🔪The Killer across the Street: A letter from the killer himself

To the Families, the Survivors, and the Screaming Public

You’re still crying, aren’t you?

Still lighting your little candles, clutching onto old photos, and muttering prayers to a God you barely listened to when you had the chance. Pathetic. You all act as if you didn’t see this coming—like monsters aren’t born in your neighborhoods every single day. The only difference between me and every other man on your street is that I didn’t pretend to be something I’m not.

I did what needed to be done.

Your daughters, sisters, and mothers didn’t listen. They talked back. They disrespected me. They forgot their place. And in my house, under my roof, that’s not just unacceptable—it’s unforgivable. I didn’t marry equals. I didn’t ask for opinions. I took in women to serve a role. And when they failed, I did what a real man does. I ended the problem.

You can call it murder. I call it correction.

None of you understand the weight men carry when we allow women to run their mouths and run our homes into the ground. You say you loved those women I buried—then where were you when they were breaking vows? Where were you when they were poisoning my children against me? You weren’t there. You were busy playing pretend, living in a world where “boundaries” and “choices” matter more than structure and respect.

Your outrage now is nothing but a performance.

Do I regret it? No. Not a single face haunts me. Not even the little ones. Especially not them. If anything, I regret not going further. Not getting rid of more of you who walk around pretending to be decent while hiding behind your weak little morals. You think you know evil? You wouldn’t recognize it if it married your daughter and sat at your dinner table—until it decided you were no longer necessary.

I was a good man. I provided. I protected. I punished when punishment was due.

And now that I’ve finally told the truth, you still don’t get it. You think this confession means guilt. It doesn’t. It means I’ve won. Because now you have to live with the fact that you never saw it. That I shook your hands, I smiled in your faces, and while you were thanking me for being a “good neighbor,” I was already deciding who deserved to go next.

You don’t want justice. You want a bedtime story to tell yourself that monsters always get caught.

But guess what? The monster lived across the street. And he got away with it for 44 years.

Sincerely,
Gregg Thorton
Husband. Father. Killer.
And still, the smartest man in the room.

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