I’d say I’m not a bad person, but neither of us would believe that.

---

I’m scared of the day I’m all alone, but that day is already here.

My name is _______. This is my story and my confession.

---

He is a good friend of mine, or at least he was.

5 years ago he passed away. No one knows why really. The press covered the story, sure. But they got bored when all anyone found were dead ends.

No one knew what happened to him. But I know. I know how he was killed. I know what I believe. I believe what I know – He was murdered and nobody question those they needed to the most. People were too trusting, I suppose.

His death in his profession, I guess was unsurprising.

But it wasn’t as much his death, as the person behind it who surprised me.

Ch 3.

His muffled cries of panting pain still rung in my ears. It was the first time he seemed vulnerable to the circumstances, a victim of the poor man’s madness.

He deserved it, he too was no less than a killer

He had killed her only a while ago, and someone had to return his favour.

Wrapped hands around his neck turned his skin to a brittle blue. His eyes were lost, deep and tinted, unable to stabilize from seeing this betrayal.

He choked on this vengence.

Not helpless.

He could have fought back.

But he knew. He knew the pain in the eyes of the man who stood before him.

He knew it, and perhaps he pitied him enough to let go.

After a while, the grasp fell and as his lifeless mass hit the ground, his steady grey eyes stared deeply. Knowingly.

---

He was gone.

But so was she.

My wife was dead.

And now a friend.

I have nothing left.

I am sorry. I really am.

I am sorry I killed him.

1.
Rachel
“Dispatch 2118. We found her. She’s dead.”

Rachel Sequeira’s car had broken down on Tuesday but just before she could call a mechanic, someone on the deserted road of Hugby street was kind enough…to help?

2.
Rachel
“I got the job!!!” Rachel Sequeira, the 32-year-old mother of two [her son and dog], shouted out with joy to Chris, her husband, over the phone. She was now officially manager of the Scranton Branch of Bloom magazine, only the biggest magazine in all of P.A! They both beamed with joy as Rachel said, “When I come home today, treats on me.” and hung up. Rachel was over the moon. Though, sadly she never made it home.

3.
Liam
Liam and Rachel were best friends in high school, though they grew apart over the years. While Rachel settled down with a family and successful job, Liam’s life was in a shattered shape – no family, no job, no friends.
And just a few days after Rachel’s death, his life too was brought to an abrupt end. A murder…

4.
Liam
Liam was a mentally strong man who never gave up on anything. He believed that there would always be an end to the problems you are facing, you just have to be patient. Liam was quite smart and never made a move that would hurt him in the long run. Even though it is true he was facing depression he was not the kind to give up. His death was a murder, a clue, a hidden message had to be there, we just have to find it…

5.
Rachel

Rachel lived at Ruby Street and led a comfortable life. The day she died was a happy day for her. The job she currently had was not well suited for her expertise. The interview was swift and left her ecstatic, with the hope to start a new chapter in her life. Before she was to come home, she decided to make a quick stop at the local bakery. The old bakery has been well known for many decades and has legendary chocolate and blueberry muffins. Her son, Nathan, loved the muffins and she wanted to get them for him. However, to get there, she would have to first drive past the creepy Hugby street, full of dark alleyways and broken street lights. Hardly anyone has ever been visible there. It has tinted trees and when the cold October wind passed through them they made a howling sound as though mourning in pain. It is a disturbing sight that leaves you feeling vulnerable. It was while she was driving there that her car broke down. She got out to make a call to the mechanic but someone stumbled past and volunteered to help. Stumbled or had they been waiting for her? Waiting for the right time…

6.
Rachel
Rachels family waited to welcome and congratulate her. Soon, after waiting for much time they decided to give her a call and another one and another but no answer. After several tries, they finally decided to give the local police a call. After trying hard to locate her from their base, they suggested that they should launch an investigation. Deeply worried, Chris agreed, hoping that the matter wouldn’t get further out of hand. It did…

7.
Liam
Liam was headed to an early-opening shop in his car. Dawn had broken out only a while back, so the road was left desolate. Suddenly his car stopped and so did his heart.

Liam had no family, so he had no one to worry for him. Soon after, when an old woman was walking her dog, she came across his body, she let out a shriek as her heart skipped a beat. She frantically called the police.

8.
Liam
“He…Hel…Hello?” the old woman was in tatters, stumbling over her words as she dialled the emergency number on her phone. Liam’s lifeless face stared her in the eye, a sight of pure horror. His blood sprayed the ground, still dripping from his head like a leaky faucet. Shattered glass spread dotted the ground, but the windows of his car were still intact. By the time the police came through, a crowd had gathered around the dead man. The sound of sirens wailing in the distance flooded the place. The woman was interrogated but was in much shock, unable to answer. What had happened to poor Liam? What had he done to deserve such a fate?

9.
Rachel
Footsteps hurried along the sidewalk and a hooded man stepped out of the shadows. Rachel stood on the other side of the street, trying to contact the mechanic. The man walked slowly towards her, his hands reached into his pocket, he pulled out a knife and hid it behind his back. Rachel saw the peculiar man, who pointed to an unattached wire and in a deep voice said “You should connect that wire onto the engine.” “Oh,” Rachel stifled an uncomfortable laugh and quickly started to attach the wire, eager to get out of there. The man walked closer and extended a shaking hand. The next thing – a knife dripping with blood. He pulled it away and stepped back into the shadows, leaving Rachel’s body as a pile of mass on the floor.

10.
Rachel

When the search parties finally located her body, Chris was called to bid farewell to his unfortunate wife. He was in shambles, filled with dismay upon seeing the bloody sight. Chris knew it was a murder. His sadness soon turned into rage as he summoned the inspector to find the one who killed Rachel. Poor Nathan was left motherless and Chris was now a widower. The perfect life they had built for themselves, the dreams they had, all had come crashing down as waves of reality sank into Chris, leaving him in a state of grave depression.

11.
Liam

Liam drove off through the dim-lit streets and upon reaching the shop, stepped out of his car, only to be greeted by a man in a black cloak, his face covered by a hood. That’s when the man extended his hand, and the rest is history.

12.
Liam

In his last moments, Liam’s thudding heartbeats rang in his ears. He was shivering as he remembered his life. Seeing it go by in a flash, he let out a sigh and faded away.

---

13.
The Investigation

There has been another murder!
Sirens rang, and red lights flashed. Policemen flooded the station and a dozen reports needed to be written. Investigations had to start right away.

Robert Tanner, a young man famous for his skills in the field of mystery, was called. His detective work won him a lot of recognition, and there was great hope for him to solve the mystery.

However, he called in sick, and waves of disappointment flooded the police force as they realized they’d have to settle for someone else.

So Jim Betterman, infamous for his behaviour but known for his detective skills, was summoned.
Betterman had worked for the local detective agency for seven years before deciding to go solo. It was upon going solo that he accomplished his most famous mysteries. His most notable case was the Field of the Dead – 10 deaths in one week. The case closed, and Betterman came out triumphant. Now was another chance for him to shine.

14.
The Investigation

Betterman came by Chris’ house the following day. However, the visit was in a state of chaos. It was high afternoon, but Chris was still in bed. Poor Nathan had to call out of school and stay at home.
So, Jim’s visit was of no avail.

Next, he tried to connect with the people who had last seen Liam, but it turned out that he hadn’t stepped out of his house for days.
Another dead end.

So, Jim decided he would have to start someplace else.

Upon taking permission from the police force, he travelled to the crime scenes.

15.
The Investigation

Shattered glass was painted in blood, and Rachel’s face was the source of the hammering. Her body lay thrust into the windshield, sinking into the remaining glass. Betterman’s assistants, sent by the police force, scanned any possible places in trace of fingerprints. They collected samples of the ruins in tiny zip-lock bags, insuring minimum harm to the scene.

While one of the assistants was collecting a sample, he noticed something. A small ornament-like piece was lying on the ground. The peculiar object comprised a tiger’s head, its stripes dark as coal, extending onto a dragon’s body, with fiery yellow scales along its side.
He sealed it in a zip lock back and ran to the lab to study it further.

16.
The ornament

Soon, he reached the lab and got the figure checked for fingerprints.
They found prints on the piece! They quickly began to scan the ornament but reached a dead-end when they couldn’t find a trace. He asked the assistants to keep working on trying to find a source. It was then that one of the lab testers exclaimed that the piece was a replica of a painting she had seen sprayed on the walls of a nearby alley. Perhaps they would find something there.

In a rush of eagerness and excitement, with the help of the lab tester, Jim fled the laboratory to trace the alley. After walking for a few minutes, something spray-painted on a nearby wall caught their attention. It was a painting of the ornament, but it was more than just that! There hidden in plain sight and camouflaged within the eye of the tiger head, was a doorknob, a few feet of the ground. They carefully advanced towards it, waves of anticipation flooding their minds. That’s when Betterman swiftly turned and asked the lab tester to head back. He was going solo.

But he had counted his chickens before they hatched as he grasped the knob and turned it vigorously, its deafening rattles ringing in his ears. The door was locked.

Jim sighed. His attempts had been of no use. So, he started heading home. But right then he heard a clicking sound, startled he turned, there, from a dark room was emerging a shadow. Quickly he turned on the old recorder attached to his pocket. The shadow was a hooded face, and it swiftly snatched Betterman hostage.

17.
The Face Behind the Hood

The man lifted his hood and Jim was left in disbelief. The man knew it was fatal for him to be left exposed. So, he apologized to Jim as he extended a shivering hand, a knife in its clutches. Poor Jim could not escape fast enough and that was the end of his story.

18.
Years later

Years later, researchers excavated a rusted recorder, cushioned upon a mossy layer, in a bombed alleyway. Looking into the matter, they were able to play a long lost recording. There, in shivering and cracking voices was taking place a conversation. “I called in sick that day,” said a rough voice. It continued, “But I wasn’t. I was simply scared, scared of what I had become. There’s so much regret but it’s too late now”, the voice whispered. “I killed them, it’s true, I took out my anger on innocent people. It’s not been the first time. Most of my cases have been framed by me. I am so sorry. So sorry for what I am about to do.” With that, a shrilling sound of a knife thrust into mass was heard, and the recording was over. The researchers were left horrified.

The recording took place 20 years ago, the night before a fatal bombing, where two dead bodies were found – Jim Betterman and Robert Tanner.

Naomi lived in one of the many tribes stationed in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. It was the only world she knew. The village she lived in was surrounded by forests. Bulbous trees, as tall as towers, dug their roots deep into the fertile land. Poky shrubs sat on the foot of these trees, resting in a layer of slippery moss. These shrubs bloomed with colourful flowers that added to the scenic value of the village. Naomi’s favorite pastime during the day was to observe the lovely landscape she was surrounded by.
One day, as she engaged in her usual observational activity, barefoot on the rocky lands of the forest floor, she saw people with large guns lurking in the forests. She hid behind a tall oak tree, peering out at the coast occasionally. Suddenly, she overheard a loud sound accompanied by a series of painful, agonized screams. The village was under attack! Naomi ran towards her house only to find more invaders had usurped the area. Frightened by the deafening ring of guns, she ran in another direction before anyone noticed. Running faster than she ever had, adrenaline shot through Naomi’s body only to be drowned in waves of terror that flooded her mind. Finally, when she stopped to catch her breath as she looked around, none of the surroundings were familiar. She had left the village. It was the farthest she had ever been from home. She tried to find her way back to the village but somehow she seemed even more lost than before. She tried to think of which way she came but gave up, realizing too many twists and turns had been made along the way. What was she going to do? Suddenly, she remembered that her father had told her that another tribe had settled East of the village. She quickly headed East, hoping she was on the right path. After what seemed like days but were probably merely an hour or so she found herself walking on a dust road, she had entered the neighboring village!
Suddenly, a feeling of terrible fright and hunger left her overwhelmed.
A thousand questions flooded her mind as she thrust forward in hope that the villagers could help her.
Suddenly a bomb dropped into a field only a few yards away. Shards of wood and bits of dust mixed into a thick black cloud of smoke. The hairs on Naomi’s skin stood up as she gaped at the sight. This place was not safe. She turned around and fled before any more mishap could obstruct her way. She was on her own now. The night would fall in a couple of hours and the forest was not a safe place to stay in. She started walking straight ahead in the hope, that soon she would find a secure place to stay for the night.
Unfortunately, there was no inhabited place for miles to come, so Naomi had to make a shelter for herself. She grabbed a few broken branches from the forest bed, found a sturdy piece of ground enveloped with moss, and decided to camp there. She assembled 4 branches in a tent-like structure and covered them with a cluster of leaves. She then lined the floor with a sharp batch of stones to act as protection against the creatures that lurked in the woods.
The chilly night masked her in a blanket of cold, fright, and sleep. She soon felt drowsy and fell into a deep rest, leaving the dangers of the jungle behind.
She had a horrid dream that night that a few men from an unknown tribe had tied her hands and leg and taken her to a dark, candle-lit room. They placed her over a hearth and left the place. The peculiar place was centre to an ancient cave – dark and hollow. What they were going to do to her, she shuddered to think.
When she woke up, she found that that had been no dream! She truly had been tied and placed upon a stack of wood. Were they going to burn her?! “Help!” she began to scream but her mouth was covered by a soft hand. She looked up, her eyes embedded with fear. There, a large, old woman with kind, blue eyes stood before her. She wore an embroidered silk gown that had been dotted with emeralds. Upon her forehead was the symbol of a tribe, one unknown to Naomi. Waves of questions surged a sea of curiosity but were silenced in thoughts of terror, engulfing her mind.
As the woman talked to her assistant, she spoke in a tongue unfamiliar to Naomi. “Umm…Excuse me?” Naomi began to say but quickly quieted down when she saw that no one was listening to her. She was afraid and unsafe in this world foreign to her. Burning in the flames of confusion and quite literally about to be burnt, Naomi was vulnerable and had to escape.
So that night, after she pretended to fall asleep, the woman left the cave for a short interval. This was her moment. Naomi looked around for any sharp object she could use to cut the ropes that tied her. There was nothing within her reach. Was this it then? Was this where her journey would end? Toasted to bits in an alien place far away from home.
“Aha!” Naomi exclaimed. She still had a sharp rock in her pocket from when she was building the camp! She rocked herself violently to enable the stone to fall out of the cotton dress. Rock…Rock…Rock…There! It stumbled down onto the hearth. Naomi struggled but after a few tries was able to reach it. She held the cold slab of stone, coiling it in her fingers, and collided it with the ropes, hoping its jagged edges would cut her free. And they did!
She let loose from the ropes, stepping down onto the chilly floor as silently as she could. She tiptoed across the room making it out to the entrance/exit of the cave. She stepped forward and bumped into a large mass, she looked up. There was the old woman! They both shrieked as Naomi ducked quickly, running away as fast as she could. The woman screamed again, this time cursing in her language. This woke up the nearby guards, who now quickly approached Naomi. Naomi ran between their legs and off into the far-stretching wilderness, exhausted by her fatal experience.
She walked and walked for days to come, stopping occasionally to collect water from a nearby spring or pick a fruit from a tree. The isolated place had been a nightmare for Naomi and she had been left with cuts and wounds and mosquito bites all over herself. Despite her haggard situation, she thrust forward, covering kilometers at a time in search of her village.
It was a few days later, that she stumbled across a familiar place. This was where she would come to view the scenery. Her home was near! She let out a sigh of relief as the last drops of energy in her, helped her run as fast as she could. She couldn’t wait to see her family again, to be back in the comfort of her village. But when she reached, flames had submerged the place. There were houses burnt to ashes and fallen trees, bones of people she once knew scattered the floor. What had happened? Where was her family? Naomi could do nothing but let out a cry of hurt and pain, tiredness and loneliness and anger. She saw the ruins of her crumbling home and walked away. There she was, all alone, crying herself to sleep under the shade of the banyan tree a few metres away. All hope had left her, she just wanted to escape her reality. Away into the Land of Dreams…

When she awoke the disrupted view of flames had calmed. She knew she must get out of there. So she dragged herself out of the ruins of her village and onto the slope that would take her to the bay. She walked slowly, with no purpose of her being, no dreams to thrive on. All was lost.
Upon reaching the bay she walked onto the sand which was now cold with the evening wind. She strolled by the waters as the waves thrust between her toes. There! She stumbled past a wrecked raft, but it was still enough to carry one person safely away. Naomi’s mind raced with ideas, she no longer wanted to stay up on the grounds where her people had died. So she rushed to the nearest spring collected some water and gathered some fruits from the nearby tree. She ran to the raft pushing it over the calm sea. She stepped onto it with no clear destination in mind. She paddled away, letting destiny guide her. Sailing into the sunset…

1. My World

I haven’t walked since I was seven.

Perhaps the least riveting part of this story however, is the crash that left me so.  Regardless, it didn’t take long for my personality to morph into a unison with my sickness, hiding me behind its façade, turning me into someone no one bothered to ask about.

Well, even before that really, school was hard. I didn’t fit in. I didn’t speak much. Being quiet, unfortunately, doesn’t make you invisible — it makes you a target.

And so, the crash really was the final straw, I suppose. I was pulled out of school and left in the ‘care’ of my parents. Perhaps they thought that would help me, allow me to be the focus for once.

But isolation just got quieter. Lonelier.

2. The House

We moved into the cottage when I was one. It was this massive isolated fairytale home that at the time seemed like the perfect romanticism of ‘home’.

Back then, we were different- happier.  We laughed. We talked; we played. As cheesy as it sounds, we really were there for each other, cared for each other.

Then, when I was nine, something changed.

Mom found out something awful about Dad. I remember that day, the glassy screaming iced with her tears. She screeched; her bellows drowned in silence of the night’s darkness which never seemed to turn to day again. What it was, I suppose now, I’ll never know. But she tried to pretend things were fine, sadly enough, the crash had spared my eyes, so I really wasn’t blind to our circumstances. It was clear, really —

She didn’t trust him anymore.

She didn’t love him, anymore.

Which leads us to five months ago when she gave up pretending.

The turn was sharp, abrupt and painfully inconveniencing. I thought perhaps she would take the traditional road – sacrificing her freedom for her child, living heroically but unfortunately in a suffocating marriage so that her child wouldn’t have to endure the burden of a broken family.

But the road less taken, I suppose, is where we are naturally inclined to lead.

And so, the divorce came like a righteous thunder.

3. The Divorce

I begged to go to the trial. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought I’d get a say which was comically far from the reality. Not only did I not get a say, not only was my parents’ divorce finalised but further worse, the judge was an unforgettable nightmare for me. He looked like he’d been cursed by a hairy werewolf halfway through transformation stage. And so when I didn’t have dreams of my broken home, trust me, I had nightmares of his hairy ears…

But ofourse humour in this story is tragically short-lived as I proceed now again to engulf myself in this shattered, nightmarish life I was living. As I write this story in my head, my memoir from me to you, I feel compelled to continue, to make you feel the pain I have felt. And so, I continue…

My world swayed like a ferociously mishandled rock thrown across a deep torrent-driven sea, sinking rapidly into the blue abyss.

 My parents fought over everything — custody, money, bedroom furniture, you name it. I really thought the rock had hit its bottom. I would laugh now, if I could, wondering how naïve one would have had to be to think that.

4. Then Came The End

It was early when I woke up, staring out the window like always. Grey skies. Empty road. The wind moving nothing.

But that’s when it happened, or rather better, that’s when I saw it.

She was standing there. Back against the wall, knife clutched tight in her whitened fists.

Blood on her face. Eyes wide open. Still.

She looked mortified, mouth tilted open as though beginning to scream. But she didn’t. She stood, and soon she fell, with a lifeless, gentle thud.

I wanted to cry, but the tears didn’t roll down and instead of being drenched in a sad downpour, I was in a cold, lifeless drought of my own – unable to think or breathe. Witnessing as the house fell silent at last.

As my mother, fell silent at last.

A paradox really, a peaceful blasphemy. An unendurable, cruel, deafening silence. But a silence nonetheless.

And slowly, days passed.

Soon, so did I.

…

Years later, travellers wandered past our quiet cottage. Drawn by the twisted charm of old bricks and creaking wood, as if some picturesque fairytale awaited them, they stepped inside.

They marvelled at the walls, the rooms- the silence.

Until one of them found it.

Someone strange was sleeping on the floor. Except it wasn’t someone, it was some thing. A body so grossly decomposed, no face nor flesh could be seen under the ragged remains of clothes it was dressed in. So intrinsically fused in the moss-ridden panels of the floor that its fingertips had become lost somewhere in the woodwork.

And there, a little ahead stood a child’s wheelchair in the corner.

As they turned their silent gaze, they saw her too.

The girl.

Me.

Still sitting. Head tilted forward.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

A rotting pile of bone and skin.

“Hello, Ms. Rogers? I am so sorry to be the messenger of the unfortunate news, but your husband was found dead this morning,” these were the last words Mrs. Rita Rogers, the old lady married to Mr. Hugh Rogers, heard before she collapsed onto the creaking wooden floor of her small cottage located in a village next to the vast, undulating moor that seemed to touch the horizon. It was there that her late husband was known to have taken his final breath.
Upon settling down a little, she cried a pool of tears and drowned in a sea of confusion. She had known that her husband had gone to the moor for a short stroll, but had not in a thousand years thought that it would be the last walk of his life. Devastated, Ms. Rogers was desperate for answers. She decided to see her husband at the moor and say a final goodbye before the grave-men took his body away.

Rita walked up to the moor, where her husband lay in his forever’s sleep. She could see the deep cuts on his neck and back, too clean and even to have been slashed by a rock or torn by an animal’s claw or tooth. His still lifeless face stared her in the eye. Rita burst out in tears and walked away, itching to look away from the horror. Upon the delay of the grave-men, vultures settled at the sight. Soon after, the place was just a heap of bones. This was a huge loss for the inspectors.

A few hours after the finding, investigations began and every citizen of the village was heavily interrogated by policeman Bunting, the lead investigator on the case. The interrogation, however, was a dead end. The villagers quaked in their seats but had no answers to his questions. Frustrated with the results, Bunting decided to call the great Sherlock Holmes, who luckily, was happy to help. So he drove up the following night, scheduled to start work the next morning.

---

That morning Sherlock, who was dressed all in black and grey, as though perfect for the dire situation as well as policeman Bunting in his blue uniform and proudly pinned police badge, set out to meet the person who was known to have last seen Mr. Rogers, Ms. Catherine Lilac.

Catherine was a young and pleasant lady, who was almost always charming. Though, she rather disliked Mr. Rogers, who was patriarchal, and slightly foolish. While Bunting interrogated her, Holmes had decided to take a stroll inside her cottage, which seemed beaming with life. Its window sills were dotted with bright flowers of numerous colours, and its brightly painted walls had tasteful pictures hung upon them. It was upon entering her room, that he noticed an envelope. What caught his attention was its subject. There, written in bold black letters were the words ‘Hugh Rogers’ but no name from who it was written by or to. “Strange,” thought Sherlock and did not think twice before ripping open the envelope.

There in smudged black ink, were the words, “He seems to have only grown more obnoxious, my hate for him is growing and I am afraid one of these days I might do something wrong.” “Bunting!” Sherlock cried with a terrible urgency in his voice, “Come quick!” Upon hearing Sherlock, Bunting hurried along to the other side of the cottage where Sherlock was present, his expression grave. Bunting quickly saw what Sherlock was holding. He snatched it from him and began to read until an alarming expression masked his face. “Ms. Catherine!” he shouted. She quickly scurried where they were, and upon seeing the letter in Bunting’s hand, her face froze. “Is this your’s?” policeman Bunting asked with a scowl. She started to run, tumbling out of the cottage, but it was not long before Sherlock caught her and dragged her back. Upon reaching the cottage he declared, “The case must go to court”. A month later the court date was set and the trial continues…

Everything is explainable, everything is evidenced. It’s only when the unexplainable things happen to you do you understand how far this is from the truth.

I live alone in a small, shabby apartment across from this lonely, out-of-place mansion in New Jersey. It’s the only place I can afford. Currently, i get by doing some work in a small café about 20 minutes away from my apartment.

Although, I don’t prefer living alone, sometimes you lack choice, sometimes you lack company and in my case, I lacked both. My dating life has been uneventful, if at all really, and my friendships have been even less fortunate and so here I am, the twenty-five year-old sob story.
Really, though, the house fits me quite okay. Altogether, I have a sofa that opens up into a bed a 22-inch Television set, a kitchen with a portable stove, and a much too small bathroom [#livingthebillionairelife].

The mansion opposite my apartment though, is perhaps the most interesting part of my life. It is the site of one of the most mysterious murders cases in all of the States It was the biggest case about thirty five years ago in New Jersey, finally closed with no conclusion. The victim was found on the floor of her room with a hole pierced in her chest. The murder weapon was pulled out, but no fingerprints were found- not on the doors, not the windows nor vents. Since any possible escape had been locked from the inside, the case was truly puzzling. No witnesses were found, even though the woman was known by many and people, like they always do, eventually forgot all about her.

Some say, the home is cursed by her spirit and that anyone who enters the house shall never come out- oof typical horror-scare, right? Well that’s what I thought too. I personally have never been scared of ghosts and deny, on all grounds, believing they exist. Of course, the bungalow is a not visually the most comforting but I knew that nothing would happen, so I never had a problem with it.

I work as a waitress at the Capulas Café on Haddon Road, going in at eight in the morning and coming back at four in the afternoon. However, for the last few weeks, I have been taking on the next shift as well because I’m rather short on money and they need someone to fill in anyways.

Working in a café means seeing all types of good food eaten by people, this naturally makes me hungry but a stale salad doesn’t exactly satisfy the feeling. So, getting home where I can make a bowl of steaming hot soup for myself is my favourite part of this relentlessly tiring day. My day starts and ends the same way, every day. Go to work, serve some food, if I am lucky get tipped, have a ten-minute break, back to work, and then heading home. For me, it’s heading home bit that is rather scary because for the past few days my shift has been ending at midnight, when roads are lit up scarcely and the only people present are the drunk young college students siting on their bikes with warm beers in their hands. Luckily, I’ve always manage to get back home safely.

I am just about to leave work when I get a text from my friend saying that she is in town but leaving tomorrow asks if there’s any chance at all that I can come over [ now at 11:50 in the night]. I’m not all that tired today, so, I say that I am up for it and will be there in twenty minutes. I’ve soon left work and have started walking down the long road which the café is placed on and is so far stretched that you can barely see the dead-end of it far in the distance.

My friend’s name is Tanya. We met 3 years ago at my earlier job in Lambertville, which is a small town near New Jersey.
We were both cashiers at a supermarket called Ken’s Bazaar. The Bazaar shut down due to some lease problems and after that, I moved here, though she stayed back with her family. We had managed to keep somewhat in touch.

She is staying at an inn which is placed at the end of the road. I have now reached the part of the road where the long line of the bikes with drunk college students that extends both ways of the road has ended. I have never been this far out on the road. It’s all deserted. I’m all alone. As I’m walking I hear a sound. It must have been nothing. I keep walking. That’s when I hear it again. A screech filled with agony, the sound of a child crying. I look around but there is no child, there is no one. The main city is far away so it is unusual that I hear such a sound. Just as I convince myself it is all in my head, I hear the sound again but this time it sounds closer. This time I turn back and start running. I don’t get too far when in one of the alleys I see a woman. I start to run to her as I do not want to walk here alone. However, as I get closer I can see the person’s face- deep, red and not really a face at all, just an unfortunate disaster of scarred flesh. Parts of the rest of the body have no uniform skin, just pieces of flesh that have been torn into as if someone ripped it out of her. She is wearing a red and white dress which I know realize is a dress covered in a deep hue of blood. “Aaah”, I shriek again, this time louder than before. The woman starts approaching me and I am too slow to realize the situation, too frozen to move. So by the time she gets to me, I have moved maybe a single step. I have no voice left in me, no scream would come out. Quickly, the woman lifts her palms, revealing grime-filled nails as long, and sharp. Slowly, she digs her nails into my shoulder, deep and then deeper. She starts whispering to me saying something I cannot figure out. I shriek, but my voice comes out weak. This when I a pool of blood trickling down my arm. I am about to faint, I can feel it. I try to yell again but there’s no one around. I look around for a moment, and when I look back, I’m not on the road at all. I’m lying on a cold marble floor, above me is a twinkling chandelier. All the doors, the windows, the vents are shut. It takes me a while, but I recognise it finally, from the pictures I had seen. I was inside the woman’s home. The one who had been killed over thirty-five years ago. Here I was, all alone.

My eyes don’t stay open for too long, and soon the darkness swallows me whole.

A long while later, I realize that I’ve left, not the mansion but myself. There’s this sensation of something yet alive in me and I know as I can but look at my ruined self from afar, I know that this is just my soul.

Even later, finally, my soul is let loose from my body.

It wanders for a while until it stumbles across a mirror and had I been alive I would have shrieked and shrieked as what I see in the mirror is the woman who killed me. The same scarred, red face. The same ripped flesh. The same white, stained dress. A closer look, and I realise it’s the woman whose face had been all over newspapers, all those years ago, the centre of a horrible murder scandal.

I look at the gaping wound in my chest.
No weapon. No fingerprints. Just silence.
And then—
I remember.

I was her.

Somehow, I had lived her story again.

And somehow…

I had killed myself.