It is midnight, and four people in the city of Foggy Meadows lay awake. A gentle mist drifts over the lake swishing quietly in the center of the city and the moon is absent in a night sky speckled with stars.
The first is a man, lying in his bed with fear riding in his heart. His hair is unkempt and his eyes, though closed, are filled with certain fear.
The second of the four is an old woman, sitting up in bed and attempting to read a book, a novel thick with pages, heavy with words. She cannot read, however, because she is shaking with fear, hands trembling, trying to avert her eyes from the cardboard box at the trunk on the foot of her bed. Fear plants roots in her stomach and a ball of fire warms it, nauseating her. White waves of stringy hair flicker out from her head as she leans forward and clutches her stomach. Somehow, she will get through this.
The third is a girl, no more that twelve, worrying her brain to waste. Rivers of blond hair float from her scalp, swishing as she reaches for the flashlight in her drawer and flicking it on as she pulls her quilt around her uncomfortably. The flashlight is placed straight up on the girl’s bedside table to provide a gentle light. She is scared, scared beyond words, beyond tears, beyond rash actions. She cannot believe what has happened or what she can do.
The fourth is a man, bathing in the darkness of his dining room, and emotions differing greatly from the others. His head is tilted back in genuine laughter, laughter so vicious and deep that his cat slinks away from the noise. He is drinking in the fear he concludes his victims are experiencing, and he couldn’t be happier.
His actions are finally taking toll.
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