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First editorial edition: September 9, 2025

Ediciones Tec de Monterrey

Av Eugenio Garza Sada 2501 Sur, Tecnológico, 64700 Monterrey, N L wwwedicionestec mx

Dirección editorial: Caleb Alberto Orta Curti, Ricardo Hernández Delval

Producción: Luz Daniela Cárdenas Rodríguez

Impresión: Tec de Monterrey

ISBN-13: 978-1-23456-789-7

All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission of the publisher

Printed in Mexico

The scariest monsters are not born in the shadows–They are raised at the dinner table, hiding behind familiar smiles.

Index:

Story 1: The Poet Killer

Story 2: The Bruiser

Story 3: The pyre

The Poet Killer

I didn’t know I was laying in bed with a monster. Many people wonder how I never noticed that I was dating a serial killer Everyone is quick to judge, yet every single one of them would feel compassion if they heard the story of a traumatized man willing to open his heart Why do I say this? Because in today’s world, emotionally open men are rare, and when you are longing for an honest, genuine connection with someone, you desperately want to see the best in them And if that man has the talent of luring you with his words, then anyone thirsty for real, emotional love is captive of their words

After it was revealed that he was “The Poet Killer”, a local serial killer who terrorized people in our town for over a decade; leaving riddles and rhymes at his crime scenes, everyone was in shock But for me, something just clicked. It made perfect sense. I could clearly see him being the kind of person who uses words to control people A talent I once mistook for charm Once I found out, I saw it clear as day, but I'll forever be haunted by how I could have been so blindly attracted, so convinced that he was incapable of doing such a monstrous act.

I used to hear rumors about The Poet’s crimes, how he always tortured his victims and left them lying naked on their beds, always with a note beside the body One of his riddles that stuck with me the most was left behind at Clara Knowles’s crime scene Clara was an important woman in town: she was a judge, and she had many enemies. If it wasn’t for the note that clearly revealed her murder was a work of The Poet, anyone in town could have killed her She had a history of corruption and no one believed she was the right person to judge others; everyone saw her as a hypocrite, and she had a habit of abusing her power

The note he left behind that day was written with the same wrath as the others, but the reason it stuck with me the most was because I kind of agreed with him I hated myself for it at ﬁrst, for thinking she had it coming. After some silence, a shameful part of me understood him; the lives she ruined, the justice she used to twist for her own gain – the harder it became to see her as a victim “I spoke justice from a gilded throne, Yet my place was built on a bed of bone. You come to me now, to hear your ﬁnal plea, But the verdict I gave you was what you gave to me ”

Clara had messed up many people’s lives, but the person who I knew had been wrongly convicted by her was Keith’s childhood best friend, Tim Preston When Keith and I first started dating four years ago, we spent countless nights sharing our lives with each other. It was during one of these conversations that Keith first told me about Tim They were 18 at the time when a drive-by shooting shattered their world. A woman was killed, and with no solid leads, the police were under pressure to find a culprit. Out of the blue, they picked up Tim from his street and took him in, accusing him of the murder

There was no substantial evidence to connect him to the crime. Yet, because he was a poor kid, Clara saw him as an easy target She wrongfully declared him guilty just to close the case, sacriﬁcing an innocent life for her own career. Keith felt a void open up, the day Tim was convicted. He told me that in that moment, he saw Clara not as a person, but as a problem to be solved, a ﬂaw in the system that had to be corrected He said he would give anything to take everything from her With my naive understanding of anger, I thought he meant her reputation, her career. I never imagined that he would take her life

Keith had a twisted sense of justice It’s hard to believe it took me so long to realize that all of the people who were murdered were somehow connected to a traumatic story from his childhood The ones he used to tell me in our late-night conversations. I listened, believing he was opening his heart and sharing his past, not confessing the motives of his kills Now, a shiver goes down my spine every time one of his stories pops back up into my head.

It was a cold November morning, and Keith hadn’t come home that night This wasn’t something unusual. I had learned long ago not to question him on his whereabouts, a silent understanding had become our routine

Keith was always a gentleman, charming and attentive to me Yet, I always sensed a deep obscurity within him, an inexplicable darkness At times it was unnerving and made me fearful, but other times, in a sick way that same darkness made me feel safe. I didn’t quite comprehend why, but it was a duality I came to terms with

My acceptance, however, did not prepare me for the morning that followed Hell, I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what happened that morning I turned on the kitchen radio and heard on the news that “The Poet” had ﬁnally been captured. Pressure built behind my eyes when I heard the name “Keith Randall” come out of that reporter’s mouth I could barely walk, so I dragged myself to the kitchen sink. Nausea overtook me, and I barely made it before everything came up.

I collapsed into the kitchen ﬂoor and dialed his number with shaking ﬁngers, over and over, until my phone died. I was hoping he’d pick up, and tell me that everything I heard on the news was a lie Every time, it went to voice mail,

“Hey

it’s Keith Randall, leave a message after the tone….”

Hearing his voice, so calm and tender as ever, made me wonder if I was hearing the voice of a murder or the voice of the man I so deeply loved After several hours, I couldn’t tell anymore

From that day on, I spent every waking moment, and countless sleepless nights, reviewing every single one of The Poet’s murders, realizing how every single one aligned with the days Keith’s behavior grew more erratic. For instance the day before Mr. Webber, Keith’s old science teacher who sexually harassed him in 10th grade, was found dead in his bedroom next to a note from The Poet

Keith had been walking around with a notebook, mumbling, trying to ﬁnd a word that rhymed with “eﬀect” Desperate for him to stop, I shouted “debt”

The next day on the paper I read:

“You thought the truth was for you to hide, A poisoned lesson deep inside But every cause has its effect, A final specimen, a final debt.”

I could have never imagined, in that moment, that I was helping The Poet write a riddle for his next murder or did I?

Did I actually know what was going on, but was too scared to face it? Did he think I knew, after all his subtle confessions during our late night talks? And was I sending the wrong message by staying silent, by never questioning where he was on those cold late nights that he didn’t come to bed?

Was I… an accepting accomplice?

Until this day, when I close my eyes before falling asleep, I can still hear him, reciting rhymes in the dark, and sometimes, I ﬁnd myself agreeing with them.

The Bruiser

Sometimes, I truly think it was my fault that he became a killer I tried so hard to amend my mistakes before it was too late. Garrett’s childhood was a rough one. Garrett’s father, Elan, was a heavy drinker, and his drinking only worsened as the years went by Garrett was a very hyperactive child and would often get into trouble–nothing out of the ordinary, just typical kids stuﬀ Elan would get annoyed by every little thing Garrett did. He had no patience, and his heavy drinking–well, it never belonged in our home

He grew more aggressive over time, and whenever his drinking and Garret crossed paths, it was always Garrett who paid the price I remember once, when Elan found out Garrett had skipped school, he ﬂew into a rage and beat him brutally. I was never good with confrontation, never good at speaking up for anyone, not even for myself But whenever I saw Elan messing with Garrett, I knew I had to do something, he was my baby.

I always tried to shield him, wrapping my arms around him as if I could absorb the pain meant for him. But it never felt like enough. It got to the point where the only connection Garret had with his father was through bruises, dark marks that spoke louder than words

When I got pregnant with Garrett, I dreamed of a beautiful family, a home ﬁlled with love and laughter But with each angry strike, that dream slipped further away I always believed a boy needed his father, but after a while, I knew Garrett was better oﬀ without that monster.

One hot summer night, after Elan had spent the day drinking as usual, I quietly woke Gary, my heart pounding with fear and hope I whispered to him that we had to leave, that we were escaping the nightmare before it swallowed us whole And so we left, leaving everything behind I never looked back. Oh, what I would give to go back to that moment, when Gary was still my delicate, sweet child, and I was an emotional wreck, desperate to give him the life he deserved How naive I was then, believing that my love alone could protect him from the darkness his father was quietly unleashing and from the damage that had already been done

After the call I got two months ago, I haven’t stopped replaying those years in my mind, trying to make sense of what that detective told me

“We have your son ma ’ am ” It made no sense. Garrett called me twice a week, without fail. He always asked how I was, listened to me ramble about work, my back pain, the loud neighbors that moved in next door I used to worry about him, that he worked too much, didn’t have many friends, and he never brought a girl home I worried he’d end up alone

“We found 10 bodies.”

He wasn’t a big talker, but he made me feel heard Such a great listener, but I always wished he’d open up more.

“He confessed to the murders”

Oh, Garrett My Garrett My baby what have you done?

I know I made mistakes I was terriﬁed of standing up to Elan–but I did, eventually Maybe too late God knows I tried to raise Garrett with love. I gave him everything I could. But the bills still had to be paid, and someone had to keep the lights on I was gone more than I wanted to be, long working hours, late night shifts, just so he could have a roof over his head and a belly full

And Elan I should’ve left him sooner I knew I should have But fear became routine, I found strange comfort in his violence, and I started telling myself that surviving was the same as protecting I just never imagined that staying, even for a little too long, would lead to this

On the news they called him “The Bruiser.” My stomach still turns every time I hear that name, like it doesn’t belong to the boy I raised They said that his victims were younger boys and they were found heavily bruised, bodies beaten beyond recognition. As the news reporter kept talking, I could feel in my body every single punch those poor boys took, echoing through my body like fresh wounds

I was informed that his trial would be in a few weeks I honestly couldn’t bring myself to attend. It took me back to the day of Garrett’s high school graduation. To be able to make it to the ceremony, I had to pick two extra night shifts, which allowed me to take the day off The ceremony was beautiful, and I was incredibly proud of my son However, on the way back home, Garrett seemed resentful, so I asked him what was wrong. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the window. I started rambling like any mother would about how he had to be grateful of the opportunities he’s had and how I’ve done so much to ensure he succeeds in life. That was the first time I perceived Garrett’s darkness “Enough mom, I don’t need to hear about it ” He yelled at me “What’s wrong with you Garrett?” I was confused and offended by how he reacted “You are always here, but he never is ” Hearing him say this broke me. How could he still miss him? After everything he went through with his father, he had still had a bigger impact on him than what I did

For the ﬁrst time I decided that I would not show up for him Nothing I could ever do would actually matter to him Maybe he resented me for not standing up for him when I had to, but I will not allow him to publicly despise me in his trial just like he did at the graduation. But I am still his mother and I was able to see beneath the wrath and violence Beneath it all, I still saw my sweet, fragile, boy who spent countless silent nights hiding in fear. Deep down, I know he still is that scared child, desperate for someone to recognize the pain buried beneath his fury

I understand now how he was trying to make sense of the cruelty imposed on him, how he was trying, in his own twisted way, to reconnect with the only man he had as a role model And yet, I

can’t help but wonder, how did the love of a mother fail to break through the twisted bond he formed with his father? How was trauma stronger than the love I gave him

I don’t think I will ever understand the demons that haunted his mind, that twisted him into someone capable of performing those atrocious acts The wounds of our past cut far too deep I always believed that together, we could rise above it, that our love was stronger than the pain that consumed us.

He will be my son forever and always, and I will spend the rest of my life carrying the weight of my decisions, regretting the moments I stayed silent, the times I should’ve fought harder, the love that somehow wasn’t enough His pain and mine are intertwined, and I will carry our pain for the rest of our lives And still, against all odds, I will hold on to the hope that somewhere beyond this nightmare, we both might ﬁnd a way to heal from the bruises carved into our souls.

The Pyre

We were raised in the ashes of a broken home She deserved the world, and the world was just too cruel to her. At one point in life, Kayden was everything I had, and I wish I could’ve done more for her I am not saying that what she did was right, but if I were in her position, I'd probably burn it all to the ground too

The place we grew up in was never the safe heaven every child deserves I can’t remember a single memory of our mother in which she was sober. My father was never in the picture. In fact, I don’t even know if Kayden and I share the same one Men came in and out of our lives constantly; my mother couldn’t support her addiction and two kids without getting her hands a little dirty When you have an upbringing like this, it never gets easier, and the chances of escaping are next to impossible. Kayden was only 3 years older than me, but she was my hero She was the one who gave me the opportunity to escape and have a better life.

Our mother’s late-night visitors always came in the dark, when she thought we were unaware She believed that she was protecting us. But what she should’ve feared was the moment one of them realized we existed As I grew older, I realized these scary, sick men probably found Kayden on their way out, and our mother was too out of it to help her.

One night, we were watching the movie Carrie, over at the neighbor’s house since we didn’t have a TV. At the end, when Carrie is disrespected at the prom, she creates a huge chaos, burning everything to the ground I can imagine a 12-year-old Kayden related to Carrie, connecting with the same feelings of being utterly alone and humiliated. That same night, I was woken up by Kayden and the agonizing smell of smoke We both ran out of the small house But mom– high on her usual drug cocktail before bed– never made it out the door

When the ﬁre department arrived they didn’t really investigate the origin of the ﬁre since nobody cared for that old dump we used to live in, and much less to investigate the death of a woman whose addiction had led her to sell her body, leaving her children to fend for themselves CPS took me and Kayden, and they placed us in separate homes I was devastated when we were separated, and I never saw Kayden again.

At the time, I didn’t grasp what was happening, but I’m incredibly grateful to her now. The ﬂames that consumed our miserable house gave me an escape, they forged my future, they led me to a better life with my adoptive parents. Deep down, I always knew Kayden was the one who set that dump ablaze. It wasn’t an act of destruction–she did it to escape the assault and get us out of that mess we called life What I never understood, what hunts me now, is that she never found another way to be free The ﬁre that saved me became the only solution she ever had.

I hadn’t heard from Kayden since moving with my new family. At first, I wanted to stay in touch, but I was just a ten-year-old kid. Once the adoption was finalized, we moved to a different city, and soon distance became a wall between us My new life started, I was given the fresh start I deserved: high

school, college and a good job. There were moments when a series of painful memories from my past would haunt me, but I’d learned to lean on my new family They gave me the tools to build a diﬀerent future, a life my past couldn’t ruin.

Unexpectedly, I got a call from Kayden about a year ago, twenty years after we last saw each other She said she wanted to talk. A part of me was excited to hear from her, but in a selﬁsh way, I also wanted her to go away I had good things going on for me, and I had buried Kayden with the ashes of my past. But I remembered that it was only thanks to her, what at the time I saw as a fearless act, that I was able to have this new wonderful life What was one conversation against that debt?

When we met up, she revealed a truth I wasn’t prepared for. She didn’t have to say it, I could see it. Life hadn’t been as kind to her as it was to me “I was a teenager, Matt ” she told me with a lump in her throat. “Nobody wanted to take me in. By 18, I was on the street.” Hearing her describe how she was forced back into the very trauma she had burned down our home to escape from, felt like a punch to my gut My good fortune was bought with her suﬀering

She told me she wanted to talk, to see me one last time I didn’t understand why she was saying this; why was she speaking in ﬁnalities? I immediately oﬀered to pull her out of the nightmare, to put her back on her feet “It is too late for me, Matt I know you would and I appreciate that ” She said softly “But I didn’t call for money I just had to see you and know you were okay” Her words were like a shield. At that moment, I understood that thousands of walls stood between us, and she was determined to keep me away from her darkness, with no intention of saving herself

Exactly a week later from my last encounter with my sister, I saw on the news a story titled:

“A suspected woman linked to a series of arson-murders across the country was found dead in a residential ﬁre.”

I couldn’t move Didn’t breathe The image on my screen was blurry surveillance footage It was her “Kayden Knox.” The anchor’s voice kept going: "Authorities have reported Kayden is suspected in at least six cases of arson-related homicides stretching across multiple cities over a period of ten years.”

My mind went blank. The screen showed her name, her face, and her crimes. How she killed at least six men and emptied their bank accounts. Six deaths. Ten years. My hands started to shake. The wonderful life I was so grateful for suddenly felt tainted It was a life bought with the ﬁrst ﬁre she started, a life she never got to have. She had come to me, and I believed I could help her. She never asked for any help, she was saying goodbye

Three weeks later, a letter arrived. I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, and I realized how much time had truly passed We were siblings, but the years had made us strangers I was

opening a letter from a woman I no longer knew. I opened the letter, nervous of what I would ﬁnd inside A single sheet of paper that held a confession and a ﬁnal goodbye from my sister

My beautiful Matt, If you are reading this, it means I am long gone. I really don’t know why I am writing to you. I guess a part of me just needed someone to understand the reason for my actions.

Throughout my life I kept meeting the same kind of men–men who thought they could take whatever they wanted and walk away untouched. It didn’t matter who they were; they all wore the same look in their eyes. Entitlement. Disgust. Power.

The rage never left me Not after that night

That first fire wasn't just an escape. It was the first time I ever felt in control. The fire was a cleansing. It took away everything ugly and only left ashes behind When I needed to make the ugly things go away, the fire was the only way I ever knew how

Don’t grieve for me, Matt. I’ve finally found peace. There is no regret in my heart for what I did–only the reassurance that, in the end, one of those flames carved a better life for you That first fire wasn’t destruction It was an act of love for you

The ones that followed? They were mine. Each one fed my addiction to revenge, to control, to feel something when the world had me go numb. But you were the reason I lit that ﬁrst match.

So live fully Matt And whatever you do, don’t look back Let the ashes lie where they fell What is behind you was for me to burn. What’s ahead is for you to build.”

Goodbye, Kayden

As I read her words, a storm of emotions raged inside me. There was a crushing sadness for the sister I had lost, not only to death, but to a life I could never have imagined The sorrow quickly turned to anger Why would she do this to me? Why drag me into this horrendous secret and leave me to carry the weight of it alone? It was a final selfish act that tainted the fresh start she had supposedly given me And yet, beneath it all, I felt an unsettling happiness A profound relief that the pain she had suffered was finally over. She had found peace, and for all the horror she had caused, I was glad she was no longer in pain

My mind was a battlefield. Part of me wanted to turn the letter over, to bring her truth to light, to find justice for the people she harmed But the other part, the part that remembered my sister, my hero, knew what I had to do. With trembling hands and tears in my eyes, I went to the fireplace and held the paper over the unlit logs The flames that saved me had also taken my sister, and now they will erase the last piece of her darkness I watched the corner of the page curl and blacken, the words fading into smoke. It was my last act of love for her . As the last confession turned to ash, I closed my eyes and remembered that the past was for her to burn, and the future was mine to build