If you were to ask me how we got here, I’m not quite sure how I would answer that. At least not a detailed answer like you would want. I honestly do not remember anything. Call me a liar if you want, but I know what’s my truth. So I’ll tell you my story from the beginning. I know the realtor tried to warn me that moving into the house came with some serious concerns, but i didn’t care at the time. That two story Victorian house was a writer’s fantasy and not to mention a Halloween extraordinaire’s ultimate dream home. The fact that it was selling for half the price it originally sold for was the cherry on top of an epic new beginning. I never really saw myself moving to such a small town like Windale, but it was something I desperately needed. Living in the city was a detriment to not only my mental health but to my downward spiral writing career. I needed a change of pace and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Before purchasing the home, the realtor pleaded with me once again to think it over before making a final decision. This unusual act from a realtor who lives off the commission from selling houses like this, would have made any one else weary. But not me, I saw this as my new beginning. Once i made my final decision in purchasing, and the realtor disclosed the sinister attachment to this home, I was now a new home owner. And that’s where my horror story began. Upon moving in, everything seemed to be going my way. I found my way back to writing more than an hour a day, and was writing story after story. I had found my groove again . Not long after the first two weeks ,the nightmares began. Every night it was the same recurring dream. It starts off with blood spilled all over what looks to be a basement floor, there’s a knife in one corner draped in even more blood, and then the shrieking begins causing me to wake from this seemingly real nightmare. Not long after the nightmares, the various objects began to appear strewn about the house. One morning it was some withered rope, the next day it was some duct tape. The day after that it was a lock and chain. I didn’t know how to explain it, nor did I even know where to begin. I didn’t think much of these objects, but as the days went on the more uneasy I began to feel. But once the knife and the bloody shirt appeared in my drawer, I became terrified. The realtor mentioned this house once belonged to the small town of Windale’s most infamous murderers, but had no recollection of any murders happening within the home. As far as they knew he murdered his victims in a basement. Something that home was not built with, as far as I knew. I should have took that as a final warning. But the writer in me was intrigued to see what would come next. I figured if I survived what was coming, it would hopefully become a worthy story to tell. A story that would solidify my name in the writing world. “My Masterpiece“you could say. Now here’s my truth. That same night I found the knife and the bloody shirt, I dreamt about being in that basement again. Only this time I was able to see the whole picture, the body that lay perfectly in the corner not far from the bloody knife, surrounded by a slow moving pool of blood. My drenched blood stained shirt and hands became clearer and I knew in that moment I wasn’t dreaming. That’s when i called the cops and they arrested me for murder. And that brings us to right now where I truly don’t remember anything that happened prior to that moment. I know there are several people out there who don’t believe what I feel is the truth, and that’s okay,they will soon enough. That’s why you’re here right? To get my side of the story so that you can help prove my innocence and I can finally get out of this insane asylum! So that I can go back to that house and prove that I was possessed by the evil spirit of the Windale murderer causing me to kill that poor man. That has to be why you’re here, so that you can tell my story the way it needs to be told.“My masterpiece”.