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 ^{(it's beta!)}

"Mind if I sit here?"

Aside from me, the bus is dead empty. The man took the seat right across from me.

"Not at all."

I spoke the words redundantly, shuffling slightly annoyed.

"The name's Harder. Elliot Harder."

The man held his hand out to me. Reluctantly I shook it.

"Mark Everett."

Hoping he would not try to stir up a conversation, I quickly pretended to be reading the free newspaper I had already finished twice.

"Don't you find it peculiar that people are increasingly hesitant to engage in a conversation with a stranger in public?"

I looked up from my newspaper with half an eye, neither ignoring nor acknowledging the man.

"Just like you now, Mr Everett."

There was something eerily irritating about his voice, as if he only used words to annoy others.

"Why are you so hesitant?"

My growing irritation surpassed a weird sense of fascination, if only barely.

"Answer the question, Mark."

The man seemed to find some self-entertainment in what he must've thought a good pun. Intrigued, I decided to humor him.

"I don't know about others, but me personally, I like a little peace and quiet on my travels, thank you."

Hoping I had gotten my point across, I went back to my paper. For a little while, all was quiet.

"What do you do for a living, Mr Everett?"

Aggravated, I threw down the newspaper, leaned back, and crossed my arms.

"I'm a writer."

He nodded.

"Yeeesss. I see. You do look like the writer type. Well, have I got a story for you!"

After this, the man sniffered a little, then kept his silence, defiantly waiting for me to ask him about his profession, knowing that I was earnestly curious at this point.

"How about you, Mr Harder?"

He smiled like a victor.

"I'm a serial killer."

Of course I didn't believe him.

"Uh huh."

My obvious disbelief visibly disappointed him.

"You don't believe me."

He spoke in a childish way. I still didn't believe him.

"You're asking yourself the wrong questions here, Mr Everett."

This had me somewhat startled, but the man seemed to be on a roll now.

"You ask yourself: is this man a serial killer or not? While the real questions here are: do I deem this man sitting here in front of me capable of cold-blooded murder? Can I imagine this man towering over another who's kneeled, bound, gagged, crying, mumbling prayers, wetting his pants? Can I imagine the joy he must feel when he slices the man's throat, and scoops out the man's eyes? So can you, Mr Everett the writer?"

His mouth formed a defiant grim, as mine formed a grimace of disgust. In his mind, he had me convinced. I was mezmerized, lost for words.

"Why. Why are you telling me this? What... Why? Who, or, what, are you?!"

The man's face had lost all expression so swiftly that it seemed to go completely against nature.

"Just a stranger on the bus looking for a conversation, Mark."

I stood up, dashed towards the exit doors, and noticed that the bus was nearing my destination at supernatural timing. The bus stopped, and I took one last look over to the man I had shared a ride with. He looked over, nodded ever so slightly, still expressionless. Against my judgement I went back to him.

"What makes you think I won't go to the police? You told me your name and everything!"

Just as swiftly as his smile faded a minute ago, it came back, wider than before.

"Because you don't believe me, Mr Everett. You made so clear yourself."

And again that smug smile. I hurried off the bus, feeling strangely uncomfortable, sweating. I turned around to see the bus slide into traffic, just long enough to catch a last glimpse of Harder's face with lips moving; I know what he's saying.

"You don't believe me."