I Started Writing To A Convicted Murderer Out Of Boredom, Now I REALLY Wish I Just Stayed Bored
By Vanessa Doe
I froze. The only light illuminating in the room was the logo from my laptop. I stood frozen in the dark, vulnerable to whatever (or whomever) is out there. I set the laptop down slowly, searching the room once my eyes adjusted.
“It could just be a blackout,” I told myself, bracing myself as I looked out the window. Wrong, only my house was pitch black.
I began to panic, my breathing was rapid, and I felt light headed. I slouched against a wall trying to regain strength, I ran two scenarios through my head: whoever shut the power off in my house either did it from the outside, or did it from the inside – I was trapped either way.
The doorbell rang, making me jump out of my skin. From where I was standing I could see a portion of the window looking out to the porch, I tilted my head ever so slightly; I could see a figure pacing back and forth, occasionally peering into the house. I squinted; he seemed to be 5’11”, slim build, around 35-40 years old. I did not recognize this man as someone from the town, instead, I knew exactly who he was: Rob Caygon. He had come for me.