They can't just kill one person. Oh, no. They kill two, three, ten, and they keep going until the body count mounts or until they're stopped. They become compulsive about it. It must be done in a proper way. A certain organ must be harvested. A cipher needs to be painted on the ceiling above the body. The kill must be completed with a homemade weapon: a set of teeth made from bone spurs or a makeshift ax forged out of junkyard metal. Some have their victims and will not stray: they only kill liars, lustful teens, corrupt cops, beautiful people, pedophiles, perverts, prostitutes, cops, or housewives. Some just don't care. They'll kill anybody. Anywhere. A horror house with bodies stacked to the goddamn rafters.
Sometimes, the killing changes them. It's like a switch. Except, instead of turning something on, it's turning something off. A light, maybe. A part of one's self, of one's soul. A place inside goes dead — or, hell, maybe it was dead long ago. Maybe it was never alive in the first place. And out of that darkness rises power. From the void comes secret power that couples the endless urge to kill with supernatural might or monstrous cunning. Soon, the killer cannot be stopped by bullets. Or maybe his words become truly honeyed, sliding into the ear canals and the brains of his victims like a little snake: could be that, as long as he uses his trusty crowbar, his kills are always perfect, always immediate.
The slasher. A perfect predator. Society's modern bogeyman. Part human, part... something else.
—Hunter: The Vigil: Slasher
