An Advertisement

by Nenad Mitrović

Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:

“I’m giving away a Yamaha VMAX. This is not a joke. My younger brother Marko died on it a week ago. Nothing in life would make me happier than for this infernal machine to carry yet another careless soul to death.”

That was the ad I posted a few days ago in Halo classifieds. I can already see your frown, hear you muttering: No way. No newspaper would ever accept such a sick ad.

But Halo classifieds did. I swear on my brother’s grave.

Posting an ad is automatic. The moment you transfer the money, the ad appears on their e-page. Sure, someone—an editor or an assistant—might glance at it. Someone is supposed to. In practice, each ad gets a perfunctory skim of the first sentence. I’m giving away… Enough. That’s all the bored checker needs to hit “APPROVED” and move on.

Then it’s too late.

Once accepted electronically, the ad slips into the printed page of the evening edition faster than you can say drenched wretch. I don’t blame the editor. Every day, people give away thousands of objects: shirt buttons, old typewriters, diesel-hydraulic locomotive parts. All of it must be sorted, cataloged—an endless tide of commerce and noise.

Why do people give things away? Some dump junk. Some hope to help strangers. Some are bored. Others advertise. And some… who the hell knows why humans do anything at all?

You ask: What’s your reason, then? Sharp-eyed reading, damn you. My reason is in the ad. I want the bike to carry one more careless soul straight into hell.

But the real reasons are more complicated:

1. to rid myself of the curse attached to the bike,
2. to help a stranger end their miserable existence in this meaningless world,
3. because I’m bored, and sending someone to their death in such a grotesque, spectacular way relieves boredom for a while,
4. to summon the right customer—the one who will inevitably come. She—the eater of souls—will come, and I will be ready. Every scar on the Yamaha’s tires marks my preparation.

“Okay, maybe the newspaper accepted the ad. But no sane person will respond to such cruelty,” you say.

Wrong.

You imagine a world ruled by reason, goodwill. Ordinary readers of classifieds—good, conservative people—will recoil at hidden evil. That’s the trap. Before the ad was pulled the next day, thirty-three people from across Belgrade had responded.

Thirty-three.

Explain that if you can. Humans are greedy, naive, thoughtless, trapped in ignorance and monotony. I can picture their shock: rubbing eyes, muttering, Holy shit, he’s giving away a two-hundred-horsepower bike! Better grab it before someone else does.

Thirty-three serious requests. I answered each politely, took their details. Am I not a saint?

I sorted them by age. Mostly retirees—ugly old scavengers who’d take shit wrapped in cellophane if it were free. Eliminated. Such types do not interest me.

I shortlisted five younger people: two girls, three boys. Girls, naturally, are drawn to feral machines. One was a third-year sports student, eager to ride but giving it to her boyfriend instead. Eliminated.

The first boy lived in Smederevo but visited Belgrade often. Loved motorcycles. The Yamaha would crown his modest collection, a lure for local girls. Eliminated: a poser. No actual intention to ride the bike.

The remaining girl was poor, planning to sell the bike to feed her siblings. Boo-hoo. I am not the Red Cross. I would give the bike only for my reasons.

The second boy wanted it immediately… but asked too many questions: why I was giving it away, if it was damaged, the displacement, aftermarket exhaust. Idiot. I wanted him to die on it, smash his skull, or something entertaining. He swore, hung up.

The last candidate called from a hidden number.

“Hello, did you post the ad giving away the bike? That Yamaha beast?”

“Yes, kid. You can bet on it.”

I imagine him. That’s the magic of a phone call: you speak to someone whose face you do not know, and the mind assembles a person from scraps. Each syllable, pause, accent, every sigh adds more clay to the image. Will it match reality? Or is the conjured person more real than the one on the other end, breathing unknowable air into a cell phone?

Young. Introverted. A phone call costs him more energy than an average man. His voice carries a cold edge; faint undertones cast shadows in my ear. He has known suffering. Walked with it since childhood.

I rise, excitement prickling. Why do we concentrate better standing than sitting? Another unsolved human enigma.

His voice sharpens. “Why would you do that?”

Oh no. Another questioner.

“Because I don’t need it anymore. That’s why.” I keep my tone measured. “My days of madness are over. Do you want the bike or not?”

Silence. Perhaps I spoke too fast. Something in him smells the trap.

“No. I mean… why post such an ad? I’ve never read anything stranger in my life. Didn’t you love your brother?”

How does he see me now? Middle-aged bachelor? Fat old pervert? Aging biker, leathery relic?

I sigh. “Of course I loved him. But he was careless. He hurt all of us deeply.” Us. Implies family. That should dull the edge. People with families aren’t dangerous, right?

He makes noises I can’t place, moving the phone from his mouth, scribbling? Speaking to someone?

“You really want someone else to die on it? What kind of person are you?” Half-lies. Feigned disgust.

And what kind of fool are you, kid, for not admitting it’s exactly what drew you in? You don’t care about the bike. You want the story behind it.

I spin a tale. I am good at this.

“It was a mistake. I was drunk. Sent the wrong message to classifieds in a fit.” I sigh. “Imagine my surprise this morning, getting calls! So many, kid. If you don’t take it, someone else will.”

“Hm.”

Does he chuckle? A barrage of deductions, a kinetic psychoanalysis, begins to unfold.

“I think you’re lying. The ad was already pulled. You haven’t received more than ten calls. Most were oddballs or resellers. You desperately want to get rid of the bike but fail. Why not just throw it away? Let it end up in the junkyard or some dark alley with the key in the ignition. By morning, street thugs would take it. Why must it be a person?”

Clearly wrong. Yet painfully right. I lie. It is my nature. My mission. And he retreats. He does not know why, but he senses danger.

“What was your name again, kid?”

“Lazar. Lazar… Pribićević.”

Surname likely fake. Name? Perhaps true.

“Lazar. I feel we started off wrong. You call me a liar. Question my motives. Accuse me of not loving my brother without knowing me. That’s like me saying I don’t know… that you’re into your own mother, though I’ve never met her. Do you jerk off to your mother, Lazar? Watch her while she bathes?”

“Fuck you. You’re a pervert. Totally deranged. What about the bike?”

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” I let it hang. “There’s only one way to find out.”

He does not hang up. Good. Panting, like a scared puppy.

“One last time: do you want the bike, Lazar?” I speak slowly, stressing every syllable.

His breathing quickens.

Yes, he wants it. Desperately. But dare he? Inside, a struggle rages. I feel it.

“No. Fuck you and your bike.”

He hangs up.

Well, that was close. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with other ads. Disappointed, yes—but not despairing. I am a hunter of large game; there is no rush.

Still, the kid had been the perfect candidate. Darkness calls to him. Perhaps he could even summon her—the bitch, the soul-eater.

But my mind drifts. He said the ad was the strangest thing he’d ever read. Clearly, he did not mean comics or books. Then what “literature” consumes him so passionately? A thought strikes: the boy is hooked on classifieds.

I open the Halo classifieds site and scroll through the user list, searching for the most active. Nothing. Thousands of names, and none stands out. Damn it.

I sort ads by bike offers. Still nothing—no Lazar, no recurring username. Patience thins.

Wait. The bike isn’t the point. He seeks something particular: emotion, backstory, misfortune, a hint of tragedy. Something morbid. Yes.

But what is truly morbid? What whispers of misery? Defining such ads takes time.

Eventually, I find them—quicker, sharper. He is skilled. A never-worn wedding dress, posted by a girl prone to suicide, abandoned by a third fiancé. A pledged engagement ring: the poster explains her girlfriend ended up in oncology.

Electric wheelchairs—unneeded.

Shoes of a deceased little girl.

A haunted house in Mirijevo, where an entire family perished in a fire.

And then—success. In these ads, I see questions and comments from a user named unLuckyBoy. Lucky. Lazar^[1]?

I Google the username. It appears on forums, chat groups, classifieds. Some require full names.

UnLuckyBoy is indeed named Lazar. Lazar Grubelj. Bingo. Now you’re mine, boy.

From there, it is easy. I gather every scrap of information from social media: here a post, there a photo. Lazar is addicted to the internet—a troll, perhaps, a soldier in the army of youth filling life’s void with virtual charms. Every membership leaves traces—electronic breadcrumbs. Collect them, and the picture forms.

The internet. What a jungle. What a perfect hunting ground.

Humans, cursed humans, careless beyond measure. Phone numbers, addresses, habits, friends, relatives, ID numbers, even social security digits—they leave it all. Madness.

Thus, Lazar. He lives at Požeška Street 28, Banovo Brdo. Twenty-two years old. Thin, shortish (175 cm?), tattooed, long hair like a girl’s, black eye makeup, goth or black metal rings, dark, brooding music in his playlists. I care little for trappings. His face radiates personal tragedy. Mostly alone in photos. No friends. No siblings.

Lonely Lazar. unLuckyBoy Lazar.

The boy is fragile. That suits me perfectly. The more unstable, the more susceptible to what I plan next. I call it “drawing,” or “cracking.” Focus comes first. Lights off, sounds muted. I extract every detail of him into the black sun that shines within me. The work is heavy, exhausting, eroding. Time blurs. I arrange him from photographs, posture submissive.

In my visualization, he sits on a chair—so real I could touch him, smell his worn dark clothes. I establish a connection, summon a fragment of his mind. Then the “drawing” begins. Lines trace his body, thickened like pencil strokes. I cut him from the image. His expression shifts; I wager he feels it, a tingling, a light brush of wind. I draw a hook around his neck—sometimes hook, sometimes needle, sometimes hot lighter. I tighten. His face turns blue, lips drool. At the last moment, I release. I always know if the effort worked. This time, yes. I smile hollowly. I burn inside. Proof of my skill.

He calls that same night. I had memorized his number. Laza, mother’s boy.

“Hello, is the bike… still available?” He hesitates.

“You’re lucky. I didn’t intend to give it to just anyone.”

He breathes loudly. “Can we meet Thursday? I can pick it up Thursday.”

“Of course, Lazar. Whatever works for you.” I let him lead. He needs that now.

“Good. Let’s meet at Café Excellent, on the Boulevard, across from Vuk’s monument. Public parking nearby. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

A public place. Naturally. But he cannot comprehend the danger he faces.

That day, I paid a runner to handle the exchange—a minor hire for information or missing persons. I stationed myself in Student Park, watching from a distance. The Yamaha gleamed in the parking lot like a rare gem, drawing eyes.

I saw the kid park a diesel van with a trailer. The exchange was swift. He took the keys from the runner—hesitant, reluctant, disappointed, I wager. He wanted to meet me, the ad poster, not merely claim a two-wheeled toy. But it is beautiful, seductive—and it will work its magic.

He turned a few times with the keys in hand. Bystanders watched with admiration, envy.

The runner delivered a report.

“He said he’ll ride it this weekend.”

“This weekend? Not tomorrow?”

“That’s what he said. You can hear it.” A recording played. Lazar sounded angry: “Where is the bike’s owner? Where’s the guy who posted the ad? …I’ll ride it when I want! Anyway, I only have time Saturday…”

“Good, thank you.” I paid him.

The day passed quickly. I was so satisfied with the arranged job that I didn’t check my phone or the TV until noon the next day. I was devising the best way to set the trap. Then, amidst the flood of mundane news, a headline froze me:

“Young man dies on Banovo Brdo.”

Cold ran down my spine. My guts recoiled. No, no, no—it doesn’t have to mean him. Wait. Don’t panic. I repeated it to myself.

I read further: “A Yamaha motorcyclist was descending toward Ada Ciganlija picnic area when…”

“Damn it!” I shouted. “He said he’d ride it only on Saturday! Stupid, impatient fool!”

His premature death had ruined my chance to approach the shadow. What remained? Abandon the hunt? No. I would need a new ad—a media lure. But first, I felt the urge to visit the house of the last victim, to scent its trace.

I arrived at Požeška Street 28 just in time. Tow trucks were delivering the bike into a yard filled with mournful wailing. UnLuckyBoy did not live alone. Others were in the house—family members who cared, whose grief weighed heavily.

And yet—the bike was undamaged. Not a scratch. How was that possible? I do not know, but it had been so with previous victims.

My instincts proved correct. Tingling ran along my fingertips; blood trickled from my nose.

The shadow lingered. Misty tendrils of graveyard scent curled slowly, reluctantly. The house reeked of rotting, otherworldly matter. It had been there since the accident, feasting on pain and suffering. Now it drew the final crumbs from the table, sipping the last drops of total agony. It hovered, cautious. I almost rushed to its ethereal center, behind the last rows of trees—but I knew it would accomplish nothing.

Then I saw her. The neighbor girl—sixteen, seventeen?—entranced, staring at the gleaming, unloaded object. That bike—it truly was something. Gleaming like chromed candy in the afternoon sun.

The shadow revealed its face in the distance. I recoiled. It was licking its lips.

I saw my chance and approached the fence.

“She’s a real beauty, this Yamaha, isn’t she?” I asked.

The girl nodded absentmindedly. In her mind, she was already on it, gripping the seat, feeling the tremor of power through her pelvis.

“Would you like to try it?”

Her eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.

“May I?”

I shrugged. “I see no reason why not.”

“But the people in the house…”

A fragment of reason returned. I had to close the deal. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m family. Trust me. They won’t mind. None of them.”

An invisible current flowed from the bike to her nostrils, her eyes. She climbed on, savoring the moment. Her hands caressed the metal flanks.

“Have you ridden a bike before?”

She shook her head. “Just one loop around the neighborhood,” she admitted shyly.

“One loop,” I confirmed.

The engine growled like a beast never tamed. Misty edges of black cloak unfurled in the distance. The soul-eater scented blood. Her eyes flashed behind the rooftops. The roar of the bike merged with the scream of the larva of destruction breaking free. A new death was born.

Nameless terror washed over me like a subterranean river. I was afraid—but steady. Witnessing the soul-eater at full throttle was terrifying.

The girl was already halfway down the street. Not consciously—fate and the devilish charms she rode had full control.

I ran. Every fraction of a second mattered. I had waited long for this instant. I was ready.

The soul-eater wielded its whip—smoky, ethereal. It vaporized in sunlight, reforming in flashes of hellish energy. Its presence blocked the sun. How the residents of Banovo Brdo perceived it, I do not know—perhaps only as a dark, ominous cloud. I saw every detail: desiccated skin, dark as clotted blood; worms crawling over the gray bones of the devil’s bride; wails of thousands devoured. I felt a cold beyond time and space.

At the street’s end, the girl twisted the throttle fully. The bike leaped like a hissing snake, tossing her from its back. Sirens blared. Someone screamed.

I closed my eyes. Only then could I see. Finally.

Her body slammed onto the pavement—spine snapping, skull cracking. The soul-eater lashed its weapon: a smoky whip of human bones, ever-smaller vertebrae, skillfully catching a white dove fleeing toward the dazzling heavens.

At the same moment, I whispered the control incantation. It sensed danger—but it was too late.

You’re mine, bitch!

I opened my eyes. Power coursed through me.

“Food chain, baby,” I whispered as the misty form raged, now harmless.

All you need is to be at the top of the food chain—and to post the ad on time.

---

[1] The most common nickname for the name Lazar in Serbia is Laki. Coincidentally, Laki is how the word “Lucky” is phonologically pronounced.

Want another gripping story by Nenad Mitrović? Read “The Teeth Remember” in Horrific Scribes April 2026.