Page 3 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

See?

This is why people think writers are strange. We don’t imagine people. We imagine conversations. There’s a difference. A very important one. Well, that and I have a few well how would you say screws loose. I just call it better than the average human, we have an ability or so I say. People call it eccentric. My mother called it “concerning.” My therapist called it “something we’d discuss next session.” Gerald calls it half ceramantic.

Anyway…

You’re still here. Interesting. Most people would’ve run the moment Gerald started critiquing my posture. You stayed. Either you’re wonderfully curious… Or catastrophically bad at recognizing red flags. I’m hoping for the first one. Although, statistically speaking, it’s probably the second.

Gerald folded his tiny ceramic arms. He doesn’t really but I like to think he does.

“They’re judging you.”

“They’re not.”

“They are.”

“I can practically hear it.”

Frank sighed.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Gerald’s right.”

“Traitor.”

“I prefer realist.”

I ignored them. Mostly because they were impossible to win arguments against. You’d think being made of ceramic would make them less opinionated. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes them stubborn.

Since you’ve decided to stick around, I suppose you deserve a story. Not the whole story. That would be cheating. Besides, every good mystery tells you just enough to keep you interested and just little enough to make you suspicious of the wrong person.

That’s the fun of it.

Readers love solving puzzles.

You meet someone with shifty eyes? Obviously, the killer. Someone wears black all the time? Definitely hiding something. Quiet neighbour? Secret basement.

It’s adorable, really.

People always look where they’re expected to look. Rarely where they should.

Gerald cleared his throat.

“That sounded dramatic.”

“I write horror.”

“You wrote three pages describing a spoon once.”

“It was an important spoon.”

Frank nodded thoughtfully.

“It was a very unsettling spoon.”

“Thank you.”

People think writing horror means waiting for inspiration to strike. It doesn’t. It means staring at a blinking cursor while drinking coffee that’s gone cold, wondering if your editor will notice that Chapter Twelve is three days late. She notices. Editors always notice. Mine has developed a delightful habit of ending every email with:

Just checking in :)