Page 64 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

And again.

I stop typing, looking at the cursor as it blinks in rhythm with my heartbeat. The house fell quiet again. Not the comforting sort of quiet. The kind that lingers after words have finished echoing.

You probably weren't expecting that. You can close your jaw now. I saw you. Don’t worry. Everyone does. You're trying to decide whether Joey is a monster. That’s cute. Keep reading. You're asking the wrong question.

I leaned back in my chair, flexing my aching fingers while the cursor settled obediently at the end of the chapter. Writing always left me feeling strangely hollow, as though every sentence stole something invisible before giving it back rearranged.

Frank wandered across the desk, peering suspiciously at the screen.

"She's dramatic."

"She's terrifying," Gerald corrected.

"Is there a difference?"

"Barely."

I reached for my notebook. Looking towards my supplies. Pens. Scissors. Paper clips. Lengths of faded ribbon. A craft knife. An ordinary little collection of ordinary little things.

Funny thing about fear...It almost never lives inside the object. You could leave a knife on a kitchen counter for twenty years. Nobody would scream. Nobody would call the police. Nobody would even look twice. Until someone picks it up. That's the inconvenient thing about monsters. They usually come attached to hands.

Objects themselves are almost never frightening. It's the hands holding them. Readers know that better than anyone. You see a teacup, someone else sees comfort, another person sees poison. Stories work exactly the same way. Stories are harmless.

At least... that's what you tell yourself. That's why you keep turning the page because you believe monsters stay inside books…Don't you? Tell me….What will you do when you realize monsters were never the ones hiding?

I slid the blade carefully across a strip of thick black paper, trimming away uneven edges before setting it beside a growing collection of pressed flowers and handwritten notes. Rose. Baby's breath. A crimson rose petal that had dried almost perfectly months ago.

People preserve beautiful things because they're afraid of losing them. Sometimes… People preserve other things too. Flowers are beautiful. They spend their entire lives trying to bloom. Then humans cut them down...because they're beautiful. Funny little creatures, humans. They always destroy the things they admire. The knife clicked softly against the wooden desk as I set it aside.

A bark shattered the silence. Once, then again. Max.

"Well..."

I reached for the little dog-bone tin beside the door, its painted lid rattling cheerfully as I filled my palm with treats.

"I suppose we'd better go see what my very handsome detective is doing."

Frank groaned.

"There she goes."

Gerald hopped down from the desk.

"Should we be worried?"

"We're always worried."

"Fair."

I slipped my feet into my boots, tucked the tin beneath one arm, and reached for the door.

Morning had finally arrived for him and somewhere just across the road... someone was probably making coffee. Maybe I should invite myself. I wondered if he'd looked out his window today. I wondered if he'd noticed mine. The thought followed me outside like a second shadow.

Seraphina

The gravel crunched beneath my boots as I crossed the road, Max's treat tin swinging lazily from my hand.

"You know this is a terrible idea," Frank muttered.