictures.

Then she heard a voice screaming inside her head.

Get rid of it!


Get rid of it!!

Without thinking, Karen did as the voice told her. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a roll of paper towels and wiped until there wasn’t a trace of the killer’s words in her apartment.

After it was gone, Karen calmly sat on down on her bed and opened up her laptop.

Karen typed out the story and posted it quickly.
The headline practically wrote itself.
EXCLUSIVE: Killer’s Message to the World!  
Then she sat at her computer and began refreshing. After five minutes 120 people had read it. Then 400 — then — fifteen minutes later 100,000!
Refresh! Refresh! Refresh!
Her story was viral. All over Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
Her phone began ringing. She ignored it.
She thought once again about all the things that could come her way.  A movie, a show, Maybe even a  book. She loved the notification sound of deposits of money being put into her bank account, these were subscriptions.
Refresh! Refresh! Refresh!
Her eyes danced to the sound of the notification bell. Her hands started shaking in excitement. When she looked at all the followers she had, she saw they nearing a million.
Refresh! Refresh! Re—-Someone was knocking on the door. She pulled herself away from the laptop.
It was a police officer. She didn’t know this one.
“Hi, I am officer Ens would you be able to come down to the police station. We have a few questions about your lates article in your newspaper,” he said.
“Can I just answer them right now,” Karen asked. She opened the door wider.
The officer gave a strange look, then walked inside the apartment..
“So, when did you find the message,” he said.
“About an hour ago,” Karen answered.
“Why did you not call the authorities?” he asked.
“It didn’t come to my mind,” Karen said.
Officer Ens rolled his eyes and shook his head in frustration.
“Is it still on your wall?” said officer Ens.
“No I scrubbed it down,” Said Karen.
“You did what?” he said, his voice nearly screaming.
Karen looked down.
“Do you still have what you used to scrub it,”  he asked.
“I used paper towels, and threw them out, so no,” Said Karen
The officer signed in frustration then walked into the kitchen and went through the trash, got the paper towels and then left.
“Well don’t leave town. You destroyed evidence. If this happens again and you do not call someone then we will have a problem,” The officer said as they walked away. He put his palm of his hand to his forehead in relief.
Karen sat down on her bed for a minute, trying to figure out what to do next. She got these moments of what she should do next often, and when ever she had them, going on a walk always helped her so much.
She thought of her medicine then shook the thought out of her head.
She grabbed her phone, wallet and shoes and walked out the door. On her walk she thought a lot about how she could possibly find the murderer. The police were not going to help at all. They had never been helpful to her on any story. She stopped at a CVS on her walk. She looked around for a while.
She saw in the very corner of the store her medicine. Her feet dragged her to the corner. She had not been taking for a while. That led her to think about the crazy dream she had earlier.
She wanted to think, of some thing else but she could not unfocus her self. She could not stop thinking about how to catch the murderer.
She forced herself to walk away from her medicine. Across the isle was a shelf full of different kinds of cameras. There were GoPro cameras, twenty four hour cameras, and security cameras.
Then she had an idea. She ran to the shelf and got a few go pros. It was a lot of money, but she would make more when she was famous, she thought to, her self.
After the book deal. And after the mde for television deal.
She grabbed all the Go Pro cameras they had in stock, and dumped them all on to the counter.
An employee with dark blonde hair and green eyes rushed to the counter from theback of the store and bagged her cameras.
Karen walked into town struggling to carry her cameras. She spent a few hours setting up all seventeen cameras all over town. And in ways that would cover nearly the entire  town.
By the end of the day the town of 500 was covered by the go pro cameras. Karen felt satisfied. She felt so proud of her self.
Karen got her red and green Christmas Pajamas on and got into her bed to go to bed.
As she lay in bed she refreshed her website. It was near two million hits. Her story was shared 100,000 times on Facebook. They were talking about her all over Instagram and Twitter.
I’ve made it! 
The days excitement had made her tired. Her eyes got heavy. They closed.
Karen opened the  door and walked outside a house.
She held a blue kitchen knife in her hand.
The knife was covered with blood.
Whats going on?
Her red and green PJ’s were covered in blood.
She felt very comfortable. Like she was resting.
She lifted her foot left, then right.
She woke up at four AM. She had woken up to the sound of an notification. She got her phone and checked her email. It was her source. There had been another murder!
Why, I have done every thing the murderer asked., I posted the letter! Why would the murderer kill again?
Then another thought hit her! She double checked the address. It was 324 Apple Street. There was a camera right outside the location!
She got up and stood on her bed and threw her arms up in victory. She had never been this happy in her entire life.
Book deal! Made for television movie! Fame!
She opened her computer and logged on to the camera remotely, then had it start three hours earlier. Twenty minutes passed when she saw the killer.
Karen was not confused. Not any longer.
Karen knew what she had to do.
She got on her computer and typed out a story. Her final byline. Her most viral story yet.
Karen lifted her naked left foot. Then her naked right.
She continued lifting her tiny pale feet until she found herself surrounded by the checkered blue and white walls. But now the wonder of everything and the numbness of nothing were spinning. Faster and faster.
And she was spinning with it.


So, what do you think of the conclusion to Confessions of a Media Killer?
Did it bother you?
Are you disturbed?
I hope so.
When I came up for the idea for this story I wanted to write something that would make people think. I know a lot of you have bought the kids books I have written for Scholastic, but I also love writing horror and this paper gives me a great platform to experiment with different ideas.
In writing Confessions I was trying to tap into the idea of how far too often the media BECOMES the story.
This is something I learned up close after I began reporting the news and reporters often tried making ME and my age the story instead of focusing on the important work I was doing.
It was fun to turn the tables in this fiction story.
Thanks for reading, Hilde


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This entry was posted on August 2, 2018 by and tagged , , , .

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