01 Mar The Killing Ring

Part I

I never wanted a hobby. Hobbies cost money, and in my house, money always found its way into Nathan’s beer fund before it ever reached me.

But I needed something to get me out of the house, away from the nights of shouting and breaking glass. Metal detecting became my excuse. It didn’t take much: a secondhand detector I bought with birthday money, a cheap shovel, and a willingness to walk for hours through empty fields, forgotten lots, and abandoned properties. I rarely found anything valuable. Old nails, bottle caps, the occasional rusted coin. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that out here, I didn’t have to hear Nathan’s voice.

That evening, I was scanning an empty lot a few blocks away from my neighborhood. It had been abandoned for as long as I could remember—nothing but dry grass and weeds, an occasional tree breaking through the cracked soil. People said it had been farmland a century ago, but now it was just wasted space. The perfect place to kill time.

The detector beeped.

I stopped and swept the coil over the area again. Another beep. I pulled my shovel from my backpack, crouched down, and started digging. A few inches beneath the dirt, something metallic caught the last traces of sunlight. I brushed the soil away, expecting another worthless scrap.

It was a ring.

I picked it up, rubbing the dirt off with my thumb. It was old—silver, but tarnished to a dull gray. It had no engravings or gemstones. By all appearances, it was a plain, unadorned band. It certainly didn’t look like much—but something about it felt different.

I turned it over in my hand, examining it more closely. Then, without thinking much about it, I slid it onto my finger.

An unexpected warmth spread through my chest, radiating outward. It wasn’t hot or uncomfortable, but I noticed it immediately, like I’d stepped into sunlight after being in the shade too long.

I flexed my fingers. The ring fit perfectly. I stood there a little longer, watching the way the metal reflected the fading light. The moment passed, and I shoved my shovel back into my backpack and started walking home.

The trailer was quiet when I stepped inside. That meant Nathan wasn’t home yet—one of the good nights.

Mom sat curled on the couch, watching some home renovation show. She glanced up when she saw me. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah,” I said, kicking off my shoes.

Her gaze flicked to my dirt-streaked jeans, the metal detector in my hand. She looked like she wanted to say something, maybe ask why I spent so much time outside, but she didn’t.

“There’s casserole in the fridge,” she said instead. I nodded and went to my room.

Closing the door behind me, I dropped my bag on the floor. My metal detector leaned against the wall, forgotten. I stretched out on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, my fingers resting against the ring. The warmth was still there, lingering beneath my skin.

I didn’t take it off.

That night, I dreamt of roots stretching deep into the earth. Thick, twisting roots that pushed through the soil, pulsing as they grew. I reached toward them. The second my fingers made contact, the roots blackened, shriveling into dust.

I woke with a start.

The dream faded before I could make sense of it. I rubbed my eyes and glanced down at my hand. The ring was still there. I wasn’t sure if I had even tried to take it off.

The backyard was overgrown with weeds, a patchwork of dry dirt and yellowed grass. Mom had talked about planting flowers once, but like a lot of things, it never happened.

I crouched near the fence line and grabbed a tall weed by the stem. My fingers barely had time to close around it before it began to wither. The leaves curled inward, the stem darkened, and within seconds, it collapsed in my hand.

I let go and stared at it.

The warmth in my chest flared again, stronger this time, and I reached for another weed. The moment I touched it, it died just as quickly. A faint tingle ran through my fingers, spreading through my arm.

I ripped the ring off, and the sensation stopped immediately.

The backyard was quiet, the weeds shifting in the morning breeze. All of them were untouched, except for the two I had just killed. This wasn’t a coincidence.

I didn’t know what I had found in that empty lot, but I knew one thing for sure.

It wasn’t just a ring.

Part II

The ring sat on my desk for most of the day. I told myself I wasn’t afraid of it, but I avoided touching it all the same. Every time I glanced at it, I thought of the way the weeds had crumbled in my fingers, the sensation of their life draining away. That brief, electric warmth that had spread through me after each one.

By evening, my curiosity outweighed my hesitation. I picked up the ring and slid it back onto my finger.

The warmth returned immediately, subtle but noticeable, like a current running just beneath my skin.

I needed to test it again.

There were more weeds in the backyard. I crouched near a patch of them, reaching out deliberately this time. My fingers closed around a thick stem, and within seconds, the plant withered. The process was smooth and silent, as if the life had been pulled from it.

I tried another. Then another. Each one shriveled the moment I touched it.

I sat back on my heels, staring at my hand. This wasn’t just some strange reaction. This wasn’t normal.

I turned my palm over, studying it. My skin looked the same as always. There was no discoloration or visible change. The only difference was the ring.

It was then I realized it wasn’t just killing things—it was feeding me. Each time I touched a plant, the warmth in my chest flared up, like I’d been absorbing what had been taken. I didn’t necessarily feel stronger or faster. Not yet, anyway. But I felt… awake. Energized.

I had been tired all day, weighed down by the usual dull exhaustion of living in this house. But now, after killing nothing but weeds, I felt like I had just stepped out of an ice bath. My head was clear, my limbs light.

I swallowed hard, standing up. There was only one question left.

Would it work on something conscious?

My stomach twisted at the thought. I looked toward the fence line, where a few birds pecked at the ground. A squirrel darted along the wooden panels, its tail twitching.

I clenched my hands into fists. No, I wasn’t going to do that—I wasn’t a monster.

I pulled the ring off again, shoving it into my pocket.

Even as I walked inside, I knew I had only scratched the surface of what it could do.

* * * * * *

The next few days passed in a haze.

I kept the ring in my pocket most of the time, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In quiet moments, I would roll it between my fingers, feeling its weight and the slight hum beneath the metal.

I kept testing it—always on plants, never on anything with a heartbeat. I killed blades of grass, flower petals, and stems of ivy that climbed the telephone poles. The results were always the same. Instant decay.

I had enough proof to know the ring was dangerous, but a part of me wanted to go further. I thought about the dogs that wandered the neighborhood. The stray cats that darted between fences. Could I do it? Could I bring myself to touch something that would feel itself dying?

Every time I got close, I stopped myself.

Not yet.

* * * * * *

It happened by accident.

I was metal detecting again, walking near the edge of an old park. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. I wasn’t paying attention when I stepped too close to the road—and a car screeched to a stop just inches from my leg. I jumped back just in the nick of time.

A man climbed out, cursing. He was in his late twenties, maybe older. He was broad-shouldered and red-faced, the kind of guy who didn’t look like he had a lot of patience.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he snapped, slamming his car door shut.

“Sorry,” I muttered, gripping my metal detector tightly.

“You’re damn right, you’re sorry!” He took a step toward me. “Pay attention before you get yourself killed!”

I nodded, trying to step around him, but he moved closer. “You got a problem?” he asked. His breath reeked of beer.

“No,” I said quickly. “I—”

He shoved me and closed his fingers tightly around my arm, gripping my sleeve.

My body reacted before my mind did. I twisted, my hand coming up in a quick, instinctive movement—and my fingers brushed his wrist.

The change was immediate. His grip on me slackened. His face contorted, eyes going wide as his skin paled to an unnatural gray. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His body locked up for a brief, horrifying second—and then he collapsed.

Warmth surged through me, stronger than ever. A rush of something electric, something blissful, euphoric, even.

I stumbled back, staring at him. He wasn’t moving.

His chest didn’t rise. His fingers didn’t twitch. His eyes, still frozen in that wide, startled expression, stared at nothing.

He was dead. I had killed him.

I staggered back another step. My arms felt lighter, my whole body filled with something sharp and buzzing, like adrenaline—but that’s not what it was.

I had felt this before, but never like this. The plants had given me a taste. But this… this was different. This was powerful.

My stomach churned. I tore the ring off my finger and shoved it into my pocket. I needed to leave. Now.

I scanned the street. No one had seen. The nearest house was half a block away, and it had its curtains drawn. The only sound was the faint rush of wind through the trees.

I turned and ran.

* * * * * *

I didn’t stop until I reached my room.

The second I shut the door behind me, I pressed my back against it, gasping for air. My hands were shaking. My whole body trembled, but I didn’t know if it was from fear or something else.

I had killed a man.

He had been alive, speaking and moving—and then he wasn’t.

And I had felt it. I had felt him. That warmth, that charge—his energy pouring into me.

I clenched my hands into fists.

I should have been horrified. I should have been sick.

Instead, all I could think about was how easy it had been.

Part III

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that what I’d done had been self-defense. The guy had grabbed me. He’d been aggressive. I hadn’t planned to kill him.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

I had known what the ring could do. I had tested it on plants and felt their warmth seep into my bones. A part of me had wondered what it would be like to use it on something bigger.

Now I knew.

The worst part was that I didn’t feel sick about it. I wasn’t afraid of the police knocking on my door. I wasn’t wracked with guilt.

I kept replaying the moment in my mind—the way he had stiffened under my touch, the energy rushing into me. The ring had drained him completely, stripping away everything that made him unique, and I had felt it happen.

I thought it would feel like murder, but it didn’t.

It felt like power.

And I enjoyed it.

* * * * * *

The discovery of the body made the news the next morning.

I wasn’t surprised. A man dropping dead in the middle of a public park would get attention. The reporters called it a “sudden cardiac event.” There were no signs of struggle, no wounds, no reason to suspect foul play. There was no weapon or evidence leading anyone back to me. By all accounts, he’d been a perfectly healthy man, but these things happen all the time. One minute, someone is alive, and the next, they’re gone. Natural causes.

I shut the TV off and sat back, fingers resting against my pocket where the ring was tucked away. The warmth lingered in my chest, even without wearing it. The more I focused, the more I realized I could still feel him.

I should have been disturbed by that, but I wasn’t.

That afternoon, my friend Eli called. “Dude, did you see the news?”

I kept my voice casual. “Yeah.”

“That’s insane, right? Just dropping dead like that? No reason?”

“Yeah,” I said again.

“Damn,” Eli replied. “I was actually near the park last night. That could’ve been me.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Eli had no idea how close he was to being right.

“You wanna hang out later?” he asked. “Maybe hit that abandoned gas station off Route 9? I heard someone found an old coin stash buried out there last year.”

“I can’t,” I said. “Got stuff to do.”

“Lame.” He laughed. “Alright, Ed. Catch you later.”

I hung up without answering.

Eli had been near the park. If he had run into me, would I have used the ring on him, too?

I wanted to believe the answer would have been “no,” and yet I hesitated.

What was happening to me?

* * * * * *

I tried to go back to normal.

I went out with my metal detector, acting like everything was the same. I told myself I wasn’t going to use the ring again.

But I didn’t believe that. Not really. The longer I kept it in my pocket, the more aware I was of it. Some part of me wanted to put it back on, even if I had no reason to.

I still avoided animals. I never touched the stray dogs that sniffed through the alleyways or the birds that fluttered too close. I told myself it was because they were innocent—but that wasn’t it.

The truth was far worse. I didn’t take their lives—because I knew they wouldn’t be enough.

Not after what happened in the park.

* * * * * *

Nathan came home angry.

Something had set him off—probably something at work. He stormed into the trailer, slamming the door behind him. Mom kept her head down as he ranted.

I sat at the kitchen table, pretending to ignore him.

Then I heard a smack.

I looked up just in time to see Mom stumble, her hand flying to her cheek.

Nathan hardly noticed. He was still yelling, his face red, his breath reeking of alcohol.

My body went rigid.

I stood up.

Nathan turned to face me. “What?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the ring. The metal was cool against my palm.

I had spent so much time wondering if I could do it again. Now I knew I would.

I slid the ring onto my finger.

Nathan was still talking, too focused on himself to notice what I was doing. Mom glanced at me, her eyes wide, shaking her head slightly. A silent warning.

I ignored it and stepped forward.

Nathan’s gaze snapped to me, his mouth curling into a sneer. “You got somethin’ to say?”

I clenched my hands at my sides, steadying my breathing.

He took a step toward me.

That was all I needed.

I reached out and grabbed his wrist.

Part IV

Nathan didn’t react at first.

For a split second, he just stood there, his expression frozen in a mixture of anger and confusion. Then his body locked up, his back arching as if something had seized hold of his spine. His fingers twitched. A choked sound rattled from his throat. His skin turned gray.

I felt it happen—the same way it had with the man in the park. His life force was draining out of him, flowing through my fingers like water slipping between cracks. But this time, it was different. It was stronger.

Nathan’s presence had always been overwhelming. He filled rooms with his voice, with the tension that came from never quite knowing when he would snap. Now, all of that was unraveling, peeling away in layers. I could feel the energy he had left. It surged into me, burning hot, electrifying every nerve in my body. I gritted my teeth as it sank deeper, settling into places I hadn’t realized were hollow.

His lips parted in a silent scream, and his knees buckled.

I let go.

Nathan collapsed to the floor. His chest didn’t rise. His fingers didn’t curl. His open eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused.

I took a step back, my hands tingling. The warmth inside me was overwhelming.

It was done.

I had killed him.

* * * * * *

Mom didn’t move for a long time.

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her lips quivering slightly. I expected her to look at me with horror, to scream, to cry.

She did none of those things.

Instead, her eyes flicked between me and Nathan’s body. Her mouth opened, and then closed.

Finally, she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and buried her face in her hands. I waited for her to say something, to tell me I had made a mistake, that I had done something unforgivable. But the words never came.

“Mom,” I said quietly. Her shoulders trembled. I stepped closer. “Are you—”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” she said, interrupting me. Her voice was raw and hoarse.

I hesitated. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly. She didn’t ask how. She didn’t even look at the ring.

Then she started to cry.

Not the kind of sobs I had heard before—the desperate, muffled ones she made when she thought no one could hear. These were different—quieter, shallow—as if she didn’t know how to process what had just happened.

I stood there, waiting. After a few minutes, she wiped the tears from her face and looked at me, her expression blank. “We have to move him,” she said.

I thought she would panic or argue, that she would insist on calling someone and explaining what happened.

Instead, she helped me drag his body to the basement.

* * * * * *

Nathan had always been heavy, but now he felt like dead weight in the truest sense of the phrase. His limbs sagged, his head lolled. His skin was cold.

Mom didn’t look at him once as we worked.

When we finally got him down the steps, she stepped back, gripping the railing for support. She was pale, her hands shaking.

“We’ll say he was drunk,” she murmured. “That he fell.”

I nodded.

I could still feel his energy inside me. It hadn’t faded or diminished at all. If anything, it had rooted itself deeper.

I thought killing Nathan would feel like revenge. Like justice.

Again, it felt like power.

I knew then—

I would do it again. I had to.

And nothing was going to stop me.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Mom called the police.

She was good at sounding frantic, at weaving just enough truth into the lie to make it believable. She told the cops she had found Nathan at the bottom of the basement stairs when she woke up, that she had tried to shake him awake before realizing he wasn’t breathing.

The officers bought it.

Nathan had been a drunk. He had a history of stumbling home late, knocking things over, and waking up with bruises he didn’t remember getting. No one questioned it.

By the afternoon, his body was gone.

Just like that, he had been erased.

That night, Mom sat at the kitchen table, staring at the blank space where Nathan’s chair used to be.

She had scarcely spoken all day.

I watched her from the doorway, waiting for her to say something—anything. I expected a conversation about what I had done, about what would happen next. Instead, she sighed and rubbed her temples.

“We’re free,” she whispered.

The words didn’t sound happy.

I stepped into the room. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but I didn’t believe her. For the first time, I wondered what she would do if she knew the truth. If she knew I had killed him with a touch.

Would she still look at me the same way?

I thought about telling her, about slipping the ring off and placing it in her hand, letting her feel its weight.

Maybe she should have it, I thought. Maybe it would make her feel safe, for once.

But as I stood there, watching the way her shoulders curled inward, the way her fingers trembled against her temples, I knew I wouldn’t give it up.

She didn’t need to know.

Nathan was gone, and that was all that mattered.

I went to my room, with the ring still on my finger, and shut the door behind me.

I hadn’t taken it off since last night.

I turned it over, watching the way the dim light reflected off its surface.

I had spent so much time fearing what it could do. Now, I understood its purpose.

Nathan had been the first person I had truly chosen to kill.

But I knew, without a doubt, he wouldn’t be the last.

Part V

Nathan’s funeral was small.

No family came. No coworkers. Just a few of Mom’s friends, whispering among themselves, stealing glances at me when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Mom didn’t cry. She sat stiffly in the front row, hands folded in her lap.

The funeral director spoke as if Nathan had been an upstanding man. A devoted husband. A respected member of the community. I almost laughed.

The man in the casket had been none of those things.

And now, he wasn’t anything at all.

Life moved on quickly.

The police didn’t ask questions. The official report ruled it an accident, just a drunk who had finally met the consequences of his own carelessness.

Mom spent more time out of the house, going on long walks, as if she didn’t know what to do with her newfound freedom. She rarely spoke, and when she did, it was never about Nathan.

I gave her space. I had my own things to think about.

At night, I lay awake, tracing my fingers over the ring. I hadn’t taken it off since the night I killed Nathan. At first, I had told myself I would. That I would bury it somewhere, lock it away, forget about it—but I never did. Without it, I felt less.

The energy I had absorbed was still there, humming beneath my skin, but I knew it would fade eventually. I didn’t want that to happen.

I had gotten a taste of something bigger.

And I wasn’t ready to let it go.

* * * * * *

The first time I killed again, it was an accident. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

A mugger had cornered an old man outside the gas station. He had a knife and was yelling, demanding the guy’s wallet. I had already stepped forward before I even realized what I was doing.

The mugger turned toward me, his face twisted in a snarl. He grabbed my sleeve.

It took less than five seconds.

His body sagged. His skin turned gray. His pupils widened in shock before his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the pavement.

The old man gasped and stumbled back. “What the hell—”

I didn’t stick around to answer. I ran.

But the rush stayed with me, thrumming inside me. The energy I had taken from the mugger blended with Nathan’s, like a fresh jolt to a circuit already overloaded.

I told myself it was justified. That there was now less criminal in the world. One less problem.

The second time, it was easier.

He was a guy from school—Derrick Price. A bully. The kind who laughed too loudly in class, shoved smaller kids into lockers, and made life hell for anyone weaker than him.

I saw him outside a party, standing alone, drunk and swaying on his feet. I barely even thought about it.

He called me a freak, slurring the words, and I reached for his shoulder. His eyes widened.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

After that, I stopped pretending. I told myself I was being careful, that I wasn’t just killing for no reason. That the people I picked were violent and cruel, and that they wouldn’t be missed. That I was helping.

But over time, the definition of who deserved it became looser. I stopped hesitating—and started choosing.

And I loved it.

* * * * * *

Mom knew something was wrong.

She never said it out loud, but I could see it in the way she looked at me. It was in the way she avoided my gaze when I walked into the room, the way she flinched when I passed too close.

The news was talking about the deaths now—unexplained, sudden. They didn’t call it murder. They didn’t know how to classify it.

But Mom was starting to put the pieces together.

I came home late one night, and she was waiting for me. She was standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed, her face pale.

“You did this,” she whispered.

I set my bag down slowly. “Did what?”

She took a step closer. Her whole body was shaking. “The people. The ones who keep dying. It’s you, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer.

Tears filled her eyes. “What did you do, Edward?”

I had never seen her this afraid before. Not even when Nathan was alive.

Something inside me cracked.

She stepped toward me, and I moved back.

“Mom,” I said carefully. “You don’t understand. Stay back.”

She didn’t listen. She reached for my wrist.

The second her fingers closed around me, the ring reacted.

Her body went rigid, and the color drained from her face. Her fingers locked around my arm as if she was trying to hold onto something—anything—long enough to fight it.

I screamed and tried to pull away, but it was too late.

Her legs gave out.

I caught her, lowering her gently to the kitchen floor.

Her lips parted in a silent plea, and her eyes locked onto mine—wide with shock, pain, and betrayal.

And then she was gone.

* * * * * *

I sat there for a long time, screaming and sobbing, her body cradled in my arms.

The now-familiar warmth rushed into me, stronger than ever. Her life, her love, everything that made her her—the ring took it all. Her kindness, her patience, her quiet strength. The woman who had endured so much for so long was gone.

I felt her energy seep into my skin, filling me with something massive—something at once horrifying, unbearable, soul-crushing—and magnificent.

It made me sick.

I had killed Nathan without hesitation. I had killed strangers without guilt.

But this was different. This was Mom.

I looked down at my hands, at the ring that still sat snugly on my finger.

I had convinced myself I was in control, but I had been wrong.

I had never been in control at all.

Part VI

I don’t know how long I sat there before I finally moved.

Gently, I brushed a strand of hair from my mother’s face. She looked peaceful, like she was sleeping.

I stood up, unsteady on my feet. The ring was still snug on my finger. I stared at it, my stomach twisting, and looked again at the woman who had birthed me, cared for me, taught me everything I knew.

She wasn’t coming back.

I vomited, over and over again, until there was nothing left. Until I was reduced to a sobbing, hyperventilating shell of a man, writhing in agony on the kitchen floor.

From the moment I found it, the ring had whispered its promises of power, feeding the hunger I hadn’t even known I had. It had given me everything, and in return, I had let it strip away what little humanity I had left.

It didn’t belong on me anymore.

It didn’t belong anywhere.

It was too much power for anyone to hold, let alone me.  Especially me.

* * * * * *

The bridge was empty this time of night.

I stood at the edge, looking down at the black water below.

The ring still hummed against my skin, its warmth flickering like dying embers.

I knew what it wanted. It wanted me to keep going, to take more—to become something worse than I already was.

Maybe, if I had never killed Mom, I would have listened. But I had. And there was no coming back from that.

I took a deep breath, slid the ring from my finger, and hurled it into the water.

I expected to feel something as it vanished beneath the surface. Relief. Regret. Fear.

But there was nothing.

Only emptiness.

* * * * * *

I walked into the police station just before sunrise.

The officer at the front desk barely looked up. “What can I do for you?”

I opened my mouth, but for a second, nothing came out.

This was it. The last decision I would ever make for myself.

“My name is Edward,” I said finally, swallowing hard. My voice felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else.

I looked the officer in her eye, tears brimming in mine.

“My name is Edward Hartwell,” I repeated, “and I need to confess to a murder.”