THERE’S A SERIAL KILLER UPSTAIRS . . . and other dark meanderings of a mystery writer’s mind

Wed--Kwei

For some 19 years, I lived in a single-family home in Pasadena, CA. Having sold it this year, I’m temporarily renting an apartment as I ponder what to buy and where to live next. There are some advantages to living in a rental property. For example, you don’t pay anyone for maintenance or no-fault repairs, and the plumbing or electrical guy could be at your service in less than an hour.

The view from my balcony

However, for a person like me who relishes complete silence, apartments are noisy: baby crying, dog barking, wheeler luggage going down the corridor, the maintenance cart clattering along the hallway. In a single-family home, there are some disturbances from the neighborhood—e.g., the sanitation trucks on Thursday mornings and the infernal leaf blowers. Still, these are, by and large, predictable and limited, whereas apartment noise is random.

Things that go bump in the night

For several weeks, I’ve noticed heavy footfall from the tenant in the apartment directly above me. The floor plan is the same as my dwelling, so I can pinpoint where they’re walking: from the bedroom to the bathroom and then back to bed, or from the bedroom to the sitting room or kitchen multiple times, back and forth.

Added to this are the sounds of furniture scraping and being moved about and drawers or cabinets repeatedly opening and shutting. Occasionally, there’s a clatter of some kind of hard object on the floor. On Saturday morning last weekend, I was startled to hear explosions from the apartment. It took me a few seconds to realize that the upstairs tenant was playing a video game with a powerful subwoofer speaker at max volume. 

For most normal people, this would merely be a nuisance of living in an apartment setting. But to me, the murder-mystery writer, it’s far more ominous. The tenant—for argument’s sake, let’s assume it’s a male—is, in fact, a serial killer moving dead bodies around, hence all those banging sounds. The loud music on Saturday mornings is to drown out the victims’ screams. The offender likely has a large deep freeze in which he hides the chopped-up body parts. Remember how Dahmer’s neighbor kept telling the police something was up? Well, don’t say I didn’t alert y'all when you hear about it on the 6 o’clock news.

My Bimodal Imagination

Like other murder-mystery writers (you know yourselves), I spend a lot of time figuring out story plots for whatever the current novel is. To do that, we must look at a crime from the murderer’s perspective. How would a killer access the victim? How would the killer escape and cover their tracks? What are the motives and opportunities? 

Then, we must put ourselves in the shoes of the victim. What was their life like? Where were they when murdered? With whom did they make enemies or argue? What were their secrets? 

Life imitates art—and vice versa.

The reason I imagine there’s a serial killer above me is that my line between fiction and reality is--how should I put it?--somewhat indistinct. 

• While seated in a restaurant, I prefer to face a window onto the street in case someone sketchy is approaching with malicious intent, and I often look for an alternative exit route in case something kicks off. 

• Every rusty camper vehicle I see has a dead body in the back, without a doubt. 

All manner of evil lies therein (Image: Shutterstock)

• I love the woods; a corpse or skeleton from a cold case is just around the next tree. 

Murder is indeed everywhere (Image: Leonardo AI)

• All rivers have at least one dumped body that will become a floater before long. 

• All hotels have a fair number of guests engaged in extramarital sex while away from home. 

• Dark, crumbling old buildings are suspicious, as are dark storerooms. Once, when I visited Denmark’s Kronborg Castle, featured in Hamlet, I somehow found my way into a dimly-lit, Authorized Personnel Only area that was off-piste from the typical tourist’s path. And then I discovered the door I’d come in had locked behind me. Oh, crap. I began to sweat. I’m in big trouble. Fortunately, I located another door that allowed me to exit. Phew! One of the guards spotted me and asked what I was doing there. “Um, I got lost,” I muttered and bolted.

Kronborg Castle, Denmark: No way is it not hiding a beheaded skeleton
(Image: Pinterest)

• At the airport, I don’t rule out that the little blue-haired granny ahead of me could be wired with explosives. Which way should I run when she opens her jacket? Even when I'm not spotting criminals, the airport is a good place to make up stories about passengers scurrying back and forth—where do they come from? Do they gamble? Is that perfectly benign-looking guy with a lovely wife and kids talking to his secret lover on the phone?

"Look, I told you, don't call me. I'll call you. Bye."
(Image: Leonardo AI)

My diagnosis

As a physician, I categorize and name everything. So, I asked Chat GPT to give a professional opinion about my state of mind as a mystery writer. This is what it said about me:

A clinical term for this phenomenon could be “fantasy ideation” or “narrative immersion.” However, if it becomes excessive or causes distress, it could overlap with a recognized psychological concept called maladaptive daydreaming.

In the context of a mystery writer, this could simply be considered a heightened form of creative visualization or immersive imagination, which are common traits in creative professionals. It’s only when these thoughts interfere significantly with daily functioning that they might be considered part of a psychological condition.

If you’d like a more literary spin on the term, you could consider “fictional transposition syndrome,” reflecting the blending of fiction and reality in a writer’s mind.

So, now you know the workings of my dark mind. Bouchercon might never have me back.

Shakespeare to My Rescue

Jeff—Saturday

It’s midnight on Thursday, which means 24 hours until my Saturday blog goes live.  Only trouble is, I haven’t written it yet and tomorrow’s a 6AM wakeup call and departure for Charleston, South Carolina, followed by a 24/7 schedule, long in the planning by she-who-must-be-obeyed.

Yep, I blew it. I should have written my post by now, but this week too many things just got in the way…like hypnotic CNN v. FOX coverage of our nation spewing out plot lines for Dystopian Psychotic Romance Thrillers at a Lucy-in-the-candy-factory pace.

So, here I am, having never missed a blog post in seven years—yes, last week was my seventh anniversary among this magnificent crew—facing a decision:  To blog, or not to blog that is the question.

And as if the fates were watching, a thought crossed my mind…of a post I’d published five years ago—almost to the day.  I’d written it as a lark about a year before then, never thinking I’d “publish” it. 

It’s a parody of Hamlet’s self-questioning To be, or not to be soliloquy, and I thought it deserving of a second run—certainly under my current circumstances.  And, so, with that shoddy proffered excuse of an introduction, please come join along with the Bard's suffering hero as we struggle together amid my tortured parody.

Laurence Olivier and Friend

JEFFREY: To blog, or not to blog--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

In despair at most blogs’ outrageous fortune

Or to take pens against our shared troubles

And by exposing end them. To fly, to leap--

To soar—or do we creep away to end

The headache, and the thousand natural blocks

That publish is heir to. 'Tis a consternation

Devoutly to be wished on others.  Weep--

Perchance even scream: But at the very nub

Of a possible death to the dream of some

Is why we suffer at this mortal toil.

Let us pause. There's the respect

That is the balm to a long writing life.

For who would bear the ups and downs of time,

Th' reviewer's wrong and downright contumely,

The pangs of edited work, the pub delay,

The insolence of the press, and its spurns

Showing patient merit worthy of a saint,

When he or she might quiet exit take

To make a living?  Who would deadlines bear,

To grunt and sweat a solitary life,

But that the dread of giving no more breadth

To all those undiscovered thoughts that churn

Our traveling minds, and puzzle our will,

Would make us far more ill by half

Than denying readers what they know not of?

Dedication makes writers of us all,

And a simpler life of remuneration

Is sacrificed to one of words and thought.

Any enterprise giving pitch and moment

To our words, even if currently awry,

We can’t lose in the name of no action.  

So now fair Colleagues, bring on opinions

That our blog be long remembered.

—Jeff

Shakespeare Made Me Do It.

Jeff—Saturday

I wrote this several years ago, but for the life of me I don’t remember ever posting it—perhaps because I had better judgment back then…or at least a better memory.

Though I wrote it as a reflection on the value of the writing life, told through a parody of Hamlet’s classic To Be or Not to Be soliloquy, when I re-read it a day ago I found it reminding me of why we who write must not give in to the pervasive ennui brought on by the seeming hopelessness of our times; but continue to take up arms (and keyboards) against the sea of outrageous inhumanity sweeping across our world, ever mindful that if we do not, insanity waits in the wings for its turn to rule.

JEFFREY: To blog, or not to blog--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

In despair at our blog’s outrageous fortune

Or to take pens against our shared troubles

And by exposing end them. To fly, to leap--

To soar—or do we creep away to end

The headache, and the thousand natural blocks

That publish is heir to. 'Tis a consternation

Devoutly to be wished on others.  Weep--

Perchance even scream: But at the very nub

Of a possible death to the dream of some

Is why we suffer at this mortal toil.

Let us pause. There's the respect

That is the balm to a long writing life.

For who would bear the ups and downs of time,

Th' reviewer's wrong and downright contumely,

The pangs of edited work, the pub delay,

The insolence of the press, and its spurns

Showing patient merit worthy of a saint,

When he or she might quiet exit take

To make a living?  Who would deadlines bear,

To grunt and sweat a solitary life,

But that the dread of giving no more breadth

To all those undiscovered thoughts that churn

Our traveling minds, and puzzle our will,

Would make us far more ill by half

Than denying readers what they know not of?

Dedication makes writers of us all,

And a simpler life of remuneration

Is sacrificed to one of words and thought.

Any enterprise giving pitch and moment

To our words, even if currently awry,

We can’t lose in the name of no action. 

So now fair Colleagues, bring on opinions

That our blog be not dismembered.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

—Jeff

Hamlet had tennis elbow

Shakespeare at Elsinore

I have always been puzzled by Shakespeare’s Hamlet.  If you remember, Claudius was Hamlet’s uncle.  Claudius killed his own brother, Hamlet’s father, and then married Hamlet's mother, Gertrude.  Obviously he did this so he could succeed to the throne, which he did. 

Needless to say, Hamlet was upset.

But what did he do about it? 

Nothing!  He wandered around muttering to himself, even though the ghost of his father told him what had happened.  Any self-respecting prince would have run Claudius through.  But no, Hamlet did nothing.

Why?  That’s the puzzle.

Of course, if Hamlet had just reacted like any hot blooded young man would, the play would have been over before the end of Act 1, which would have ruined Shakespeare’s reputation.  So academics have spent hundreds of years trying to explain Hamlet’s weird behaviour.

Several theories have been advanced over the years trying to explain Hamlet’s reluctance to do Claudius in.  Freud, in his The Interpretation of Dreams, concludes that Hamlet had an Oedipal Complex, and had an Oedipal desire for his mother.  If he killed Claudius, he would then be hurting his mother.  So he held off – and in doing so drove himself mad.

Other interpretations of Hamlet’s behaviour have suggested that he was sexually attracted to his mother.  In the closet scene, where he confronts Gertrude in her private quarters, he is disgusted by her incestuous relationship with Claudius, but is concerned that if he kills Claudius, he would be tempted to sleep with her himself.    

A different type of explanation for Hamlet’s reluctance to kill Claudius suggests that Hamlet is just an ineffectual intellectual.  There is much to support this notion:

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” (Act 2, scene ii)

“To be or not to be: that is the question.” (Act 3, scene i)

Freud also hints that Hamlet couldn’t make a strong decision because Hamlet thinks “he himself is literally no better than the sinner whom he is to punish.”

And Hamlet himself, when he has the opportunity to kill Claudius when he is praying, hesitates because he thinks that someone killed while praying will go to heaven. 

“A villain kills my father; and for that,

I, his sole son, do this same villain send

To heaven.” (Act 3, scene iii)

Of course he still does nothing.

As a recovering academic, I see that all these explanations are meant to dazzle fellow academics, thus hopefully leading to tenure.  But none of them is correct.

I discovered the real truth yesterday when I visited Kronborg Castle in Helsingør (Elsinore) - where all of the action of Hamlet takes place - to commune with the plethora of ghosts who still hang out there.  

Kronborg Castle (Elsinore)

Kronborg Castle (Elsinore) - Sweden in background

Self-portrait at the top of the castle

“Why didn’t Hamlet kill Claudius right away?” I asked the wispy group.  

It was poor Ophelia (in love with Hamlet, but told to reject him by her father Polonius and brother, Laertes) who gave me the reason.

“Don’t believe any of the academic claptrap,” she said.  “It’s simple.  He had tennis elbow and couldn’t use his sword!”

I gasped at this academic sacrilege.

“We used to play a lot of royal tennis in our outdoor court between the moats,” she continued.  “Hamlet was a fiend and liked to win.  Eventually he had to stop because he got a mild case of sunstroke (“I am too much I’ the sun.” Act 1, scene ii), as well as a painful case of tennis elbow.”

Outdoor real (royal) tennis court building

The real (royal) tennis court itself

What caused Hamlet's pain!

“That’s really painful,” I said.  “I had it once, and it lasted for months.”

“Yes.  He became very impatient with the usual heat treatment because the pain didn’t go away.  He would curse and swear at his arm (“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew.” Act 1, scene ii), but his mother kept telling him to be patient (“Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience.” Act 3, scene iv).

“He kept testing to see if the arm had healed.  He used to take hold of me and tried to straighten his arm (“”He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then he goes to the length of all his arm.” Act 2, scene i).  It was pitiful (“And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow, .. . . He raised a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk.” Act 2, scene i).

“In the end, his mother decided to send him south to the warmer climate of England, where he could convalesce.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“It must have worked, because he came back – I wasn’t around then because I'd drowned – and had a fencing match with my brother Laertes.  Poor Gertrude toasted the two of them, but didn’t realize the chalice of wine had been poisoned by Claudius.  So she died.  Laertes didn’t play fair, and tipped his sword with poison.  He scratched Hamlet, who realized what was going on.  He managed to grab Laertes sword and scratch him back.  Then he realized that Claudius was still alive, so he stabbed him and made him drink the poisoned wine just to make sure he died.

"What a mess.  Bodies all over the place!  It would have been much better had Hamlet killed Claudius right away.  Then we would have got married and had kids and lived happily ever after.”

So there you have it – from someone who should know.

Hamlet delayed in killing Claudius, not because of those airy-fairy academic reasons we read about, but because he had tennis elbow.

Stan - Thursday

With Stormy Apologies to Shakespeare

I quit, I surrender.  First Superstorm Sandy, now Nor’Easter Athena.  And I take no consolation whatsoever in this latest assault on my farm coming from a natural disaster named after a Greek god (That’s the little lady’s satellite photo above). 

The new storm is predicted to bring on a heavy wet snow, perfect for bringing down additional trees and power lines and extending the current power outage in my rural, northwestern corner of New Jersey for another two weeks.  To make matters worse, my trusty chainsaw is broken.  God knows how I’ll end up clearing the road of fallen trees so that the propane truck can make deliveries needed to fuel my generator.

Elmer Fudd at work.

All of which is my way of saying that for the time being my mind is consumed with the non-writing aspects of life.  Even the edits to my new book are taking a back seat to Athena.

But there is a bizarre serendipity to it all:  In thinking about this week’s blog I remembered something I’d written as a lark about a year ago about why to write a blog, never thinking I’d “publish” it.  It’s a parody of Hamlet’s self-questioning To be, or not to be soliloquy that asks his famous “whether” question in its second line.  Ironic, I thought, how my weather had me thinking about his.

Laurence Olivier as Hamlet, with friend

Whether/weather everywhere and not a stop to think. [Sorry, Sammy, but I just couldn’t pass up that line.] 

Yes, folks, cabin fever has set in.  Now suffer along with me if you dare…

JEFFREY: To blog, or not to blog--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

In despair at most blogs’ outrageous fortune

Or to take pens against our shared troubles

And by exposing end them. To fly, to leap--

To soar—or do we creep away to end

The headache, and the thousand natural blocks

That publish is heir to. 'Tis a consternation

Devoutly to be wished on others.  Weep--

Perchance even scream: But at the very nub

Of a possible death to the dream of some

Is why we suffer at this mortal toil.

Let us pause. There's the respect

That is the balm to a long writing life.

For who would bear the ups and downs of time,

Th' reviewer's wrong and downright contumely,

The pangs of edited work, the pub delay,

The insolence of the press, and its spurns

Showing patient merit worthy of a saint,

When he or she might quiet exit take

To make a living?  Who would deadlines bear,

To grunt and sweat a solitary life,

But that the dread of giving no more breadth

To all those undiscovered thoughts that churn

Our traveling minds, and puzzle our will,

Would make us far more ill by half

Than denying readers what they know not of?

Dedication makes writers of us all,

And a simpler life of remuneration

Is sacrificed to one of words and thought.

Any enterprise giving pitch and moment

To our words, even if currently awry,

We can’t lose in the name of no action.  

So now fair Colleagues, bring on opinions

That our blog be long remembered.

Jeff—Saturday