i had a dream

There was a man named Dexter Morgan. By day, he was everything you would expect from a respectable member of society: quiet, neat, reliable. He smiled just enough, laughed when he was supposed to, and never once raised suspicion in the bright sunlit hours. But at night, the streets of Bay Harbor whispered his other name—the Bay Harbor Butcher.

No one knew who he was, or even what he looked like. They only knew what he left behind: a chilling absence. A co-worker who failed to show up for work. A neighbor’s car left in the driveway, unmoved for days. A strange silence where voices used to be. The city spoke of a shadow moving among them, one that didn’t strike loudly, but silently and without warning.

His methods were cleaner than anyone had seen before. He left no chaos, no blood splattered across the walls, no bodies slumped where they fell. Instead, it was as if people simply vanished into the night air, erased with surgical precision. Fishermen claimed the ocean had become his dumping ground, the water swallowing his secrets whole.

The police gave him a name, trying to cage the fear in words: the Bay Harbor Butcher. They chased him through theories and evidence that always led nowhere. Every time they thought they were close, they realized they were already three steps behind. It was as though he knew their playbook, as though he was one of them.

And perhaps that was the most terrifying part—he blended in. He stood among them, unnoticed, shaking hands and making small talk, maybe even offering advice on the very crimes he committed. At the coffee shop, he might have been the man behind you in line. At the gas station, he might have been pumping fuel beside you. Always there, always unseen.

Some swore they felt his presence before he chose them. A sudden chill in the room. The flicker of a streetlight. A subtle shadow on the wall that didn’t quite match. They described the sensation not of being attacked, but of being studied, measured like a puzzle piece in a larger pattern only he understood.

What made him most frightening wasn’t rage or madness—it was calm. He didn’t kill for frenzy or spectacle. He killed as though it were part of his daily routine, a task to be done neatly, like washing dishes or filing paperwork. There was no passion in it, only purpose.

The ocean grew heavier with his secrets. Some nights, locals said you could hear strange splashes far off the pier when the moon was high. Other times, fishermen swore their nets dragged across things best left untouched. But in the morning, there was never proof—only the growing sense that the sea itself had become his accomplice.

Stories spread quickly, and the Bay Harbor Butcher became a ghost in the minds of Bay Harbor’s residents. Parents whispered his name to keep their children inside at night. Officers patrolled with their radios tight to their sides, though they secretly doubted they’d ever catch him. For every story told, another person disappeared.

And through it all, Dexter Morgan lived quietly among them, polite and unassuming, a face you’d forget in an instant. Yet when the sun went down, the shadow of the Bay Harbor Butcher rose once more, reminding the city that true horror doesn’t always roar or rage—it sometimes wears a smile, nods politely, and walks past you in broad daylight.

TLDR: He knows

This one requires medium ball knowledge