Crystal Smith a 42 year old woman from hot springs North Carolina was found brutally murdered and dumped into a ditch line this morning. She had 52 broken bones along with 87 stab wounds. Autopsy has revealed arsenic poison was found in her lungs and her blood. If you have any information you are urged to contact the police immediately! There are no suspects at this time.

As the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows through my window, I felt it again; the tremor, a flicker at the edges of my perception. It had started as a whisper, an unsettling nagging in the back of my mind, but now it roared like a tempest. I sat on my bed, the familiar clutter surrounding me a half empty coffee cup, and crumpled papers. Yet, everything felt off, like a painting with colors that bled into one another. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, willing myself to dismiss the unease. But with every inhale, I felt the cracks deepen, and it wasn’t just in my mind. There was a pulse in the air, a low hum that vibrated through my body, urging me to look closer. I opened my eyes, and the world before me shimmered. The walls warped, and my reflection in the window seemed to hesitate, a heartbeat behind my movements. “Just tired,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head. “Just tired.” But that night, sleep evaded me, and I stared at the ceiling, counting the imperfections in the paint. Each mark morphed into a different shape. A face, a place I had never been, and then a door. It was a door that didn’t belong in my room, yet it beckoned me with a silent promise. I had to see what lay beyond. The next morning, I woke up with determination. I marched to school, my heart racing, convinced that I would find answers. As I walked through the halls, I noticed small things the flickering fluorescent lights, the whispers that echoed just a beat too late, the way my classmates seemed to move in slow motion. I felt as if I was drifting through a dream, and the world around me was a poorly constructed set, waiting to collapse. During lunch, I confided in my best friend, Mia. “Have you ever felt like…everything is just a little off?” I asked, hoping she would share my sense of impending fracture. She looked at me, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “What do you mean? It’s just school, right? You’re probably stressed about finals.” But her words felt like a trap, pulling me back into the mundane. I needed to break free. That night, armed with a flashlight and a sense of reckless abandon, I crept into the attic, where dusty boxes held remnants of my childhood. I rifled through the clutter, searching for something, anything that might explain the cracks in my reality. That’s when I found it a small, metallic cube, unlike anything I had ever seen before. It pulsed softly, as if alive, and instinctively, I reached out to touch it. The moment my fingers brushed its surface, the attic dissolved around me. I was no longer in my home but standing in a vast expanse of swirling colors and shapes, a cosmic dance of light and shadow. “Welcome, seeker,” a voice echoed, reverberating through the void. I couldn’t see its source, but the tone was both inviting and menacing. “You’ve glimpsed the truth, but are you ready to embrace it?” “Truth?” I echoed, bewildered. “What do you mean?” “The world you know is an illusion, a construct built to keep you complacent. But you have the power to break free.” A vision flashed before me—my life as a series of interconnected threads, each one a potential reality. I saw myself becoming a scientist, an artist, a traveler across galaxies. But then, those threads frayed, revealing darker possibilities, where I was lost, consumed by my own delusions. “Choose wisely,” the voice intoned, growing fainter. I blinked, and suddenly I was back in the attic, the cube clutched in my hand. I realized then that the cracks I had seen were not mere figments of my imagination but windows into an expansive truth. The question now loomed large in my mind: Was I uncovering an illusion meant to liberate me, or had I fallen into a delusion that threatened to unravel my very existence?

All I knew was that I had to find out.

I’ve always found beauty in the ordinary little things that most people overlook, like the way the sun glints off a raindrop or how a shadow shifts when the wind blows. But it was her beauty that captivated me. I first saw her on a rainy Tuesday, her vivid red umbrella contrasting against the gray sky. Her laughter was a melody that echoed in my mind, haunting me as I followed her, invisible, through the bustling streets. At first, I told myself I was just observing. I would watch her from a distance, my heart racing as she walked into the coffee shop, her fingers dancing over her phone screen, oblivious to the world. I learned her routine coffee at eight, lunch at noon, yoga at six. I memorized every detail, each moment a piece of my obsession. I felt like a ghost, existing only in the periphery of her life, but it was exhilarating. I was a part of her story, even if she didn’t know it yet. But as the days turned into weeks, my fascination morphed into something darker. I wanted to be more than a shadow in her life; I wanted to be the only one. I imagined us together, laughing, talking, sharing secrets. It was a fantasy that grew more vivid with each passing day. But fantasies have a way of twisting, of collapsing into something grotesque. One evening, I followed her to the park. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that danced around us. She sat on a bench, lost in a book, and I felt the urge to approach her, to slip into her world. But I hesitated. What if she screamed? What if she didn’t understand? I was too far gone to think rationally. As the sun dipped below the horizon, I decided to draw closer, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear her soft voice as she read aloud to herself, and it was intoxicating. She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice me inching nearer, my breath coming in short gasps. I felt like a predator stalking its prey, and the thrill sent shivers through me. But then, a group of people arrived, laughing and chatting, and she looked up, her smile brightening as she joined their laughter. I felt a surge of rage, a burning desire to reclaim her attention, to snuff out the joy she found in others. I was losing her, and the thought drove me mad. That night, I made a plan. It had to be perfect, something that would ensure she would finally see me, truly see me. I waited for the opportune moment, my mind racing with anticipation. I followed her home, my heart a metronome, counting down the seconds until she would be mine. The streets were dark, and the moon hung low, casting eerie shadows that twisted and turned. I approached her apartment, the weight of a knife heavy in my pocket. It felt right; it felt necessary. I would be the one to free her from the mundane, to show her the depth of my love. When I finally stood before her door, I felt a surge of courage. I knocked, my heart pounding like a war drum. She opened the door, her expression shifting from surprise to confusion, and then to fear. I stepped inside, the darkness swallowing us whole. “Why?” she whispered, backing away. But there was no time for questions, no time for anything but the moment I had been waiting for. The blade glinted in my hand as I lunged forward, the thrill of it all consuming me. In those last breaths, I saw her eyes widen, a fleeting glimpse of understanding. But I was already lost in the abyss of my own creation. As I stood over her lifeless body, I felt a rush of exhilaration and despair. I had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Yet, in my twisted mind, I believed I had finally made her mine. Now, as I sit in the dark, whispering to her spirit, I realize that I have become the shadow, the whisper in the shadows. The horror of my actions is now my prison, and I am forever bound to the memory of the beauty I destroyed.