I ripped apart my shirt as i started to run toward the car. I quickly wrapped the shirt over my bleeding torso. A knife ripped at my back as i was running. I tumbled down to the foggy grass. Shouts echoed inside my head and I couldn’t tell if they were real or fake. A hand reached for me and started to pull me up. I reached for the hand and started to stand myself up. It was my dear friend Richard. I started to limp toward the car as the murderer started to stand up. My hand wrapped around Richard and it supported me enough to walk faster. As we reached the car the murderer was starting to catch up. I swung the door open and Richard started to drive as i closed the door. Luckily we made it out of the grass and on the road before the murderer could reach for the car. We were safe finally. Now we needed to get to the hospital.

Previously on “The Passenger”…

It was possible that he was just headed the same place as me, but I severely doubted it. It was practically off the map, and you need to make a reservation seven months in advance just to get a room.

And this man, not to judge, didn’t look like he had a reservation.

But the truck driver didn’t notice this.

“Aces! This young lady’s going the same place as you!” He said, for maybe the first time in his life, cheerfully.

I didn’t say anything, because this driver was so kind to take me, a foreigner, to my destination. But something was off about the jacketed man next to me. ———————————————

The air in the truck suddenly was muggy and cramped. We kept lurching down the unbeaten path, and I prayed that this strange figure would find what he wanted soon.

“So…” The man said, letting his voice linger in the murky air. “Strawberry Fields, huh? Like that one Beatles song.”

A lady is always polite, I reminded myself. I had no choice but to respond.

“Oh, haha, yeah.” I said, barely raising my voice above a whisper. I practically had to vomit out the word, “Interesting.”

The man only nodded.

His voice was hard and forced, almost hard to describe. Like an American trying to imitate an Irish lilt.

The truck jostled along on the rocky trail. A deer then decided to run in front of us, hypnotized by the headlights. The truck stopped abruptly, and it even seemed to jump.

“Cor blimey.” The driver muttered.

The man didn’t say anything. Nor did I. I noticed, however, that the man was moving his index and middle fingers in a circular motion. It almost had a beat, slowing down each time the two fingers came around again.

The truck driver cursed under his breath and honked a sharp and short honk, only once. I jumped and the man lurched forward. Startled, the deer started to move away.

But then it stopped and stared at the truck again, as if it wasn’t scared out of its wits two seconds ago. I noticed the man was doing that circular motion again.

Suddenly, I felt very uncomfortable in this vehicle, with this disgruntled truck driver and this mysterious man with a ratty jacket. Something was off. You could almost smell it, taste it, in the air.

It was either the hitchhiker or the deer that was the queer one. But people come in many shapes and sizes, and deer typically don’t.

I leaned in closer to look at the man once more. It was when he noticed me looking, and dropped his hand, when the deer actually began to move. Undeterred, it returned back to its forest habitat.

“Bloody stag!” The truck driver complained. He gave another, smaller honk before he nearly kicked the gas pedal. “No matter. We’re nearly there anyways.”

This man and his Cockney accent didn’t notice anything peculiar about the hitchhiker. I wanted to shout, can’t you see it!?, but I had no idea what the man next to me was capable of.

It was terrifying to not know. Would this man hurt me? Would he let me go? You can never quite tell with strange people.

I was contemplating that when the truck suddenly stopped. I looked ahead and I saw the magnificent marble pillars of Strawberry Fields. The sight of the hotel suddenly filled me with a sense of relief, which one does not usually feel after arriving at a hotel.

“‘Ere we are!” The driver cheered. “Enjoy your stay, miss.”

He tipped his newspaper cap in my direction and I responded, “Thank you, sir. I will.”

I felt the mysterious man trailing me, hunting me, even. I tried my best to ignore his very presence. It became a little harder when he snatched the back of my coat.

He pulled me in close, though in more of a sinister than a romantic way. I could tell under his hood or his mask or whatever it is that was hiding his face. His grip didn’t loosen as he pulled my face close to his. Or, at least, what was once his face.

“You didn’t see anything.” He growled in that wobbly, synthetic voice he had.

I think it was about then I lost consciousness.

“Just trust what your gut says about me,” he leans forward, his black hair falls into his chocolatey brown eyes. He has her pinned to the bedroom wall with his arms, her wrists bound above her head. He looks at her for a minute before closing the space between them, his lips close on hers, his tongue flicks into her mouth for a split second before breaking for air. “What does it say?” He whispers pulling away, a devilish look on his clouded figure.

“It says 𝘳𝘶𝘯,” she whispers, her heart hammers in her chest with the realization of what he was— of what he did. She hears the blade click behind his back, she sees his smile widen.

“I’ll give you to the count of three,” he breathes onto her neck, his lips linger on the soft flesh beneath her chin. She breathes in, closing her eyes as he pushes his hips into her stomach. Chills race, her stomach churns. He pulls away, like a wolf after a meal, but strangely, releasing her.

“Run,” he hisses, the black chains around his neck chine, the promise ring on her finger throbs. He pulls the hoodie up, tucking the blade and grins.

His smile held too many teeth.

SLEEPING WELL ON OAK STREET "Love the new place."

"Thank you. It's nice to finally be moved in." Nancy motioned for Tina to follow her into the living room. They sat, Nancy pouring coffee for them both.

"You look rested," Tina said.

"Yes. Finally. It's been wonderful. You forget how amazing it feels to get consistently good sleep."

"Wish I could say the same."

"You know, there are houses still available. Not just on Oak but Maple Street has an entire new development. And I've seen a few places with FOR SALE signs on Birch and Willow. You don't have to live on Elm Street."

A light went on somewhere in Tina's mind. How had she never considered that?

"You know, you're right. I'll talk to my real estate agent today!"

BARELY WALKING Rick loaded a fresh mag and racked the slide. They were our there. Out there... where he needed to be. He had already used the .44 shells he had in his service revolver and was halfway through the 40mm ammo he'd found on the dead soldier.

He still wasn't sure what happened. He woke up in a hospital, unsure of how he ended up there in the first place, only to find it empty save for casualty after casualty--bodies strewn everywhere. War? No, there were no opposing forces, no fighting. Nuclear? No, he'd be dead from the initial blast or he'd be surrounded by radiation-sick hospital staff. Besides there was no sign of any kind of explosion. Terrorists? No, the hospital would be swarming with law enforcement.

The answer presented itself: Zombies.

He didn't have time to believe or not believe before he found himself blasting the gnarling, gnashing ex-humans with round after round until he was able to find a secure room on the ground floor. It was the cafeteria. It had metal garage-style doors that covered the windows and entrances. People must really get hungry, he mused.

But now he figured he needed to leave. To get out. To look for survivors.

...or did he?

He had been standing in the storeroom so completely lost in thought about how to survive this harsh new hellscape reality when it hit him: He was safely ensconced in a hospital cafeteria! There was enough long-term hydration and calories readily available for him to survive a year or more.

It didn't take a year. Or even a month.

He wasn't sure who was knocking. Do zombies knock, he'd wondered? They don't, but human rescue teams do. Once he was secured and had a chance to gather himself and get cleaned up he got the story.

"Turns out that biology is persnickety," the rescue team's doctor began. "While adaptation's pathfinding over eons is relatively successful, quick, sudden changes are rife with issues. In this case: Longevity. The CDC accidentally unleashed a Zomboidal into the world with devastating immediate impact, but host takeovers are the viral equivalent of a coup, and coups are notoriously unstable for exactly that reason: It is much, much too difficult to just take something over that complex. The hosts died too quickly.

"The human body needs things to survive. Depriving it of any one of these things results in catastrophic failure. Rule of Threes came into play. Some of the zombies, unable to control their new bodies, found themselves falling into water, getting stuck in holes, or situations that otherwise found them wanting for oxygen. 3 minutes without O2 and you're toast.

"The next subset to kick the bucket were the dehydrated. They started dropping about three days in. Apparently, Zombies don't know how to open a water bottle. Stupid sonsabitches."

Rick watched as a crews moved about the hospital, working to get it back online. He suddenly felt useless, like he should do something to help.

"Whoa, stay seated buddy. We still need to finish our workup."

"How bad was it?"

"The zombie invasion? Shyooot. I was more of a 'Zombie Annoyance.' I mean, we lost some good people those first few days, but mostly here and at CDC headquarters. Silver lining is that we already have a vaccine."

Rick nodded. "That's good, I guess."

"Yep. Now we can get back to human-on-human violence like it used to be."

SLIGHTLY LESS MISERABLE "You doody pants! How could you kill her? You can't kill her! You have to bring her back."

"I can't. The book has already been published."

"You can do whatever you want. You can say it wasn't real, that it wasn't her body."

He looked at the crazy woman looming over him. If he was fully healthy again, maybe. But no, she was no dainty flower. She was built more like a former defensive tackle and had a similar wide-eyed, frothy-mouthed countenance.

Plus, he remembered seeing a sledgehammer by the door. Who keeps a sledgehammer by the door?

"You know what, Annie? You found me out. I was going to try to surprise you--well, all of my readers--but you are just too damn smart. Now, what do you say we have some cocoa and play gin rummy. It's going to be a long winter. Can I get another pillow?"

THE SPLURGE "That seems like a lot."

"Yeah, but you remember what happened last year."

"I guess. But the next one isn't for two more months. Why are you buying so much ammo now?"

"Are you serious? Like, we have 364 days to prep. I have an entire checklist of stuff to do throughout the year. Fortify the house, prep body armor for Mary and the kids, training drills for the cul de sac, checking provisions. You telling me you just wait for the day of before you start thinking about this stuff?"

Barry, sheepish and feeling called out, turned to the Cabela's clerk. "I'll take six boxes of 9mm and a case of 12 gauge. Also, what are you getting for that Sig with the Leupold optic?"

“Michael, I need you to go take inventory down in the basement,” said my lazy dickhead boss.

I hate having to go to the basement at work. It’s dark and musty, and I’m pretty sure there’s a ton of mold down there too. Every time I’m down there, my eyes get all watery, and I sneeze nonstop.

Descending the stairs, I stop at the bottom and flip the light switch. Why the hell would they put the light switch at the bottom? That’s a safety hazard in my book. One false step, and boom, you’re left limp and broken at the bottom. I make my way back upstairs to get a flashlight.

I walk into Tim’s office, and he’s playing solitaire on his computer. Lazy bastard. “Light doesn’t work. I need a flashlight.”

“Check the storage closet.” I start to walk out when he stops me. “Check this out.” He’s printed out a meme he found on google. That’s right. He PRINTED it out. The meme features an old lady, and it says, ‘Tracking my cookies? They’ll never get my recipe!’ I fake a chuckle and haul ass out of there before he can show me another.

After rummaging around the storage closet for a bit, I finally found a flashlight. I click it on to make sure it works, and it does. I make my way back down the stairs.

I click on the flashlight at the top of the stairs, so I don’t accidentally fall. I reach the bottom, and that’s when I see about a dozen mannequins. When the hell did we get mannequins? This is a liquor store.

I call Tim on my phone because I don’t feel like walking back upstairs. “Why do we have mannequins?”

“It’s for a store promotion I’m working on for Christmas. Gonna dress them up like elves and such and dance around with them. Have one of y’all hand out fake presents to them and sing and stuff. Gonna record it and post it on our Facebook page,” he said.

“That sounds like an awful idea. I’ll tell you right now that I ain’t gonna be the one dancing around with elves.” I hang up and begin counting bottles.

The mannequins are all bunched up, huddled together like they’re conspiring their sick and twisted Christmas dance routine. As I’m counting, I hear a bottle smash. At first, I thought, ‘shit, we got rats.’

Turning around, my light lands on a lone mannequin. It had branched off from its dance group and was next to the whiskey. One broken bottle by its feet and one bottle in its hand. Oh, fuck no.

I look at it and say, “Nah, I ain’t fuckin’ with y’all. I’m out of here.” As I’m walking towards the stairs, I stop by the mannequin, look it square in its nonexistent eyes, and kick it right in the chest. It goes flying back into the other mannequins knocking them all to the ground. Strike!

Going up the stairs, I yell to my boss that I quit, hop in my car and haul ass home.

Down in the basement, the mannequin that had been kicked lies on its back.

A single tear rolling down its face.

Tonight is Friday and Marvin was minutes away from his first full weekend off in months. Like any other night he always took the personal elevator up to began at the top floor and gradually work his way down, it was his own way of catching any punk kids pulling pranks on any of the hotel occupants or homeless people trying to sneak and sleep on the floor.

The quiet breeze of the restless night waned on. Moonlight shining through the open windows were the only reason Marvin could see his hands in front of his face. "Damn new kid, can't remember to shut these windows to save his life let alone his job." Marvin said to himself. Clearly irritated, he began to shut the open windows and pull back all the curtains his fellow associate missed. After finishing up his work he took out his old but trusty flashlight, giving it a couple good smacks before the bright light shined down the highway before him and to his surprise there stood a small girl.

"Hey mister, I bet you can’t do this…" The small girl said to Marvin. Or rather that’s what he heard, but how could that be, seeing as the child's lips never moved once. Marvin didn’t like what the situation was turning into. Where'd she'd come from? And how'd she sneak up on him like that? The real question that came to Marvin's mind was where the hell were her parents?! Her body twisted around, her feet facing the wall and her head never moving an inch. She slowly began to walk up the wall until she was completely upside down. She snapped her head to face poor Marvin but to her surprise Marvin had other plans. He was gone.

As the elevator reached the first floor Marvin grabbed his jacket and walked outside into the street to look up into the top floor and to his surprise the girl stared down at him angrily. Taking out his lighter to light the cigarette dancing from his mouth he took a long hit and let out a small chuckle. "….Shiddd, not today." he said to himself as he took off to start his first full weekend he's had off in months.

Tyler Sinclair found himself doing laundry at 3 am on Monday. He'd come to the haunting realization that he didn't have clean underwear, and there was no way in hell he was going to work wearing dirty undergarments. Not when he was working with Amber, not when he was this close to getting a date with her. No...he had to be on his A-Game and that meant wearing a fresh pair of underoos to work. He was half asleep, frustrated that he didn't do his laundry on the empty Sunday that had just passed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and flashed a glare of annoyance at Brutus who continued to sniff his basket of dirty laundry.

"No...down boy. What's your deal? It's dirty underwear? Seriously what's wrong with you?"

Brutus's facial expression drooped and he answered with a low bark.

"Yeah, I know you're a dog and that means you're gross by default. Keep it down will ya? It's a crime to be awake this early."

He picked up the laundry basket and made his way to the front door, he turned around to Brutus before exiting, "I'll be back in ten. If I'm not back, call the cops because I'm probably dead."

Brutus gave another low bark and a nod of approval.

Tyler closed the door behind him, ensuring it was fully closed before making his way down the flight of stairs to the ground floor. He sighed, one that passed with the morning breeze. The apartment complex that surrounded him was deathly quiet. No televisions, no parents getting their kids ready for school, no adults making their morning coffee. Tyler Sinclair felt like the only living soul throughout all of Avris Heights.

He made his way across the complex, toward the laundry room at the other end. This was his number two complaint about living in the complex (number one went to the atrocious parking), he hated that the laundry room was so far from his apartment, and he didn't much care for leaving his clothes unattended for long periods of time. No, the residents of the complex weren't vulgar or spiteful, and the probability of them doing something weird wasn't very high...but it made him uncomfortable regardless.

He could see the flashing light of the laundry room up ahead, a lightbulb on the verge of flatlining. He saw the inside of the laundry room for about three seconds, and then there was darkness. It had been like this for three or four month's and he found it amusing that the bulb still worked. There was nothing peculiar about the light that flickered every few seconds, the buzzing it emitted as it struggled to stay on. All of that was normal.

It was the crying of a woman that froze him in his tracks.

It came from deep within the laundry room. He could see the rows of washers and dryers on the left wall and about half of the large table that sat at the room's center. He couldn't see the chairs or benches to the right, and that's where the woman was. Her sobs were high-pitched and loud. How did he not hear this from further back? How did the residents of the surrounding apartments not hear her? Her cries and sobs cut through the still and cold night, hanging in the sky with the clouds before fragmenting with the breeze.

His heart began to beat at a rapid pace. The hairs on his arm stood erect as though magnetized. A sharp exhale escaped through his shivering lips, one that he immediately suppressed, in fear that the woman would hear him. Tyler cautiously made his way towards the laundry room, the taps of his sandals competing with the woman's sobs. He leaned to his left to get a better view of the room and that's when he saw her.

She sat in one of the chairs, facing the far right corner of the room. Long and frenzied black hair, concealed every feature of her face. Tyler could see her pronounced elbows through her paper-thin skin. Her shoulder blades were prominent, through the raggedy shirt she wore. The flashing light made it difficult to identify anything about her, but she looked severely unhealthy and she almost looked dead.

Then the light went out, hurling the room into darkness. Her cries seemed louder than they were just a moment ago, each sob and sniffle causing him to wince. The light turned back on with a click and a snap. Her head hung lazily to the left, peering over her shoulder. He couldn't see her face through the long black hair. But he could feel her eyes on him, he knew that she was staring at him because she'd stopped crying.

A whimper escaped Tyler's lips, he shook his head frantically and turned around. I don't have to do laundry, he told himself. I'll just avoid Amber like she's the plague. He knew he still had a few pairs of boxers tucked deep within his underwear drawer, those would have to do. Sure, it would be embarrassing if he moved in a weird direction and someone saw him, but he could just wear a jacket to cover his waistline. Thank God for the winter season.

"So...you just turned around and left?"

Tyler's eyes widened as he shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head.

"What if she needed help?" Bill asked with mild annoyance.

Tyler threw his hands up in defeat, "Oh knock it off, Bill! Don't you go guilt-tripping me for this! What if I went in there and she had a knife!? She just turns around and prison shanks me? Beyond that what if she was a ghost??"

Bill rolled his eyes as he realigned the video game cartridges before him, "Tyler, you're un-fucking-believable you know that? You watch too many horror movies."

"Well, who the hell cries in a laundry room alone? Ghosts of dead girls, or crazy crackheads.”

"I've been to your apartment, there aren’t any crackheads hanging out in the laundry room. You're a moron."

"I am not. You go do laundry at three in the morning and deal with flickering lights and a crying woman." Tyler snapped.

Bill's eyes narrowed as he shook his head in frustration, "It could have been some girl who just broke up with her asshole boyfriend! You have no idea what she really looked like because of the lights and your stupid imagination! You could have finally got your dick su-"

"That's enough! It was either a ghost or a crackhead with a knife!! I'm calling it!"

“For the love of God stop!” Flor yelled from the bathroom. Stephen looked up from The Fall Of the House of Usher and scowled. The only thing he hated more than twelve year old girls were loud twelve year old girls. The TV’s volume increased. Shrouded in a white towels and fragrant steam, Flor swung open the bathroom door. “What in the hell is your problem? We are going to get called by the front desk. Stop screwing with the TV.” Stephen flipped a page. “Where’s the god dammed remote, cretin?” “Excellent word choice,” Stephen replied still without looking up. “If only your eyesight was as sharp as your vocabulary. I have no remote, milady.” Gripping the towel wrapped around her hair with one hand, Flor rooted around the boy laying on the hotel bed. By now, the flatscreen was screaming the melodious tones of Stella By Starlight across the quaint hotel room. “Fine be that way troglodyte.” Flor walked towards the TV. The volume dropped. She turned. The volume increased. She turned back to Stephen still reading his book. The TV turned itself off. “I told you milady,” Stephen said with a chuckle. “No remote.” “First if you call me milady again I’m going to pop a tooth out your head. Second look for that remote while I get dressed,” Flor said. Stephen looked at her muscled arm and flinty glare and for the first time since his mother introduced him to his mother’s new boyfriend’s daughter he saw Flor. They torn apart their hotel room and then searched the adjoining room where their respective parents were staying. No remote. When they returned to their room the TV was on again playing The Haunting. Flor unplugged it. They sat on their beds, thinking and eating snacks. Flor eyed the oddly smart third grader eating beef jerky with one hand and a sleeve of Pringles in the other. His haircut was horrendous but his tee read My Other Car is a Tardis. Her eyes squinted as she realized this freaky little kid was a lot bigger on the inside. “Theories? I’m thinking another remote is interfering with our set,” Flor said, offering Stephen a Twizzler. He accepted the red licorice and wrapped it around the jerky. The lights flickered. The room was silent except for chomping. Chewing, Stephen pondered. “I think ghosts are merely the undead living in a parallel universe and some places are shall we say thinner than others and you can peek.” He offered her a stack of chips. “Interesting what do you base your theory on, little Mr. Spooky Spook.” “Research naturally. You do know Cape May is well known as one of the most haunted towns in America. And call me … Spike.” “Spike, no I didn’t. But I know this broke ass inn was once a makeshift hospital during the infamous influenza outbreak of 1918. Yeah you’re not the only one who reads.” “That makes sense. Do you remember when we came in from the beach this afternoon and when the books fell off the table and you bumped into that lady in…” “The old fashioned waitress costume,” Flor said, a light coming into her face. “No one else on staff was costumed!” Suddenly there was a volley of knocks on their hotel door. “Okay already we get it. You’re haunted. You’re a haunted creepy inn. Nobody likes a show off. So Spike our parents as sick of us and it is only day one. While they are out getting their groove on let’s peek.” Stephen aka Spike jumped off his bed and ran for the door. Flor collected her phone, a portable charger, a couple of water bottles, and her Swiss Army knife in her retro Scooby Doo backpack and followed. “After you milady.” Flor punched Spike’s arm and they headed down the wild patterned hallway to adventure.

Me and my partner walked up to the farm house and Clyde ran into the door trying to mock it down. He span around in dizziness “I don’t think that was a good idea,” then he fell on his face. I chuckled but walked towards the door and started jiggling the door handle, “ maybe not Clyde.” I pried the door open “Ah ha,” Clyde jumped back up, “Em… you sure we should go in there,” he pointed into the door way and stared into the dark house, “looks eery” he stood peering in behind my shoulder. “Clyde we went over this on the walk here, it’s our job. Now come on,” I stepped in and took out my book to access the situation. Clyde walked in shivering with fear. “Maybe I should just go,” he ran for the door but it slammed shut with a BANG!He jumped and hung onto me, “I told you this was a bad idea.” “Clyde! Pull yourself together this is a week old crime scene, the murderer is long gone and the body has been removed and taken to the forensics team. We are just here to find any other evidence of a murder weapon or other links to the murderer.” I kicked him off my leg. “You’re Right, you’re right,” he stood up and straightened his coat. “Let’s do this.” “Nice to have you back Clyde,” we walked down the hall into the kitchen. There was blood on the skirting boards, squinted paintings and hanging lights. In the kitchen nothing looked too out of place except for the plant pot that was smashes on the floor and had a bit of splattered blood on it. “Blunt object, blood and out of place, it’s a possible murder weapon. Pass me a bag,” Clyde slipped on plastic gloves and lifted it into a plastic bags. I was really confused Clyde seemed unfazed by the blood and didn’t seem jumpy at all. Two minutes ago he was clutching to me like a child. He was acting fairly reasonable considering he is an over thinker. He took out his Walkie-Talkie and turned it on “This is Clyde Watson and Katherine Jackson on the Huntington Farm House case. We have some evidence of a murder weapon and we will bringing it in shortly to be tested, over and out.” We walked through the rest of the house, it was pretty dull, the murder must have been taken out in the kitchen. We left the house with the evidence we gathered it was up to our forensics team now, we would be called back in if necessary. We walked to the car it was quiet, Clyde didn’t say much. “You okay Clyde,” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “On the inside im panicking, I’m shaking in my boots, I’m pretty sure my heart is racing and I’m pretty sure my chances of fainting is getting higher as the seconds go on. But I’m trying to stay calm, I’m trying to keep it together because this is my job!” He yelled, “Nope. Pretty sure I’m still going to faint.” He speech started to slow down, “yep…here I…go.” He dropped and I dived catching him. “This really isn’t the right line of work for you Clyde,” I laughed to myself and dragged him back to the car.

Hear something down the hall, grab a weapon, anything can be used as a weapon. Get cameras, lock doors and windows, sleep next to the back door, but first, making sure everyone is okay.

But the number one rule: Never scream.

There’s no point to it anyway, it’s just that so many people do it for no reason. Yes, it can be scary that people or creatures are after you, trying to kill you or take you. But only scream for danger. Pain: no, scared: no, angry: no, danger: yeah. Whether it’s you in danger or someone else. But how do I know this, I’ve been planning for the moment I become the one who’s targeted for a murder.

I have pots and bells lining the windows and doors, telling me if someone gets into my house. I believe that I was only twenty when all of my friends were murdered and being the last one left, it’s my turn. Police were investigating due to the parents of my friends, though I didn’t have that problem. My death doesn’t affect anyone.

So I’m sitting in my living room, my biggest kitchen knife laying next to me, as I hug my knees. I’m in moveable clothes, ready to run away to one of the houses that have the basements all set up for me to bunker down. I’m pumped with coffee and there’s a cold towel on my forehead to calm my nerves. There’s no reason to be too worried, it’s all planned out.

Ties have been cut with everyone, since I’m pretty sure the murderer is close to me and used to be with my friends. I’ve taken myself off information and I have made sure my neighbors are taking a vacation far away. No one else will be hurt in my process.

I guess that’s all I want, no one to get hurt in the process of me getting hurt. Sad to think that it’s all I want.