The windows are black against the dark of the night and the
lamplight seems insufficient to keep the spectre of fear at bay. He is here
smiling across the room. He doesn’t know what I know but I know. Last night on
his workbench computer I found them, the files, photos, slaughtered dogs, cats
with their heads dismembered, men; dead men, tortured in the most brutal
fashion. and him holding his trophies aloft above his head. He is here with me, the murderer, the savage. How long has he been
doing this?
“Am I enjoying the party” he asks. Not likely, replies a
shivering anxiety, I can feel the blood rushing to my face and what is worse, the
monster can tell. The ground floor window whispers freedom and when he leaves
the room for a second I shall exit the window, to the bemusement of the guests...
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