Page 2 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Oh, yes.

Introductions. You’re probably wondering who I am.

Since we’re going to be spending the next few hundred pages together, introductions seem polite. I’m an author. Not one of those “I write poetry while staring sadly out rainy windows” authors. No offence to those. Horror, specifically. The kind with blood. Monsters. Questionable life choices. The occasional missing person. Comfort reading you know. My publisher says my books are disturbingly realistic. My editor says my imagination concerns her. They're all right. Though only one of them asks follow-up questions. Editors are exhausting.

I carried what I'd finished across the room, disappearing for only a moment before returning. Satisfied.

See. People always assume the interesting part of the story is the ending. It isn't. It's the beginning. The moment someone makes one tiny decision...without realizing it'll ruin their entire life. One conversation. One handshake. One wrong turn. One page. That's all it ever takes.

So… Do me a favour. Don't try to solve this too early. You'll only cheat yourself. Because this isn't really a story about catching a monster. It's about discovering you've been looking for one in all the wrong places. And trust me...

You will look. Everyone does.

I glanced at you. Not through the page. Past it. Like I'd almost forgotten you were there. Almost.

Now…

Go make yourself a cup of coffee. You’re going to need it. Don’t worry I’ll wait.

I washed my hands. Dried them carefully.

Ready?

Good.

Let’s begin.

Seraphina - 25 Years Old

Night has a funny way of making ordinary things look guilty. Trees become people. Mailboxes become monsters. Garden gnomes become well… Garden gnomes.

Although Gerald insists, he’s much more intimidating after sunset. Personally, I disagree. He’s wearing a tiny red hat. It’s difficult to fear someone dressed like a Christmas decoration.

“You’re slouching again,” Gerald grumbled from his spot on the dashboard.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Frank sighed.

“She’s been slouching since Tuesday.”

“It is Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re seven inches tall.”

“Height has nothing to do with posture.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Frank, who sat beside him wearing a chipped blue hat, sighed dramatically.

“Children,” he muttered.

“Can we focus? We have a schedule.”