They arrive alive. They always leave dead.
But first, they give me their confessions.


You know the drill: when my patients arrive on my ‘death ward’, they give me their confessions in exchange for a deal. These confessions are from serial killers. We’ve got a psychotic carny, color-blind who sees one color, a killer of a baker and the ultimate killer Sister.



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(of course you do)



easier on the eyes




They arrive alive. They leave dead.

But first, they give me their confessions and this time – it’s all about the couples who kill together.

Inside this book are 4 DeathBed Confessions that relate to things these couples did:

– Patient 852 is a Preacher with a past.
– Patient 1123 shouldn’t be trusted.
– Patient 901 are farmers with buried secrets.
– Patient 643 has a thing for soil and gardens.


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(of course you do)



easier on the eyes




My name is Jack Steen. 

That name shouldn’t mean anything to you. But it does to others and that’s what counts. 

I’m a nobody, really. 

I’m not a writer. I’m not a storyteller. I’m not a goddamn thing.

I’m just a man who wipes the asses of that society couldn’t give two shits about. I give them their medicine, change their diapers, and provide something no one else has… 

An audience.

I work as a night nurse in the Asylum. 

Which one? Doesn’t matter – they’re all the same. After you read the stories, you should be able to figure it out, but apparently, I might get sued if I actually say the name, so I won’t.

You picked up this book because of the title, right? Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane. That’s exactly what you’re about to read. 

That’s what I do. I take their deathbed confessions. The ones no one else has heard. The ones everyone wants to hear.

My patients tell me their stories, they confess their messed up lives because I do what no one else in this fucking asylum does.

I listen. 

I’ve worked here the longest out of anyone on my floor. I’ve got the scars, the stitches, the broken bones to prove it. I worked my way from the shittiest jobs here to the one I have now.

I used to think being a nurse was my calling. My passion. 

I thought I could make a difference, that what I did was important. 

I was stupid to think anything in life was worth this shit. 

I used to work in a hospital full of people who had lives and loved ones that cared about them. Most of my patients here have been discarded, forgotten about, left to spend their final days alone. 

I won’t tell you which hospital I work at. 

I won’t tell you the names of those dying.

But I won’t lie to you.

You’ll read exactly what I’m told. 

Instead of their real names, I’ll tell you the names I gave them. The names I whisper in their ear as they fall asleep. Sometimes they hate these names, but I don’t care. 

If you’re smart, if you can read between the lines, you’ll know who is telling the story.

I can’t say all the stories are one hundred percent true but like every tale ever told, there’s always a nugget of truth – but then, what the fuck do I know?

These sadistic bastards could be playing their final game with me by messing with my head and now, they could be playing with yours.

A Word of Warning

4 Confessions (couples related)

You’re about to read four very different confessions. 

Here’s how the confessions go…once they’re ready, I write down everything they say: their story and what they say to me, in between their storytelling.

Whether what they tell me is the honest truth, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

What are these confessions about? Well…you’ve heard the saying that the couple who slay together stay together…right? Yeah…that’s not really what happens.

I’ve got a farmer, a landscaper, a con woman and a preacher. One of them surprises me. 

Thanks for reading…

Also…as one review said – I ain’t no writer – just a night nurse. So if you’re expecting writer-type stories, go read Stephen King (but read this one first…come on, give a guy a chance) and then tell Mr. King to read this (he’s quite active on Twitter, go figure).  

Thanks for reading…

Jack Steen



Preacher, there’s something about him that sucks you in before you realize it. I mean, he’s an odd duck, truly believes in God and heaven, and one of his favorite things to do is talk about those beliefs, but he’s also a serial killer.

Yeah, take that in.

One of Preacher’s favorite things to do in life before he got caught was to be the officiant at weddings. He’s done quite a lot of them – I’ll have to ask for the exact number, but when he told me the first time I sat down to chat with him, I’d been shocked. 

He kept a book with the names of all those he married, like a guest book, but for himself. Somehow, they let him keep that book when they brought him in here. Personally, I think someone snuck it out of evidence for him. 

He claims to be a sucker for love. Claims there’s no greater power in the universe than love.

So how can someone who believes in God and love kill people? He claims it was all God-ordained. 

In my opinion, I think it had everything to do with his wife.


Do you have grandparents?

I did. They died when I was in my teens, but I remember them. 

My grandfather was one grumpy son of a bitch. He liked his toast a particular color, his tea a specific strength, and don’t you dare interrupt him when his car shows were on the television.

My grandmother was the opposite. She was warm honey bread and fresh pasta, extra snuggles before bed, and made the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever tasted. 

I bet if my grandmother had ever stepped foot in this place, she’d have it looking like a fucking Motel Six by weeks end. She’d also be sorely disappointed in me for letting things get as bad as they are. 

There’d be curtains on every window, fresh clean sheets on every bed, small vase of flowers decorating the space and rather than the permanent lingering aroma of shit, the place would smell like fresh baked cookies.

Speaking of grandparents, let me introduce you to someone who, if you loved your grandparents, you would hate this person. 

Beth comes across as sweet and endearing, but she’s got a mean, conniving side to her, and there’s no way in hell I’d let her spend five minutes with my grandmother.


I have a thing about farmers. 

It’s a thing that gets me in trouble, often.

We’ve had more farmers than I want to admit here in the Asylum, and every time they come onto my floor – which isn’t often, thank God – they always seem to arrive and die during my shift.

The Warden does that on purpose, the arrive part, at least.

Some people have issues with clowns. Some don’t like preachers. I have nightmares about farmers.

This stems from my childhood – in fact, if you were to ask any of the therapists in this place, that’s exactly what they’d say.

I don’t blame them. 

My Daddy threatened me as a child that he’d drop me off at a farm if I didn’t behave. He said the only place I deserved to sleep was in a chicken coop or a pigpen. He said that’s where all the bad children go when they don’t listen to their Daddies as they should.

He was a mother fucker, a bastard, and any memories I have of him, they’re all like this. Don’t expect me to talk about him much because I won’t. 

Needless to say, I hate fucking farmers. They smell. They spend their days shoveling shit or stepping in it, and their hands always carry that distinct scent, regardless of how hard they scrub beneath those fingernails.

You’d think I’d be used to it, considering shit is a prevailing scent in this place, but no.

Now – if you are a farmer, or if you were raised on a farm…my apologies. I’m sure you’re different. You were raised by honest, hard-working folks, and of that, I have no doubt.

But the fuckers who come here, they’re psychopaths and give you all a bad name.