I didn't even make it home before the shock turned into anger. Megan's body had barely been taken away. Candy was already dead. Everything was happening too fast, too violently, too close together.
And the cops?
They were already overwhelmed. Whispering. Pacing. Looking over their shoulders like the killer might be watching them too.
Maybe he was.
I wasn't sad anymore. I was furious.
Furious that Megan was gone. Furious that Candy was gone. Furious that the killer was still out there breathing the same air as me.
If the cops weren't going to do anything, then I would.
I walked into the apartment Megan and I shared. Her shoes were still by the door. Her jacket still hanging on the hook. Her perfume still lingering in the air. It felt wrong. It felt empty. It felt like she should walk out of her room any second and ask me what I wanted for dinner.
But she wouldn't.
I went into the bedroom we shared. The walls were a soft, washed‑out beige, the kind that always looked a little tired no matter how much light came in. The floors were old laminate, pale and slightly scuffed from years of moving furniture around. The curtains were thin white ones with tiny gray flowers printed on them, swaying gently from the draft that always slipped through the window frame.
The bed sat in the center of the room, blankets twisted, pillows scattered. A small wooden nightstand stood beside it — chipped edges, a single drawer that never closed all the way, and a cup ring stained into the top from Megan's iced coffees. Her hair ties, a lip gloss, and a half‑empty water bottle were still sitting there.
Across from the bed was the dresser — short, wide, and painted a dull off‑white. The paint was peeling along the corners, and one of the handles was missing, replaced with a piece of ribbon Megan tied there months ago. A few of her folded shirts were still stacked on top, untouched.
I kneeled beside the bed, and that's when I saw it.
Her diary.
Shoved under the frame, as if she hid it in a panic.
I grabbed it, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Her handwriting was shaky. Some words were smudged like she cried while writing. The ink looked fresh — she wrote this recently. Maybe even the night she died.
March 17
I don't know if I'm overthinking or if something is actually wrong. I keep feeling like someone is behind me when I walk home. Not close — just far enough that I can't see anything when I turn around. It's like a shadow that disappears the second I try to focus on it.
Tonight I heard footsteps. Soft ones. Slow ones.
I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it was just my nerves. But my hands wouldn't stop shaking when I unlocked the apartment door. I didn't tell Molly. I didn't tell Cody. I don't want them to worry.
Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm just stressed. Maybe it's nothing.
But it doesn't feel like nothing.
March 18
I saw him again. Not clearly — just the outline of him. The way he stands so still, like he's part of the dark. He was across the street this time, near the streetlight. The light didn't touch him. It was like he swallowed it.
I walked faster. He matched me. Every step.
I didn't hear him breathe, but I felt it. Like cold air brushing the back of my neck. My chest hurt so bad I thought I was going to pass out. I wanted to scream but nothing came out.
I don't know who he is. I don't know what he wants. But I know he's watching me.
I'm scared to sleep. I'm scared to leave the apartment. I'm scared to stay in it.
I don't know how to tell Molly. I don't know how to tell anyone.
Something bad is coming.
I can feel it.
I stared at the last line she ever wrote.
Something bad is coming.
My fingers tightened around the diary until the spine creaked. The words blurred, not because I was crying — I wasn't sad anymore — but because rage was burning behind my eyes.
She knew.
She knew something was coming for her.
And she didn't tell me.
She didn't tell Cody.
She didn't tell anyone.
She died that night.
My throat burned. My fingers curled around the diary so tightly the cover bent. I wasn't crying — I couldn't cry anymore. The sadness had burned away, leaving something sharper.
Anger.
Anger that she died terrified.
Anger that she faced him alone.
Anger that she didn't trust me enough to tell me.
Anger that I didn't notice her fear.
I should've seen it.
I should've protected her.
I should've been there.
I closed the diary slowly, like it was fragile — like it was the last piece of her I had left.
The apartment felt wrong now.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
Too haunted by the things she didn't say.
Megan's last words weren't a warning.
They were a countdown.
And now Candy was gone.
And the killer was still out there.
Breathing.
Watching.
Choosing.
I set the diary on the bed and stood up, my hands shaking with rage.
I needed answers.
I needed clues.
I needed to know if Candy went through the same thing.
I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
Candy's door was unlocked — that was already wrong.
I stepped inside.
The air felt warm. Soft. Familiar.
Her living room was cozy, decorated with soft purples and blacks, warm lighting, and little trinkets she collected from thrift stores. Her bedroom was just as carefully curated — bed made, pillows fluffed, a half‑empty iced coffee sitting on her nightstand.
I started searching everywhere.
Her vanity drawers.
Her dresser.
Under the bed.
Inside the closet shelves.
Even her bathroom and living room.
Nothing.
I moved into the kitchen.
That's when my phone rang — so loud it made me jump.
"Hello?" I answered, breathless.
"Molly? It's Sunshine." Her voice sounded tired, worried. "Sky hasn't answered me for a few days. Can you check on her? I would, but I have no one to watch my kids."
My stomach twisted.
Sky. Another dancer. Another girl alone.
"Yeah… I'll go," I said, and hung up.
I looked around Candy's apartment one last time, then tucked her journal into my purse.
Three girls.
Three warnings.
Two already gone.
And now Sky wasn't answering her phone.
I locked Candy's door behind me and headed out, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I called an Uber and gave them Sky's address. The ride felt longer than it should've, every street stretching out like it didn't want me to get there.
When the car finally stopped, I stepped out and stared at Sky's place.
It looked normal.
Too normal.
Her porch light was off. A pair of boots sat by the door like she kicked them off in a hurry. A wind chime made of little metal moons clinked softly in the breeze. Nothing looked broken. Nothing looked disturbed.
But her window was open.
Sky never left her windows open. She was paranoid about bugs, dust, the cold. She always kept everything sealed tight.
I walked up slowly, my heart thudding in my ears. The window was cracked just enough for someone to slip through. I hesitated, then pushed it up and climbed inside.
Her living room was dim, curtains half‑drawn. A blanket was thrown over the couch, a mug sat on the coffee table with dried tea inside. Her TV remote was on the floor like she dropped it. Everything felt… paused. Frozen mid‑moment.
"Sky?" I called softly.
No answer.
I moved deeper into the house. Her hallway was narrow, lined with posters of punk bands and neon artwork she bought from flea markets. A pair of her combat boots sat abandoned near the bathroom door.
My stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
I reached her bedroom and pushed the door open.
Sky lay on her bed.
Naked.
Still.
Silent.
Her arms were slit from elbow pit to wrist.
Her wrists were bruised — the same way Megan's were.
The same way Candy's were.
Her neck was mottled with dark marks.
Her thighs were bruised.
Her white satin sheets were soaked in blood.
Her eyes were closed.
Her mouth hung open.
Her tongue was gone.
I slapped my hand over my mouth, choking on a scream. My knees buckled and I grabbed the doorframe to keep from collapsing.
This fucker took her tongue.
This disgusting piece of garbage took her tongue.
I forced myself to breathe, forced myself to move. My hands shook as I scanned the room. Even though I didn't find Candy's diary, if Megan had one, maybe Sky did too. I needed to find it before the cops came. Before they took it. Before they missed something.
I searched her drawers.
Her closet.
Her vanity.
Her bathroom.
Nothing.
Then I checked her underwear drawer — and there it was.
Sky's diary.
I grabbed it and shoved it into my purse, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
I unlocked her front door so it looked like I came in through there.
Then I called Detective Daniels.
"Detective… you need to get here. Now."
He told me to wait outside.
I stepped out onto the porch, the air cold against my skin. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. My stomach felt like it was twisting itself into knots.
Cops arrived fast. Lights flashing. Voices shouting. Yellow tape going up.
I stood by the police car, numb, staring at the ground.
Daniels walked out of the house and came straight to me. He leaned against the car beside me, his expression unreadable.
"Why do you keep finding these bodies, ma'am? What is going on here?"
"I don't know," I told him. "Sunshine called me. She said Sky wasn't answering. I came to check on her and found her like that."
Daniels sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"My oh my… you're either the one doing this or you're just one lucky lady. But I will find out the truth. I'll have an officer take you home safely."
I didn't argue.
I didn't speak.
I just let them drive me home.
Once the officer dropped me off, I walked inside like a ghost. My legs felt heavy, my head felt hollow, and my chest felt like someone had reached inside and squeezed it until it bruised.
I didn't bother turning on the lights.
I went straight to the bathroom, turned the water on hot, and sank into the tub. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything. I put music on — something slow, something that didn't demand anything from me — and tried to breathe.
But Sky's face kept flashing in my mind.
Her arms.
Her bruises.
Her tongue.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
After a while, I got out, wrapped myself in a towel, water dripping down my back, and sat on my bed. Sky's diary was still in my purse, the corner sticking out like it was waiting for me.
I pulled it out.
Sky's diary felt too soft in my hands, too innocent for what I'd just seen. I opened it slowly, the pages sticking together like they didn't want to be read.
Her handwriting was bubbly, round, almost childish. Little hearts over her i's. Doodles in the margins. It made my chest ache.
I took a breath and started reading.
Dear diary,
I met someone today. I don't know if they're a boy or girl. Their face was covered. I couldn't see their eyes either — it was like they had no face. They wore a black hat, a hoodie, and a trench coat. Aren't they hot in that thing? It's warm out. I was sweating just walking home. Whatever.
But they don't get close. They just stand there. Watching.
I thought maybe it was my ex at first, but this person is taller. And quieter. And honestly? They kinda give off "mysterious stranger in a movie" vibes.
Anyway, maybe it's nothing. I'm probably just being dramatic. Okay diary, I'm gonna shower now. My hair smells like tequila and smoke.
I exhaled slowly, flipping the page with shaking fingers.
Sky thought it was a game.
My stomach twisted.
She had no idea.
Dear diary,
Okay so… I think that person has been following me?
Not in a scary way, just… weird. Every time I leave the club, I see this person across the street.
And I saw him again today.
They've been following me for a few days. I figured it was just a customer from the club. They were nice though. They said my blue hair looks pretty under the street lights. Their voice was strange. I couldn't place it. It sounded fake, like a filter.
They were standing under the streetlight near the bus stop. The light didn't even touch them. It was like the shadows were hugging them. Creepy but also kinda dramatic.
I tried waving (don't judge me), but they didn't wave back. Rude.
They didn't move. Didn't talk. Just watched.
But like… maybe they're cute under all those clothes. Hehe.
The person stepped out of the shadows. I couldn't see their face — it was covered like always — but they talked to me. Their voice sounded weird, like a filter or a robot or something.
They said my blue hair looks pretty under the street lights. Hehe. I knew it.
Then they said something super dramatic like, "Your time on earth is ending soon." Like… okay Shakespeare?? Calm down.
Anyway, I gotta get ready for work. My shift starts in an hour and I still need to fix my eyeliner.
Byeeee diary.
I closed my eyes for a second, pressing the diary against my chest.
She waved at him.
She waved at him.
She thought he might be cute under all those clothes.
My goodness… bless this girl's heart. She was so oblivious to everything. You'd think Sky was a hard punk‑rock chick from the color of her hair to the way she dressed. But she wasn't. Not really. She'd always been a little airheaded ever since she left her abusive husband a few years back.
She was kind.
Too kind.
Kind even to the people who hurt her.
She always forgave them.
Always gave them another chance.
Always believed people could be better.
She wrote this hours before she died.
Hours before he took her tongue.
Hours before he slit her arms open.
Hours before he left her naked on her bed like she was nothing.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, flipping the diary closed.
I set the diary down gently, like it was fragile — like it was the last piece of Sky I had left.
I wasn't crying.
I couldn't cry anymore.
I was done being scared.
I was done waiting.
I needed answers.
All my friends are dying, but I still have no clue who's doing the killing. Who is he and what does he want? Why is he going after these girls? Who is next on his list?
If only I knew someone in law enforcement to help me…
Wait.
My brother James.
He's a cop. And he owes me — owes me for not putting his disgraceful ass in jail for what he did to me when I was six. He also lives in my town.
I need to find him.
And fast.
Before more girls are killed.