The weekend came and went in a blur of sleepless nights and mounting paranoia. My brother had taken it upon himself to stay with our dad, watching over him as he grieved for Mom. I knew Dad needed him, needed that comfort, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave my house. The fear that had taken root in me after Mom’s death had only grown. I was too scared to step outside, too terrified of what—or who—might be waiting for me.
I spent my days pacing, peeking out the windows over and over, scanning the street for anything out of place. The slightest noise—a creak in the floorboards, the wind against the window—would send my heart racing, pushing me into a spiral of panic. Sleep was a distant memory now, and every time I closed my eyes, I felt like something—someone—was watching me, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.
I couldn’t go back to work. I had turned in all of my PTO the day before I was due to return, knowing there was no way I could focus on anything beyond the constant fear gnawing at me. I was trapped in my own mind, and leaving the house felt like it would open the door to whatever nightmare was coming next.
I didn’t own any firearms, but I had knives. Not many, but enough to make me feel a little more secure. I kept one on me at all times, and the rest I’d stashed around the house, hidden in places I could reach if Roger—or whoever was behind this—tried to break in. The thought of him, of the threat I’d received, was always there, like a shadow lurking in every corner of my mind.
The sleep deprivation was getting worse. I had only managed a few hours of restless sleep over the course of several days, and my nerves were frayed. Every noise felt like a warning, every shadow a threat. I was constantly on edge, jumping at every creak and groan of the house.
I knew I was spiraling, but I didn’t know how to stop it.
By Wednesday, the days had started to blur together, each one dragging on in a haze of fear and exhaustion. My mother's funeral was tomorrow, but the thought of leaving the house terrified me. My brother and dad had been calling and texting me constantly. They wanted to make sure I was okay, but I couldn’t let myself stay on the line for long. What if my phone was bugged? What if they were listening, tracking my every move? I would answer, reassure them with a few short words, then quickly hang up before the panic set in.
My father had called again earlier, his voice gentle but pleading. He told me that he understood how I felt—how terrified I must be—but that I couldn’t let this fear consume me. "You have to come to your mother’s funeral," he said, his voice cracking. "We need you there. I need you there. You can’t live like this forever."
But to me, it felt like he just didn’t get it. Sure, he had lost Mom, but his life hadn’t been directly threatened. He wasn’t the one receiving those emails, those cryptic warnings. Roger had killed Patricia, I was sure of it. He’d killed Mom too, and now, it was only a matter of time before he came for me. My father's take felt naive, almost dangerous. He thought we could move on, but I knew better. There was no moving on when you were next on the list.
I hadn’t received any more emails from Roger since the last one, but that only made me more paranoid. They were probably waiting for me to make a move, waiting for me to leave the house, to give them an opportunity. For all I knew, they’d already sabotaged my car, just like they had with Patricia’s. One wrong turn, one flick of the ignition, and it could all be over.
I couldn’t even bring myself to order food anymore. After what happened to Mom, the thought of trusting anyone—even a delivery driver—sent waves of anxiety through me. I had been surviving off the old canned food in my pantry, the stuff I’d forgotten about for years. The taste didn’t matter anymore. I just needed to stay alive, to stay hidden.
But tomorrow was the funeral. I knew I should go, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be the perfect trap. It would be the first time I’d left the house in days, and Roger—or whoever was behind this—was probably counting on that.
Mom’s funeral came and went without me. I couldn't bring myself to leave the house, and as expected, my father and brother were furious. They showed up at my door the day of the funeral, their faces drawn with grief and frustration, practically begging me to come with them. But I couldn’t. I stood there, my hands shaking as I told them that if I left, I would be the next one to go into a coffin. The words felt like knives, cutting through the air between us, but it was the only way I knew how to make them understand.
They didn’t force the issue after that. I think they realized just how far gone I was, how deep my fear had taken root. A few days later, they came back, this time with groceries—basic stuff like milk, bread, eggs, even a few frozen meals. They were trying to help, but I couldn’t trust it. I couldn’t trust anything that didn’t come directly from my own hands. So, I threw it all out. Everything except the canned food. It was the only thing I felt safe eating, the only thing that hadn’t been touched by anyone else.
For a while, the police had patrol cars set up in my neighborhood, watching the house, driving by every few hours. It gave me a shred of comfort, knowing they were out there, but even that was temporary. After the first month, they decided that everything had “cooled down,” as they put it. They believed whoever had been behind the emails and the threats was long gone by now. They told me that whoever it was had likely moved on.
The police had managed to trace the emails back to a series of hotels in the area. Each set of emails had been sent from prepaid mobile phones, disposable burners that were found smashed in dumpsters nearby. They tried to reassure me, saying that they were still monitoring the situation and that they hadn’t completely dropped the case, but it didn’t help. I hadn’t felt safe in months, and their vague promises didn’t change that.
Even with their so-called “eye on the area,” I still felt as vulnerable as ever. Every creak in the floorboards, every gust of wind against the windows, every unfamiliar car that passed by sent me into a spiral of panic. My nerves were shot, and sleep was a distant memory. I was living in a constant state of paranoid frenzy, waiting for the next shoe to drop, for the next message to come through, or worse—for Roger, or whoever this was, to finally make their move.
I knew the police didn’t think anything else was going to happen. I could hear it in their voices, the way they talked to me like I was being paranoid, like I was seeing threats where there were none. But they weren’t the ones being hunted. They hadn’t lost Mom. They hadn’t been receiving those messages, waiting for the inevitable. They didn’t know what it was like to live in this constant state of fear, to feel like any moment could be your last.
So, here I was—trapped in my own home, surrounded by canned food and knives hidden in every corner, waiting. Just waiting for whatever was coming next.
By this point, I had lost my job. The PTO ran out, and after missing weeks without a word, they finally let me go. It wasn’t like I could have gone back anyway. My savings were dwindling, slipping away with each passing month, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. It didn’t matter how much money I had—none of it could protect me from what I knew was coming.
My brother had stepped in to help. He came by every week, bringing canned food and supplies, doing his best to support me. He even helped with rent and utilities, making sure I wouldn’t lose the house on top of everything else. I think he knew I was barely holding on. Every time he came over, he’d try to talk to me, gently telling me how much Mom’s death had hurt all of us, how the family was worried about me. How I wasn’t the only one suffering.
But he didn’t understand. No one did.
I kept trying to explain it to him, trying to make him see why I was doing what I was doing. “This isn’t just about me,” I told him one day as we sat in my living room, the blinds drawn tight like always. “He said I was next. Which means that he won’t hurt anyone else until I’m dead.”
My brother didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared at me with that same worried look he always had. I could tell he was trying to reason with me, trying to pull me back to reality. But to me, this was reality. “Staying here,” I continued, “keeping myself trapped between these four walls—it’s not just keeping me safe. It’s keeping everyone safe. Dad. You. All of us.”
He shook his head, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t know that for sure. You can’t just keep living like this. This isn’t living, it’s—”
I cut him off. “I know it. As long as I stay in here, he can’t get to me. He can’t get to anyone else.” My voice was shaky, but firm. I believed it with every part of me. Roger—or whoever this was—had said I was next. That meant it was me or no one. As long as I stayed hidden, as long as I kept myself alive, no one else would have to die.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was frustrated. “I get it. I do. You’re trying to protect us. But this isn’t sustainable. You’re not eating right, you’re not sleeping, and you’re—”
“I’m keeping you safe,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “That’s what matters.”
He looked at me, sadness in his eyes, but he didn’t argue anymore. He just nodded, dropping the conversation for the moment. But I could tell he was worried. Maybe he was right, maybe I wasn’t living anymore. But what choice did I have? I had to do what was necessary to survive, to keep everyone else out of danger.
As long as I stayed in this house, trapped between these walls, I was keeping him and everyone else safe. And that’s all that mattered.
Fall had arrived, the air turning crisp as the leaves began to fall, swirling in small clusters outside my window. The change in the season didn’t bring any comfort, though. My savings were practically gone, the last bits of money dribbling out for rent, utilities, and whatever other small expenses I couldn’t ignore. The walls of my house, which once felt like protection, were now starting to feel like a cage.
My brother came over one afternoon, his face serious. I knew something was coming, but I wasn’t prepared for the ultimatum he gave me.
“Look,” he said, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep bringing you food and covering your bills. It’s not just about the money. You can’t live like this anymore. You need to come out of this house, and you need help. I’m telling you—either you move in with us, stay with my family until you can get over this fear, or I stop bringing you food. I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. The walls around me suddenly felt even tighter, pressing in on all sides. I wasn’t ready to leave the house. I wasn’t ready to face whatever was waiting for me out there. “Please,” I said, my voice breaking. “I just need a little more time. Just give me another week. I can’t leave yet, but I will. I will, I promise.”
He shook his head, his expression unwavering. “No more time. I’m serious. You have to make a decision now. You come with me, or I stop bringing the food. It’s time to face this. You can’t keep hiding here forever.”
Desperation clawed at my insides. “Next week,” I pleaded. “I just need a little more time to get my things together. I’ll be ready next week. I’ll come to your house, I swear. I just—just a little more time.”
My brother sighed heavily, clearly torn between his concern and frustration. After a long pause, he nodded. “Alright,” he said, finally relenting. “One more week. But that’s it. After that, you’re coming with me, or you’re on your own.”
I nodded quickly, relieved that he was giving me the time I’d begged for. “Thank you,” I whispered, stepping forward. He looked at me with a mix of sadness and hope, and before he turned to leave, we shared a hug at the doorstep. It was a hug that felt final somehow, as if the safety I’d clung to inside these walls was slipping away, and soon, I’d have no choice but to face what I feared most.
As I watched him walk back to his car, I knew I couldn’t delay any longer. Next week, I’d have to leave this house. But deep down, the fear still lingered. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment I stepped outside, he would be waiting for me.
I started packing my things, my hands shaking with each item I stuffed into my bag. Laptop, chargers, clothes, toiletries, the basic necessities. But as I zipped up my suitcase, the weight of my decision settled on me like a ton of bricks. I was terrified—Roger had made me this way. My mind raced with a whirlwind of fear and self-loathing. How had it gotten this far? How had I let him do this to me?
I cursed myself for being so weak, for allowing my life to unravel because of one man. He had already taken Patricia’s life, and then he took my mother’s. And now, in a different way, he had taken mine too. I wasn’t living anymore, not really. I was just existing—trapped in this house, locked away from the world because of the fear he planted inside me. I had become a prisoner to that fear, voluntarily locking myself in this cage, terrified of what might happen if I stepped outside.
Everything felt like a trap now. The cars on the road that passed by too slowly, as if they were watching me. The food from the grocery store, which I could no longer trust. Even the man who jogged in front of my house every morning felt like a potential threat, a signal that Roger—or whoever it was—had eyes everywhere. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched at every moment, no matter what I did or where I went.
Was this really how I was supposed to live? Constantly waiting for the next attack, the next moment where everything crumbled again? Would I be running forever, hiding from a shadow that may or may not even be lurking?
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, and tried to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in my head. I couldn’t live like this any longer. If I continued down this path, I might as well be dead already. Roger hadn’t just taken the people I loved—he had taken my sanity, my freedom. But I was done giving him that control.
I had promised my brother that I would go to his house. And despite the gnawing terror in my gut, I was going to make good on that promise. I wasn’t sure if I could handle leaving the safety of these four walls, but I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t stay here and wait for the fear to consume me.
I spent the next hour cleaning up my house, locking every window, every door, hoping there might come a day when I could return and live a normal life again. Part of me doubted it, though. The life I had before all this—the life where I didn’t constantly look over my shoulder—felt impossibly distant. Still, I wanted to believe there was a chance, no matter how small, that I could come back and feel safe here.
After everything was secured, I sat on the front steps of my house, the cool evening air brushing against my face. I watched as cars drove by, their headlights flickering against the darkening sky. People passed on their evening walks, talking softly, lost in their own worlds. To them, this was just another normal night. But to me, every person who passed was a potential threat. My hand remained wrapped around the knife in my pocket, my grip tight. I couldn’t shake the fear that any one of them could be him—Roger, or whoever this faceless figure truly was.
I had no idea if "Roger" was even the person’s real name. It could all be part of the game they were playing. Whoever it was, they were out there, watching, waiting for the perfect moment. I sat there, frozen, every muscle tense, prepared for someone to step out of the shadows.
Headlights appeared down the street, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. My heart raced as the car slowed in front of my house. For a split second, I gripped the knife even tighter, ready to defend myself, my mind jumping to the worst-case scenario.
But then I recognized the car. It was my brother.
I exhaled, relief washing over me as I stood up. My brother pulled into the driveway, parking by the curb. I greeted him with a strained smile and moved to load my luggage into the trunk. I still felt on edge, but I tried to push it aside for now. This was the plan—leave the house, go with him, and try to start over. But as I approached the passenger door, I couldn’t help the creeping paranoia. I had to be sure.
Before I got in, I leaned down and checked the backseat, my eyes scanning the shadows, my breath caught in my throat. I was half-expecting to see him—Roger, or whoever this person was—hiding there, ready to spring out at us. But the backseat was empty.
I let out another shaky breath and opened the passenger door. I slid into the seat, trying to calm the racing thoughts in my mind. It was just me and my brother. We were safe—for now.
"Ready?" he asked, glancing at me with a worried smile.
I nodded, gripping the handle of the knife still tucked into my pocket, just in case.
My brother could sense how tense I was the moment we pulled away from my house. Every muscle in my body was stiff, my eyes darting nervously between the cars passing us by. He tried to ease the tension with some small talk, talking about work, about his kids, about how nice it would be to have me at their place for a while. I nodded along, playing the part, pretending I was ready to get past all of this hesitation and fear, that maybe with a little bit of help, I could go back to something resembling a normal life.
But deep down, I was fighting the urge to tell him to turn the car around, to go back to the only place that still felt safe—my house. Every pore in my body was screaming at me to run back, lock the door, and never leave again. The familiar panic crept in, and I couldn’t shake the thought that one of these passing cars might swerve into us, that he was out there, waiting for the perfect moment.
My brother must have noticed me glancing nervously out the window. He reached over, giving my arm a reassuring pat, his voice calm and steady. "I know this is hard," he said. "But things have settled down, at least a little, since Mom... passed. It's just a new kind of normal now. We’ll get through this."
That word—passed—hit me like a punch to the gut. Without thinking, I turned to him, my voice rising before I could stop myself. “She didn’t pass away!” I yelled, my throat tight with anger and grief. “She was murdered in front of me! You can’t just act like this is something we move on from.”
My brother sighed heavily, the weight of the conversation pulling him down. He gripped the steering wheel tighter but didn’t snap back. He was patient, trying to understand. “I know, okay? I know it was terrible. What happened to Mom… it was awful. I loved her too, just as much as you did.”
I stared out the window, the trees and streetlights blurring by, my chest heaving. I wanted to scream at him more, to make him understand that this wasn’t something we could just brush aside, that this wasn’t just grief—it was fear, a terror that had dug its claws into me and wouldn’t let go. But before I could say anything else, he spoke again, softer this time. “We need to figure out a new normal, for both of us. And that means you coming back into the world.”
His words hung in the air. Part of me knew he was right, that I couldn’t keep hiding forever. But another part of me—the part that had been living in fear for months—was screaming that I wasn’t safe, that none of us were.
“I’m just trying to help you get there,” he added gently.
I didn’t respond right away, just gripped the knife in my pocket tighter and nodded. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to step back into the world, but I was here, for now. And that had to be enough.
Before I knew it, we were pulling into my brother's driveway. The familiar house stood in front of me, but before I could even take in the sight, my nephews burst out of the front door, running straight toward the car, their small fists banging on the windows. Their faces lit up with excitement when they saw me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled.
I stepped out of the car, and they immediately tackled me in a flurry of hugs and shouts, their energy infectious. I ruffled their hair, laughing as I rubbed their big heads. I couldn’t help but grin at their enthusiasm. It was the first real moment of happiness I had felt in months, a brief glimpse of what life used to be like.
My brother caught my eye and gave me a knowing smile, and for the first time, I thought maybe—just maybe—this was the right step. Coming here, being with them, maybe it was the beginning of something normal again. Or at least the first step toward it.
We headed inside, and slowly, I started to let my guard down. The smell of my sister-in-law’s meatloaf filled the air, making my stomach growl despite the anxiety still lingering in the back of my mind. The kids ran around the house, shooting their toy guns at each other, laughing and shouting with that carefree energy only children have. The chaos of it all was overwhelming at first, but in a way, it was comforting too—a stark contrast to the deafening silence that had consumed my life over the past few months.
It was nice to have a little bit of chaos.
Dinner was exactly what I needed. We sat around the table, passing food back and forth, sharing stories and, for the first time in what felt like forever, laughing. The weight of the past months began to feel a little lighter, if only for a short time.
My nephews, always full of questions, looked up at me with wide eyes and asked, “Uncle, which dinosaur was the biggest and meanest?” Of course, they both had their answer ready—Tyrannosaurus rex, no question.
I chuckled and shook my head. “You know, I think the velociraptor was scarier,” I said, leaning in as if sharing a secret. They looked at me with disbelief. “Because they were stealthy, quiet. They could get you whenever they wanted, and you wouldn’t even know. A Tyrannosaurus rex? You’d hear that coming from miles away.”
They erupted into laughter, firing back childish remarks, saying no way could anything be scarier than a T. rex.
As I chuckled, I glanced across the table at my brother. His expression had shifted, his eyes meeting mine with a look of understanding. He knew what I was really saying—that the silent, invisible threats were the ones that scared me most. That’s what Roger—or whoever he was—had become to me. A silent predator, always there, lurking, but never making enough noise to be caught.
We didn’t talk about it. There was no need to say it out loud. But the look in his eyes told me that he understood, and for a moment, that shared understanding made me feel a little less alone.
We went back to laughing, the tension fading away under the warm glow of the kitchen lights, surrounded by family, food, and the noisy chaos of a home full of life. For the first time in what felt like forever, I began to feel a tiny spark of hope. Maybe things could start to change. Maybe, just maybe, I could find my way back to some kind of normal.
After dinner, we spent some time lounging in the living room, watching the kids play video games on the big TV. Their laughter and the occasional competitive shouts filled the room, while my brother and I made small talk. It felt good, in a way, to be in a house full of energy. But no matter how hard I tried to settle in, I couldn’t fully shake the tension that had been with me for so long. Every few minutes, I made some excuse to get up—using the bathroom, grabbing something from my bag—just so I could take a moment to peek out the window, scanning the quiet street outside.
At one point, while I was peeking out, checking to see if there were any cars lingering too long or anyone standing in the shadows, my brother tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped, my heart slamming in my chest, my hand instinctively reaching for the knife in my pocket. But when I turned, I realized it was just him. I exhaled, embarrassed.
“Hey,” he said softly, giving me a reassuring look. “I thought I’d show you to the guest room. It’s getting late.”
I nodded, grabbing my bag and following him upstairs. The hallway was warm and welcoming, filled with the little touches of family life—photos on the walls, the faint sound of the kids’ giggles drifting from their rooms. As we passed by their doors, I couldn’t help but smile at the taped-up drawings and school art projects covering the walls outside their rooms. It was such a stark contrast to the sterile, quiet environment I had grown used to in my own house.
My brother led me to a small room next to the kids’ bedrooms. It was simple but comfortable, with a twin bed neatly made, a desk and chair in the corner, a ceiling fan, and a wardrobe. The soft, neutral colors and the quiet hum of the ceiling fan made the space feel peaceful.
“Thanks for this,” I said, setting my bag down on the desk. “I really needed this push. I don’t know if I would have come out of the house on my own.”
My brother smiled and clapped me gently on the shoulder. “You’re family. No need to thank me. I just want you to get better.”
I nodded, feeling a bit of the weight lift off my shoulders. “I think I’m gonna turn in early, though. I could use the sleep.”
“Of course,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “You deserve a good night’s rest. We’ll catch up more tomorrow.”
We headed back downstairs, and I said goodnight to the family, who warmly returned the gesture, the kids half-paying attention as they continued playing their games. I felt a genuine sense of warmth, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Back in the guest room, I slipped into bed, the soft mattress almost pulling me under instantly. For the first time in months, I felt safe. Safe enough to close my eyes and let sleep take me.
And it didn’t take long—I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, the comforting sounds of my brother’s family in the background lulling me into a peaceful, deep slumber.
I had been enjoying what felt like the first truly peaceful, dreamless sleep I’d had in months, sinking deeper and deeper into oblivion, when the blaring sound of a fire alarm ripped me violently awake. I shot out of bed, disoriented, my heart pounding in my chest as the acrid stench of smoke filled the air. My throat immediately started to burn, and I was coughing before I even knew what was happening.
Panic surged through me, and my first thought—Roger. I had escaped the safety of my own home, let my guard down, and now he was going to kill me and my brother’s entire family in one fell swoop. The nightmare I had feared for months had found me, just like I knew it would.
Without thinking, I darted for the bedroom door. The smoke made it hard to see, but I could hear the crackling roar of flames somewhere beyond the walls. I grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, but as soon as the door cracked, a fierce backdraft exploded in my face. The force of it sent me flying backward, my body slamming into the back wall of the bedroom. The wardrobe behind me splintered under the impact, shards of wood crashing down around me as I struggled to regain my breath.
The hallway outside was an inferno. Flames roared up and down the corridor, licking at the walls and ceiling, swallowing everything in its path. My mind raced—my nephews. My brother’s family. I had to help them. I had to get to them, but the hallway was impassable, a tunnel of fire. There was nothing I could do from here. The smoke was already suffocating, my lungs burning with each breath. I had to get outside before I was trapped in here for good.
Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed a chunk of broken wood from the destroyed wardrobe and rushed to the window. I swung the wood as hard as I could, shattering the glass, and immediately ducked as another backdraft burst through, this time shooting flames outward. The fire screamed as it sucked the air from the room, a scorching wind that singed my skin, leaving me with burns that sent waves of agony through my body. I could barely see, barely think.
The heat was unbearable. The walls felt like they were closing in, the fire consuming everything around me. My skin felt like it was being peeled away by the searing flames. I had to get out.
When the flames receded from the window for a brief moment, I knew it was now or never. I took a leap of faith, my body hurling through the shattered window, falling two stories down toward the hard ground below. I hit the earth with a sickening thud, trying to roll as I landed. Pain shot through my body, my legs and arms burning with agony, but I was alive. I had made it outside.
I hit the back deck hard, my body wracked with pain. Burns seared across my skin, shards of glass stuck in my arms and legs. I groaned, unable to move for a moment, my mind struggling to catch up with the agony coursing through me. The fire roared behind me, casting an orange glow across the night, and the smell of smoke filled my lungs.
Suddenly, I felt hands on my back, rough and callous, flipping me over with a force that sent another wave of pain shooting through my body. I gasped, blinking through the haze of smoke, trying to focus on the figure above me.
A man stood over me, bald, his face twisted into a cruel scowl. There was a large scar across his brow, cutting through his expression like a permanent reminder of something dark. But it wasn’t the scar that caught my attention. It was his eyes. Familiar, piercing, the same eyes I had seen every day of my childhood—the same eyes my mother had.
This was Roger.
Before I could even process what was happening, he grabbed me by the shoulders and began dragging me across the deck, toward the sliding glass door that led back inside the house. I could feel the heat from the fire even more intensely as he pulled me closer to the kitchen, where the inferno raged. My heart raced. He wanted me to die in the flames, just like my mother had.
Panic surged through me, and I instinctively reached into my pocket, my fingers fumbling around the knife I had kept there for protection. My vision blurred with smoke and pain, but I gripped the handle tightly, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I mustered all the strength I had left.
With a wild, desperate motion, I yanked the knife free and plunged it into Roger’s side.
He let out a howl of pain, staggering back and releasing his grip on me. His hands went to the wound, his face contorting in fury as blood oozed between his fingers. “You little—” he cursed through gritted teeth, and before I could react, he kicked me hard in the ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of me, sending me collapsing onto my side, gasping for air.
Roger stared at the knife embedded in his side, his scowl deepening, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He glanced down at me, his eyes blazing with hatred. “You just needed to sleep and burn,” he growled, his voice cold and venomous. “You weren’t supposed to wake up.”
I coughed, struggling to breathe, my body screaming in pain, but his words echoed in my mind. This was the plan all along. He had set the fire, expecting me to die quietly in my sleep, trapped in the house as it burned down around me.
But I hadn’t stayed asleep. I hadn’t given him what he wanted.
Roger’s eyes flickered with frustration, his hands trembling slightly as he grasped the knife’s handle. He took a step toward me, his face twisted with rage and pain. But I knew I had to act quickly. If I didn’t, this nightmare would end exactly the way he wanted it to.
Adrenaline surged through me, overriding the pain in my body as I scrambled to my feet. Every muscle screamed in protest, but I knew this was my only chance. Roger was already trying to steady himself, his eyes locked on me with fury. I lunged at him, tackling him to the ground, my fists swinging wildly.
I hit him in the face, over and over, feeling the crunch of bone beneath my knuckles. Roger grunted with each blow, but he fought back hard. His fists connected with my ribs, my face, sending sharp waves of pain coursing through me. But I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. Every hit felt like it was releasing months of fear, frustration, and anger.
Blood poured from his face, but his hands were still trying to claw at me, his strength not yet gone. In a moment of desperate clarity, I reached down and grabbed the handle of the knife still lodged in his side. My grip tightened as I yanked it free, and without thinking, I plunged it back into him. Again and again.
I stabbed him over and over, each thrust fueled by the terror he had put me through, by the deaths of Patricia, my mother, and the threat to my brother’s family. The knife sank into him, each strike weakening him further, until finally, his body went still. His hands fell away from me, limp and lifeless.
I stared down at him, gasping for breath, my entire body trembling. The sound of the fire roaring inside the house was deafening, but I could no longer hear Roger’s labored breathing or his curses. He wasn’t moving anymore.
I collapsed beside him, my body giving in to the exhaustion and pain. My hands were covered in blood, my mind barely able to process what had just happened. I killed him. It was over.
Sirens blared in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The police and fire department had arrived. I could see the flashing red and blue lights as they pulled up to the house, the firefighters rushing toward the flames, while officers sprinted toward the backyard.
I looked at Roger’s body one last time, the knife still clutched in my hand, and I let it fall to the ground as the first officer reached me.
The aftermath of the fire was worse than anything I could have imagined. My brother and his entire family—his wife, my nephews—they all perished in the blaze. The fire had spread too fast, too violently. By the time the fire department managed to get inside, it was too late. My heart shattered. I had escaped, but they hadn’t. The guilt of that reality pressed down on me like a weight I could never shake. I had come to them for safety, and now they were gone because of it.
When the police questioned me, I told them the truth—about Roger, the stalking, the threats, the torment I had endured for months. I explained how he had orchestrated everything, from Patricia’s death to my mother’s, and finally, the fire that had taken my brother’s family. The man I had killed was Roger, my mother’s half-brother, the ghost that had haunted us all.
The police found Roger’s truck parked a few blocks away in a fast-food parking lot. Inside, they uncovered a laptop and several burner phones—the tools he had used to send the messages, track me, and lay out his twisted plans. Nearby, they discovered empty cans that had been used to ignite the fire. The forensic team confirmed that the accelerants were the source of the blaze. It was all there, meticulously planned, as if Roger had been preparing for this final act for years.
After the investigation wrapped up, I moved in with my father. We were the only ones left—the only survivors of Roger’s horrific onslaught. The police found detailed notes in Roger’s belongings, a sick diary chronicling his hatred for his family and his twisted justification for killing them all. He had been abused as a child, and that trauma had warped him, leading him to believe that his revenge was justified. He had vowed to kill everyone connected to his bloodline, and that included us.
The grief was overwhelming, almost too much to bear. But my father and I held on to each other, leaning on the only family we had left. We spent the year healing, though the wounds would never fully close. We missed my mother, my brother, and his family every single day. The ache of their absence was constant, but staying close to my dad helped us both get through the worst of it.
We had lost nearly everything, but we still had each other. And slowly, with time, we began to rebuild, piece by piece, determined not to let Roger’s darkness consume what little remained of our lives.
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