Serial Killer?

One misty moisty morning when cloudy was the weather

I happened to meet an old man all clothed in leather

He began to compliment and I began to grin

How do you do, how do you do, how do you do again

What happens when two predators meet?

The fog always brought something primal out in Misty.  When it was sunny, she was sunny, all happiness and light.  But it was in the darkest part of her soul that she really felt alive, so she longed for the days of the deep fog, where she could linger in that miasma of the unexpected.

Misty never knew what she was going to do.  All she knew was that the fog would cover her actions.  She always brought along a knife, not that she ever used it—well—okay, occasionally, but usually not on humans.  Usually.

This dark morning, as she was walking along the empty city sidewalk, tall buildings on either side adding menace to her steps, she was startled, when out of the fog came an old man from the opposite direction.  If they continued on their paths, they would collide.  Misty held her knife at the ready.

The old man was dressed all in leather, not like a biker but like a butcher, as if he was protecting himself from a spray of blood.  It seemed he would not give way, as they approached each other on the sidewalk.  And so it was that she stepped one way to let him pass and he followed her every move, as in a macabre pas de deux.  

“What’s a lovely young lady like you doing out in a fog like this?” he asked,  She noticed his teeth were all too white, like beacons, but sharp as a wolf’s fangs.

Misty grinned.  He thought she was prey.  Easy prey at that.  “The same as you,” she replied.

She could see hesitation in his eyes, trying to judge what she meant.  Yet they were alone, seemingly all alone in the denseness of this fog.  Why would he give up this perfect chance?

So he made his move.  He lunged at her with a quickness that belied his age, and she brought the knife up against his chest, but-

The leather.  The thick leather.  Her knife went nowhere, not even piercing the hide he was wearing.  Was it hide or was he some sort of—

Misty had no time for contemplation.  The old man tackled her and brought her down. She knew if she didn’t act quickly, she’d be dead.  Knife in her hand still, she brought it around to the back of his neck and stabbed with all her might.

Did he even feel it?  Had it hit the leather instead of bare skin?  He held her in his grip, the leather felt like cold slime along her body.  A feeling of absolute desperation rose within her, she who had so loved the darkness of the fog.  She knew she had to escape back into the light if she were to survive.

He had his thumbs on her eyes now as if he were trying to gouge them out.  The knife.  Her only hope, but he seemed invincible to pain.

Misty swung her right arm around, not even being able to see where it would land.  On flesh, she prayed, on flesh!

Her eyes were free once more as his hands retreated.  “You hussy!” he whispered horsely.  “You won’t get away from this old man.”

He made a grab for her knife hand, which set him off balance.  With all her force, she pushed him over so that now she was on top, but how to get loose?  The old man still held her knife hand, all she had left as a weapon were her fingernails.  Time to ruin her manicure?

She scratched at his face and then punched him in the left eye before she remembered it was the thumb in the eye she had to use.  To protect himself, he released her knife arm.  Weak as it was from his pressure, she took the opportunity to slice it across his cheek, cutting deep.

The blood gushed down his cheek onto his neck, into and over his leather garment.  But it wasn’t enough, was it, not for someone like this who would take advantage of the fog to perpetuate death.

Misty brought the knife weakly across his throat. A slice too slight?  But perhaps not, as the old man’s hands came up to try to close the gap.  His eyes bore a look of shock and terror.

Rising, Misty almost stumbled back down on the old man’s still beating heart.  But he was fading, while she was covered in the old man’s blood.  The fog was deep still, and it wasn’t too far back to her studio apartment with its welcoming shower.

She left the old man on the sidewalk, his every gasp weakening.  In the fog someone else might stumble upon him.  She was done.

It wasn’t until the next morning, as she was listening to the news while she got ready for work as a children’s librarian, that she learned the old man in leather was responsible for the death of three young women, each killed during a deep fog.  The police had no idea this was the man they had been after for so long, until they went to his apartment and discovered trophies from his killings.  There would be no tears for this one, just cases closed.  As for the mystery of who had done him in?  No one particularly cared.