The Monster Inside Isn’t Hiding—You’re Just Not Looking Hard Enough

I’ve written before about the serial killer who lives among us—the one whose name isn’t whispered at barbecues or etched in red across newspaper headlines. They don’t carry a scar across their cheek or own a van full of knives. They don’t lurk in shadows or snarl when they speak. No, the kind I write about walks the dog. They pick up the groceries. They wave to your kids from the front lawn.

And they kill.

Not out of hatred. Not out of hunger. Not even because they enjoy it—though, some might. But because something inside them says now. The moment presents itself, and the inner creature stirs. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t explain itself. It simply acts. When the dust settles, the smile returns, the garbage gets taken out, and the world spins on. No trail of breadcrumbs. No flashing neon sign. Just silence.

This kind of monster is my favourite to write. Not because of the gore—though there is plenty of that in SEETHINGS—but because of what it reveals about us.

The Comfort of the Obvious Villain

We love a clear villain, don’t we?

The slick-haired narcissist. The blood-stained loner. The man with a twitch and a trench coat. Writers—especially in mainstream crime fiction—hand us these archetypes with a flourish. And we take the bait every time because it’s safe. Evil, when made plain, is easy to process. We can loathe it with righteous clarity. The villain says or does something cruel, and boom—we’re free. Our judgment locks in. We’re on the side of good. The line has been drawn.

There’s comfort in that certainty.

Cliché, yes, but efficient. Stories like these allow us to relax in our own perceived goodness. We’d never do that. We’d never become that. We’re nothing like him.

But that comfort is exactly what I seek to rip away.

Subtlety Is Scarier

The villain in SEETHINGS—Mitchell—isn’t one of those clear-cut monsters. He’s educated. Polite. Gifted with a camera and good at conversation. He’s the sort of man you might hire to shoot your wedding or greet at the local Rotary Club breakfast.

There’s nothing in his eyes that tells you he’s anything more than ordinary.

But he’s not ordinary.

That’s what intrigues me: the killer who isn’t hiding but remains invisible anyway. Not because they’ve buried a criminal past or wear some metaphorical mask, but because their violence doesn’t emerge from any known pattern. They don’t tick boxes or follow a textbook. There’s no abuse in their past, no pets buried in the backyard. No slow progression from vandalism to homicide. And yet, the result is the same. People die. Pain is dealt.

You never see it coming. Because, frankly, you’re not supposed to.

That’s the most terrifying part.

The Myth of the Born Monster

I’ve read a hundred stories where the killer had a traumatic childhood. A violent parent. A string of cruelty that escalated. And while those cases exist—no doubt—they’re almost too easy now. Psychology has turned them into tropes. A formula. You spot the bruises, the broken home, the dissociation, and you know what’s coming.

But what if there’s no history?

What if a man or woman goes through life without a single red flag—but still, eventually, kills?

I wanted to explore that silence in SEETHINGS. The possibility that someone can live decades as a decent, functioning member of society and then—snap. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in a cinematic moment of madness. But in quiet, calculated stillness. A flick of the eye. A tightening of the jaw. A decision made, not from rage, but from something far deeper and older.

Instinct.

The Beast Within

Here’s where it gets even more uncomfortable.

I believe there’s something in all of us that’s capable of great destruction. Not necessarily murder—but the capacity to hurt. To defend. To push back, hard, when survival’s on the line. It doesn’t care for laws or morality. It only asks: Am I safe? Am I fed? Will I survive?

I call it the creature. Some call it the id, the beast, the shadow self. Whatever the label, it’s there. Sleeping. Watching. Waiting.

Most of the time, it never surfaces. We’re civilised, after all. But then comes a moment—some violation, some corner turned—and it’s there. Fast. Wordless. Righteous. It doesn’t ask for logic or permission. It simply acts.

In Mitchell’s case, the creature is beautifully cold. It’s not vengeful. It’s not chaotic. It’s calculating, almost surgical. He believes what he does is necessary. A balancing of the scales. A correction.

He doesn’t kill because he enjoys it. He kills because something tells him it’s the right thing to do. The only thing. And that something? It isn’t madness. It’s clarity.

Devolved Civility

We like to think of ourselves as evolved creatures. We believe our laws, our manners, and our empathy are hard-wired. Immutable. But I think they’re learned behaviours. Layers. Peeling those layers back doesn’t take much. Trauma can do it. Hunger. Betrayal. A long, sexless marriage. A thousand small humiliations that build and crack the surface of the self.

We devolve easily.

In Mitchell’s case, that unravelling is slow. Domestic dissatisfaction. Marital disconnection. Emotional abandonment. It doesn’t look dramatic on paper—no shattered bones or screaming arguments. But it wears him down. His photography becomes the outlet. Through the lens, he sees beauty and control. And then one day, he sees justification.

Injustice, to the creature, is a trigger.

We have laws to prevent us from acting on that impulse. But the creature doesn’t acknowledge those laws. It doesn’t understand restraint. It’s all tooth and claw. And when Mitchell unleashes it, there’s no turning back.

No remorse either.

Because in his mind, he’s finally doing what needs to be done. The creature sees through the fog of civility and says: Fix this. Now.

Why It Had to Be SEETHINGS

This idea—of the monster that lives inside all of us—sat with me for years. I saw it in real people. The quietly broken. The passively aggressive. The overly polite. The ones who never raised their voice but seethed under the skin. And I thought: What would happen if their moment came?

That question became SEETHINGS.

I didn’t want a traditional murder mystery. I didn’t want a whodunnit. I wanted a why. Why does someone snap? Why does the creature surface in one man and not another? Is it moral failure? Is it madness? Or is it something we can all feel if we’re pushed far enough?

I needed a character who wasn’t born evil. Who didn’t wear a villain’s mask. I needed someone who walked through life unnoticed, unremarkable, but full of potential.

Mitchell was born from that need.

He wasn’t always a killer. But he was always capable.

That’s what haunts me.

The Reader’s Dilemma

Here’s the twist for the reader: You might actually like Mitchell. You might understand him. You might even agree with some of the choices he makes. That’s not a bug—it’s a feature.

If I’ve done my job right, you’ll feel something uncomfortable stirring in your chest. Not sympathy. Not pity. But recognition.

You’ll think: I’ve felt that kind of rage.

You’ll remember a moment where someone pushed too far, said too much, or dismissed you too easily.

You’ll feel the creature twitch.

And you’ll wonder what separates you from him.

That’s the line I love to walk as a writer. Not the gory detail or the body count—but the psychological blur. The moral confusion. The part where good people feel dark things and don’t know what to do with them.

If stories are supposed to reflect the human condition, then SEETHINGS is a cracked mirror. The kind that distorts and reveals. The kind you don’t want to look into—but can’t help yourself from staring at.

The Serial Killer Next Door

So, yes, I’ve written before about the killer in the community—the invisible one. The man or woman you’d never suspect. Not because they’re clever. Not because they’re hidden. But because you’ve been trained to look for monsters in the wrong places.

They don’t wear blood. They wear beige.

They don’t bark. They whisper.

They don’t stand out. They fit in.

I prefer these killers not just because they’re more realistic, but because they force us to confront the idea that evil doesn’t live in shadows. It lives in familiarity. It lives in the everyday. It lives in us.

That’s why I wrote SEETHINGS. Not to glorify violence. Not to demonise marriage. But to expose that uncomfortable truth: the line between man and monster is thinner than we think.

And sometimes, all it takes is a look, a word, a moment—to cross it.

–Michael (Dark fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)