The city of Düsseldorf lay beneath a thick, choking fog, the gas lamps flickering in the damp night air. The people of the city walked quickly, their eyes darting at shadows, their hearts pounding with unspoken terror. Something lurked in the darkness, something monstrous.
It began with whispers. A woman’s body, discovered near the Rhine, her throat slashed, her blood pooled beneath her like ink spilled on parchment. Then, a child, found in a wooded park, tiny fingers curled as if still grasping for life. The wounds were jagged, chaotic, yet precise in their cruelty. And then another victim. And another.
He moved like a ghost through the city, choosing his prey with a hunter’s instinct. He watched them, followed them through the streets, blending into the crowd until it was too late. He struck with sudden, merciless violence…sometimes with a hammer, sometimes with scissors, sometimes with a blade that bit into flesh like a starving mouth. He never killed for money, never for revenge. He killed for the thrill of it, for the taste of their pain.
Peter Kürten was not an ordinary murderer. He did not simply take life…he drank from it. He would sink his teeth into the wounds he carved, feeling the warm rush of blood against his lips, savoring it like a forbidden wine. It made him feel powerful, alive. He did not just kill; he consumed.
The city trembled beneath his shadow. Women refused to walk alone. Men carried knives, pistols, anything that might grant them a chance should they come face to face with the Vampire of Düsseldorf. The police hunted him desperately, but he was always one step ahead, slipping away before they could tighten the noose.
Then came Maria Budlick.
She was a woman like so many others…poor, desperate for work, lost in a city that did not care for her survival. When a charming man approached her, offering kindness and a place to stay, she followed him without question. But as the streets grew darker and his voice took on a sinister edge, she knew she had made a mistake.
Peter Kürten led her to an alleyway, pressing close, whispering promises of violence. He could have killed her then and there, could have bled her dry beneath the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp. But something stopped him. Perhaps he wanted to savor the fear in her eyes a little longer. Perhaps, for the first time, he hesitated.
And so, he let her go.
Maria ran. She ran until her legs ached, until her breath came in ragged sobs. And when she reached the police, she told them everything…every detail of his face, his voice, his cruel, knowing smile. It was enough. The net closed around him at last.
When they dragged him before the courts, he did not beg, did not weep. He spoke of his crimes with a chilling detachment, describing each murder as if recalling an old dream. When they sentenced him to die, he did not flinch.
On the night before his execution, as the blade of the guillotine was prepared, he turned to the prison guards and asked, “Will I be able to hear the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck?”
Those were his final words.
And when the blade fell, slicing through the neck of the Vampire of Düsseldorf, the city finally exhaled. But the nightmares he left behind…the horror, the blood, the whispers in the dark…never truly faded.