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Gerard John “GJ” Schaefer’s wrote horrifying true-crime fiction—and his “fictional” writing helped convict him of murder. He was convicted of two murders, suspected by authorities of more than two dozen, and frequently boasted that his death toll was higher than eighty—all of them women.

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My blood is spraying everywhere…and I’m still high on acid.

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I was a biology-class frog, my brain severed from my spinal column, pinned down in a steel tray, unable to move or feel.

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These new mental powers could make Wilvert Teeter rich and famous, but he didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted to know for sure what other people were thinking about him.

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She hoped that this holiday season would be the first one in ten years where the tree didn’t burn to the ground before Christmas Day.

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“It is her!” went up a shout from the crowd. “It is the miracle girl! It is the girl who can heal the sick by breaking wind!”

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Garry Cubit was the worst kind of annoying person—the kind who had no idea he was annoying. If you acted annoyed, he’d act surprised, which was even more annoying.

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There would be no cure for his disease. But for Fernita Chemise and the rest of the world’s unsatisfied women, the disease itself was the cure.

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As the morning desert sun began blasting in through the bedroom window of his small stucco cottage, Magnus Gompers started the day the way he always did—by masturbating in bed.

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To his tremendous discomfort, he realized the messages were being sent from his own number…to his own number.