It was just a typical girls vacation–the four of us holed up in some hotel complex built in the ’60s with wraparound walkways overlooking an unused pool, cavorting around town shopping and eating and ordering drinks with sexy names and making eyes at young waiters and laughing like dizzy hyenas on holiday.

It’s all fun and games, and only the credit cards get abused.

That is, until the serial killer decided to tag along.

Of course, we didn’t KNOW he was a serial killer at first; he just seemed like a weird guy. Latched on to me–probably because I tend to be extra-nice to psychopaths, treating them as “normal” because I believe this is the best way to keep myself from becoming dead. Which happens to be a hobby of mine.

So we did our thing, having a great time, and every night the serial killer would show up at our hotel room. I’d talk to him like there was nothing unusual about this, I’d ooze stability in word and manner, and I think he genuinely liked me. I didn’t feel like I was in danger. . . but I didn’t let my guard down, either.

Because you just never know about serial killers. Obviously they don’t kill everyone they meet. It’s just once in a while, they snap. . .

. . . as in, your head off.

I could tell my friends were starting to get creeped out, too nervous about dying on a cheap hotel bedspread to properly enjoy their Screaming Orgasm or their Bend Over Shirley. Of course we’d figured out by this time that he was, in fact, the serial killer; and if I’m being completely honest, we’d had about enough shopping by that point, anyway. We had begun working with hotel management and the FBI to set a trap.

Even though I don’t watch many crime shows, I realized that this made my situation that much more precarious. . . everyone knows that pretending to befriend, and then screwing over, a serial killer is a good way to get on his bad side.

Treating this guy as though I had no idea he enjoyed administering horrific torture and slow death was my defense mechanism–and it seemed to confuse him, so that was cool.  However, my friends are wired a bit more conventionally and possess the survival instinct and common sense to just get the hell away.

Either way, we wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade for long.

On our last night, I noticed him outside the hotel room.  The girls huddled in the bathroom with the lights off. The serial killer knocked and moved toward the railing to wait. I could see him through the gap in the curtains; he seemed nervous, twitchy. Maybe it was just me. I didn’t answer the door.

He tried the doorknob. I could hear him fiddling at the lock; watched him trying to peek in the window; fully expecting access to the woman who had been so nice all along. And maybe he genuinely thought he had made a friend. Then again, maybe he thought making me his bend-over Shirley would give him a screaming orgasm.

As the cops closed in on the serial killer, my friends and I escaped down the back stairwell. They put him in a large, black, radioactive box labeled “CANCER”–a preemptive measure in case the charges didn’t stick. I could feel his eyes on me in the parking lot, but I didn’t look.