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0200 hrs.

Wispy fog.

Whirling, swirling.

Streetlight.

A lone bat,

Looping, swooping.

Night sounds.

Frogs, crickets,

Train whistle, far away.

Radio crackles,

Against still, night air.

Prowler,

Outside window.

“I’ll take it.”

“10-4.”

“Backup?”

“Negative.”

Front porch.

Yellow light.

Shadows.

Moth,

Flittering, fluttering

Yard.

Weeds,

Dried, crispy.

Breeze.

Gentle

Cool,

Leaves,

ticking and clicking

across worn porch floor.

Wooden swing.

Rusted chain,

Crooked.

Siding.

Paint,

Faded, peeling.

Door,

Loose knob.

A knock.

It opens,

Slowly.

Just a crack,

And a creak.

Tiny face,

Crinkled, by

Days long since passed.

“I heard them again, Officer.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Damp, anxious eyes.

Faded gray with time.

“They were at the window, like before.”

“I’ll check around back.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I wish my Bill was still here.”

“I know.”

“He’s been gone ten years this week.”

“A good man.”

“Thank you.”

“Coffee? It’s fresh.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Two sugars and a little cream, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Be right back.”

Outside.

Flashlight.

Waiting.

Neighbor’s house, dark.

Furnace, humming.

Rattles, then stops.

Quiet.

Two minutes pass.

Kitchen window,.

Brightly lit.

Darting here and there.

Full coffee pot.

Silver tray.

Cookies.

Cups.

Saucers.

Spoons.

For two.

Screen door.

Spring, squeaking.

Thump.

“Everything’s okay.”

“Yes, I do feel better now.”

“Thank you.”

Warm smells.

Vanilla.

Fresh bread.

Pumpkin spice.

“It’s just that, well, with Bill gone …”

“I know.”

A downward glance.

Wall clock

Tick-tocking.

A sigh.

A tear.

Silence.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Would you mind if I sat for a minute?”

A sniffle.

“I’m tired, and really shouldn’t drive.”

“After all, how would that look?”

“A cop asleep at the wheel.”

A smile.

Relief.

Just like last night.

And the night before.

And the night before.

At 0200,

Ten years after her Bill passed away.


Only SIX days remain to sign up for a “Seat” at Virtual MurderCon’s interactive event, and spots are filling quickly!

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He’s here,

Again.

Scratching.

Clawing.

Digging,

At the inside of my skull.

Eyes wide open, now.

Leave me alone,

Please!

Fingernails raking against bone,

And thoughts and emotions.

Chipping away,

Until they’re no more.

My memories, feelings,

And the ability to care.

All gone.

Dark.

Moon.

A sliver of creamy light,

Smeared across a plank floor.

Clock tick-tocking, incessantly.

Tick, tick, tick.

Night sounds.

Refrigerator whirs.

Air conditioner hums.

Tick, tick, tick.

Owl hoots.

Cricket chirps.

Tick, tick, tick.

Then quiet.

Deafening and relentless,

Horrifying silence.

So still.

Dead air.

A scream!

From inside?

Him, or me?

He’s there.

In front of me.

Behind me.

Over there.

No, over there.

Laughing.

That maniacal laughter.

Bullets.

Blood.

Bullets.

Twitching.

Quivering.

Like a dying animal.

Flowers.

Roses.

Prayers.

Damp soil,

Freshly turned.

Tears.

Sadness.

It’s okay,

You did your job.

Easy for them to say.

He shot first,

They add.

Seriously, it’s okay.

But it’s not.

Never is.

Anxiety.

Fear.

Depression.

Insomnia.

Can’t sleep.

He’s here.

Again.

Why every night?

I only killed him once,

But I die every single day.

So no, it’s not okay.

Seriously, it’s not …

It’s not okay, and it won’t be until there’s a means to release the demon.

*     *     *

* If you are in a crisis please seek help. You cannot do this alone. Call 911, go to your nearest emergency room, talk to your doctor, or call 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK).