I always thought I was a good writer. I’ve been told that my stories that ranged on the scarier side shook readers to their core, keeping them up for days. I always took this as a compliment, something I took pride in.
But, over these past few weeks, things have changed. I started writing about my home town, which was unusual, and I hadn’t been there in at least ten years. Not so unusual was that I was writing about another serial killer, however, this killer befriended their victims before they killed them in a way that almost seemed like an accident.
However, what really made these weeks different was that the FBI showed up on my door on what otherwise would have been a beautiful Monday morning. They questioned me about how I knew about the murder that occurred in Illinois of four teenage girls.
Obviously, I was taken aback. I was confused as to why they thought I, someone who lived in Florida, would know anything about it. That’s when they invited themselves in and threw a folder down on my kitchen table. I shut the door behind them and stared as they pulled around twenty sheets of paper out. With closer inspection, I could see that each paper contained one of my stories. There were highlighted sections and notes in the margins.
“What is this?” I asked, staring in shock at all of my work.
“Every one of these stories describes the murders of the four girls and many other unsolved murders. Almost every detail that we ourselves concluded was included in your story and we want to know what you know.”
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