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This story is a prequel to the original Jeff the Killer story, detailing one of his previous murders.

Midnight, I thought, hearing the town centre clock strike twelve. With that, I darted out of the alleyway in which I had been residing. I stood, lingering in the shadows and looked up the street. There was a large, grey brick house at the top of the street.

Why this house may you ask? You would be naive to assume this was my first murder, no. This was in fact, my third. I still recall the adrenaline rush I got when that girl squealed. But this little bastard had slipped through my fingers, reported me to the police.

I would have to silence this little blabbermouth when and where he least expected it. In his own home. The only light at this time of night was the moon. Reaching his house, I examined it closely. There was a drainage pipe running up the side of the house. Being the athlete I was, I jumped with a firm hold on the pipe.

I perched myself a ledge that stuck out from under the window and peered through the misted glass. There he was. The young boy, he couldn't have been more than fourteen, chest rising slowly and falling. I watched him for a good few minutes, waiting. Then it finally happened. Dark clouds enveloped the moon like a black sheet, providing the cover I needed.

Feeling my way around the rim of the window, I found that it was slightly open. Slowly prying it open, I made a gap big enough for me to squeeze through. I landed on the floor cat-like and nimbly, the teen's bed was on the opposite side of the room to the window. Beginning to make my way over to him, I let my guard down. The floor board creaked and I froze as the boy's eyes fluttered open.

I had always been a light sleeper, that's why my window was sound proof. But it was not the occasional late night traffic passing by which awakened me, this sound came from within my room. I was sat up, scanning the darkness to no avail, it was no use. The clouds then parted, and I saw the origin of the sound. A man, if you could even call him that, sporting a white hoodie. Long, matted black hair draped over his shoulders. His most distinguishing features however, adorned his face.

His lips were a horrid shade of red, a smile carved into his face. I saw his eyes, ringed in black, never-closing and his skin to match the colour of his hoodie. No sooner had I seen him, then he was upon me. His shot to my mouth, preventing any sound from leaving my throat. There was a glint. A knife, but not just any knife, this was a meat cleaver. I thrashed around, but he jumped onto me, restraining me. He raised the cleaver high above his head and whispered,

"Shhhh... just go to sleep..."

With that, the blade descended on my throat. I felt a searing white hot pain for a second and, then, blackness.

I drove the knife deep into his throat, until it collided with the mattress. I yanked the cleaver out, a squelching sound and several flecks of blood following. I looked at my knife and then back at the boy. A deep gash was cut into his throat and crimson was beginning to pool on the bed, leaking onto the floor. I strode back over to the window and looked back at the bed. I chuckled darkly and said quietly,

"The parents are in for a pleasant surprise."

With that I opened the window and vanished into the night.


Police are looking into the mysterious death of Anthony Gray, who was found yesterday morning, murdered in his own home.

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