"Oh God, not this again," said Jeffery Gace'O Bundy as he slashed the throat of a young prostitute in a shady motel room. Her blood splattered across the moldy carpet, and silence fell where screams once echoed. Jeffery looked on in excitement - yet a troubling thought lingered in his mind.

Normally, intrusive thoughts tend to disturb people with violent urges or irrational fears. But not Jeffery. Unlike most, whose intrusive thoughts involve depravity, Jeffery's were about doing good deeds. They whispered to him to donate to the poor, help the elderly, or volunteer at shelters. And now, after this latest kill, one of those thoughts surfaced again.

It told him to donate to the nearby Salvation Army, where a middle-aged man stood ringing a bell beside the red donation bin.

Unlike regular people, Jeffery couldn't simply dismiss these thoughts. They latched onto his psyche like a virus, refusing to leave until he fulfilled the deed. So, with unease in his chest and frustration in his gut, Jeffery left the grisly scene - though not before meticulously cleaning up and stuffing the body in the motel closet - and approached the Salvation Army volunteer. He dropped some bills into the bin. The man nodded in approval.

Jeffery had tried silencing these thoughts before - with drugs, alcohol, even sleep. But nothing worked. Sometimes, they kept him awake for days until he gave in and volunteered at a soup kitchen or cleaned graffiti off public buildings. Yet despite these bursts of reluctant charity, his hunger for violence never waned.

He still needed to kill.

That night after work, Jeffery went hunting. He spotted a teenage girl - maybe fifteen - dragging a suitcase, her face lost and afraid. A runaway, perhaps. The perfect target.

Pulling up beside her, Jeffery rolled down the window and offered her help. Desperate and cornered, the girl agreed - exchanging oral sex for money and a ride to the nearest bus station. He accepted and drove her out of the city, down a lonely stretch of highway to a secluded rest stop.

What happened next was unspeakable.

The girl's body was found days later, buried near the same remote area Jeffery often used to discard his victims.

And then, as always, came the thoughts.

Pick up trash on the highway, they urged.

Sighing in disgust, Jeffery gathered garbage bags, a shovel, a scooper, and other tools, and spent the next few hours removing litter from the roadside until the thoughts finally faded.

Later, at home, he relaxed - indulging in disturbing fantasies of the girl he'd murdered - until another thought hit him mid-act: Help your elderly neighbor, Mrs. Barkins, take out her trash.

Grimacing, he got dressed and knocked on her apartment door.

She was thrilled. Her place was a hoarder's nightmare, left behind by her deceased husband - piles of chicken bones, adult diapers, expired medication, rusted cans, and random refuse. For hours, Jeffery sorted through the mess, hauling load after load to the dump, all at his own expense.

Only after this grotesque labor did the voices subside.

Then he hunted again. This time, he picked up a flight attendant on her way to the airport. After murdering her, the thoughts returned: Clean the graffiti near your building.

He painted over it with a grimace, then returned home to indulge in his twisted pleasures again, basking in the afterglow of both the murder and the good deed.

But even after that, the thoughts wouldn't leave.

The cycle continued. Kill, then do good. Kill again, then help a single mother with childcare. Murder, then volunteer at a suicide prevention hotline. Dismember a man, then donate a kidney to a sick child.

It became a twisted routine.

Eventually, after his fortieth murder, the intrusive thoughts reached their peak. This time, they demanded the ultimate act of goodness:

Turn yourself in to the police. Confess everything.

But Jeffery refused to let the thoughts win. He would not become a martyr of his own broken conscience.

He opened his kitchen drawer, pulled out a handgun, and placed the barrel in his mouth. With a shaking hand and a bitter smile, he clicked the safety off.

He would rather die than give the good deed the final word.