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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SubstantialBite788 on 2024-10-26 04:01:10+00:00.

I received a friend request from an odd lady who called herself the Patron Saint of Murder, a cute, petite brunette with shadowy green eyes, and pearl white skin. Her profile stood outside the bounds of my carefully constructed list of acceptable attributes.

I’m usually very careful about who I accept as an online friend, discerning what I can from available photos. My friend list numbers no more than three hundred, a ceiling I strictly adhere to. Three hundred is a good round number, a reasonable circle of influence, an audience easy to follow and respond to. I have made mistakes, accepting those obsessed with politics or religion, or recording every single monotonous, dull moment of their lives, from what they eat to when they shit. Those are grounds for a quick and decisive unfriending.

Her real name was Cassidy… well, at least that’s how she finally introduced herself. Who knows? Maybe her name was Karen or Dawn. I was just relieved when she finally stopped insisting on me referring to her by that ridiculous epithet. Her posts were disgusting and off-putting. It was a constant recital of murderous statistics and tidbits of information regarding some of the worst serial killers in history. More than once had I pondered pushing the delete button, but I admit I was attracted to her.

In private she was more subdued, actually a bit charming. She messaged me at first and in time we were talking regularly on the phone. Unlike her public posts, we never talked of murderers, killers, or historically insane dictators. We talked mostly about me. She was intensely interested in everything I had to say, delving deeper into each sentence I professed about my life or my desires. She never seemed bored; always expressed a desire to talk about nothing but me. Often, I would try to turn the discussion to her and inquire about who she was and where she came from, what did she like, and what did she like to do for fun. She never acquiesced and always turned the conversation back to me. She had sufficiently buttered me up. And then one day she made a proposal.

“Why don’t you come out to Texas? I’d love to hang out with you?”  

My stomach churned. I didn’t have the courage to meet her in person, to walk up to her, strutting my massive stature of five foot, four inches of pitiful disappointment. An online relationship is all I desired, where I could feign a more than average height and yet, I found myself agreeing to fly out to Austin, Texas to hang out with her.

Flight M314 to Austin was boarding, one last chance to back out.

Quit being a coward, I told myself. If she doesn’t like you, then C’est la vie. Is that the saying? It’s fucking life, just live it.

Determined, I boarded the plane and took my seat, convinced that I would enjoy myself, if only to travel and see a state I had never seen.

My diminutive size can sometimes be a blessing, especially when forced to sit in the middle seat, the only seat available when buying a ticket at the last minute, the expense unreasonably beyond what it’s worth, crammed between two filthy strangers. I could sit comfortably enough, but I hate when their arms touch my arms.

I squeezed past the bodybuilder sitting in the aisle seat and plopped down next to the obnoxious lady sitting in the window seat.

“I swear Julie if Bob doesn’t change that presentation, I’m gonna lose it. He is going to get a mouthful from me.” Unfortunately, I had to hear her mouthful all throughout boarding. I prayed that the remainder of the passengers would hustle up, toss their bags in the overhead bin, and sit the hell down, so we could get through the safety spiel and get in the air, whence all phone calls would have to cease and I would no longer have to listen to this lady yap and yammer about Bob, whom I was beginning to sympathize with. Poor fucking Bob.

But of course, boarding is long and tedious. The final passenger made a stink about not getting the seat she wanted. She was a robust woman in her fifties with long blond hair, streaming down to the small of her back. She wore skin-tight black spandex and a concert tee shirt, with long dangling earrings.

“I was supposed to be in D15,” she shouted. The number shocked me. I had dodged a bullet, or I had hoped so, for if she were to convince the flight attendant otherwise, the middle-aged teenage wannabe would be sitting right next to me.  

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to take your seat or exit the plane,” explained the flight attendant.

The blonde pushed aside the flight attendant and bent her head down close to the bodybuilder’s face. “You’re in my seat,” she said with a scowl. Then she turned and looked at me with a big wide smile and waved. “Hi babe.” She then walked away and peacefully took her assigned seat.

The voice sounded familiar. No, it couldn’t be, but then again, it sounded just like her. It sounded like Cassidy. I reasoned otherwise. She wouldn’t be on the plane. She’s in Texas waiting in the airport. Why would she drive or fly to Nashville only to take a flight right back to Texas? I pushed the thought out of my head. It was simply coincidence. There are billions of people and there’s bound to be several that sound alike.

The plane accelerated and lifted off the ground, pushing my nervous stomach against the back of my seat. The Bob-hating businesswoman next to me immediately fell asleep, like a baby in a car, her head smashed against the window, mouth wide open. She snored, grunted, and grumbled. Lord knows she was dreaming about giving Bob all the hell he deserved.

The pilot announced that we were cruising at 34,000 feet and that he was turning off the seat belt sign. We were free to roam about the cabin.

“I got to piss,” the bodybuilder mumbled to himself. He got up out of his seat like an overturned turtle, swinging his bulky biceps, twisting and turning to free his large body. He elbowed me twice, once in the shoulder, and another in the temple. “Sorry man. Damned plane ain’t made for people like me.”

Finally free, the bodybuilder dashed up the aisle, unintentionally hitting everyone he passed, trying his best not to piss his pants.

The blonde poked her head up and looked back. A smile flashed across her face. She looked with delight at the empty seat next to me. She sashayed down the aisle singing loud a song only she could hear. She squeezed into the empty seat next to me.

“I love this song.” She pulled out her ear bud and clumsily shoved it in my ear. Thrashing metal rang through my head, chaotic distortion pounded through my ear canal. She yanked the ear bud out of my ear. “That’s the shit right there. I’m psyched Dave. Oh man, we’re going to have fun.” I turned and looked at her in shock.

“It’s me, Cassidy.” She leaned over and whispered, “The Patron Saint of Murder.” She bellowed out a sonorous laugh, more like a lumberjack than a dainty little woman.

“But…,” I tried to interject.

“I thought you were going to catfish me, but you look exactly like your profile. A little shorter than I imagined but cute. You’re a cutie Dave. I’m so glad you didn’t fucking lie.”

I looked at her in disbelief, the hypocrisy of her statement astounded me.

“Ah, I see, but did I catfish you? Well Dave, yes and no. You see I can’t take pictures of myself. A condition I have. No matter how hard I try, there’s not a camera in the world that can capture my image, so I just grab a picture of someone I would like to be. It’s not a falsehood, but more of a handicap,”

“Ma’am, you’re in my seat,” interrupted the bodybuilder.

“You can have my seat. I’m talking to my man. We couldn’t get seats together. You understand.” She turned, ignoring the bodybuilder as he put his hands in the air in disbelief.

“Well ma’am I would have gladly switched seats if you would have asked, but now I’m not feeling so nice. Get out of my seat or I’ll pull you out.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up out of the seat. Cassidy grabbed his lower jaw and the back of his head and violently twisted. There was a loud, sharp crack. The bodybuilder’s head went limp, his chin lying flat against his back, the back of his head situated above his chest. The body slumped and fell on top of Cassidy. She slung it off and on top of the passengers sitting in the adjacent row.

Screeching, hollering, and screaming ensued. A domino of fear fell across the interior of the plane. “Terrorists,” a man yelled. “Get her, she killed a man.” “Who? Who killed who?” There was confusion and pandemonium, a pointing of fingers, and an unsuccessful attempt to identify the assailant.

Cassidy happily revealed herself. The flight attendant approached the melee trying to calm the situation and figure out what was happening. She had no idea that there was a dead bodybuilder laying heavily across three poor weak passengers.

“What’s happening? Please remain calm and get back to your seats.”

Cassidy seized her by the hair and pulled her head down. She then bit into her neck, shaking her head from side-to-side. She ripped out a chunk of meat and flesh, spit it out, and went in for another bite. Bite after bite she tore into the flight attendant’s neck, nearly severing her head from her shoulders. The nearby seats were awash with blood.

All the while the nearest passengers were pleading for someone to do something, but fear had paralyzed us all for Cassidy’s appearance had changed. Her eyes were a sickly yellow and her blonde hair had fallen off revealing a bald pale blue skul…

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