𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕖𝕟

A breathless gasp left your mouth and you stumbled backwards. There were twenty pictures in total and at least half of them were of you in various stages of sleep. The one in the top right corner was of you in bed, face planted deep in your pillows. It was obviously taken from outside your bedroom window. The one below it was taken in the same night but only inches away from your peaceful resting face. "Jesus fuck."

Your heart began to beat loudly again and you clutched your shirt over your chest, accidentally kicking the closet door open further with your foot. The mirror on the inside of the door shook and you caught your reflection for the first time. Your entire front was painted in blood. It dripped off of your chin and crusted around the hair that framed your face. The feeling of deep-seated dread made itself known and you felt the violent urge to throw up all over Stu's nightstand. It all made too much sense.

Despite the nausea washing over you in waves, you found yourself staring long and hard at the red substance. There was something about it and the redness of it. It reminded you of the budget slasher-flick that you and Randy watched on Valentine's Day last year just out of pure spite.

Behind you, in the mirror, you saw what looked like a trap door engraved on the white ceiling. You stood to your feet and walked over to it. You forgot, did the Macher's have an attic?

Without thinking, you hopped up and grabbed the corner of the square door and pulled it down with the weight of your body. As you stepped back, a set of stairs retracted and exposed the dark space above the ceiling. 

The answer was yes, apparently.

You shot one last look over your shoulder, first looking over at the closet and then to the door that led into the hallway. So much had happened that night, you didn't know what to think. But the evidence you had unintentionally collected told you that Stu was the killer and you weren't about to argue with the evidence.

The attic was long and narrow, cluttered with old furniture, boxes, and other strange objects. Moonlight filtered in through a small raised window that looked out onto the front lawn. You moved through the small space, bumping into a few boxes and knocking an antique lamp off of it's stand.

You rushed over to the window as quickly as you could, not paying any attention to the objects you knocked over or the sound of breaking glass that followed. There was no insect-screen on the other side of the glass and you pried it open desperately, sticking your head out.

The cold night air felt good on your hot skin and for a moment you forgot why you were actually trying to crawl through to the other side. You remembered what Dewey told you at the beginning of the night and what you promised him. And so after clearing your throat and propping your elbow up on the window sill, you screamed as loud as you possibly could.

"DEWEY!" You cried out, making your lungs burn. "THIS IS ME SCREAMING FOR HELP! HELP HELP HELP!"

Your voice echoed through the tall trees but other than that, nothing. No Dewey. Not even a car door opening. You craned your neck to peer into the driveway, just to see the Jeep gone from where he had parked it. "FUCK!"

And just like that, dead silence consumed the world once more. With the window open, you could now hear the crickets chirping in the woods behind the house. Helpless tears began welling up in your eyes but you brushed them away with your sleeve. You would allow yourself to cry when you were finally safe and not a split second before.

You shifted your weight and ran your hands up and down the side of the opening. It was small, but you figured you could fit through it with enough effort. You glanced behind you quickly and licked your lips. You really didn't have a choice.