brighter.
And he was gone. I’m writing because I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night. Or if I do, if I’ll wake to an ambulance or police siren. That old Mr. Chester upstairs is no more. Or the single mother across the hall. Or God forbid one of her children.
The authorities will find natural causes for the least natural thing in the world.
Please don’t tell me I’m crazy. That I’m only scared of stairs or storms. I’d rather hear back nothing at all.