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Why You Shouldn't Be in the House on Your Own

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This is the freakiest shit that I’ve ever had to deal with in my life.

One day, after a long day at school, I arrived home feeling unusually excited. I had studied at the library for an hour before coming back to my house, but I couldn’t have been quicker to get away from, because today, unlike most days, my mom and dad were out – visiting my sick grandfather. It wasn’t often that I got the opportunity to stay in the house on my own, but when I did – like that day – I usually spent my time surfing the internet or watching TV.

When I first stepped into the house, fully expecting a thrill to go through me at being at home alone, I instead felt a slight ping of unease – it was like cold goose bumps, only with an added shiver on your back. After a few seconds of trying to pinpoint the source of my disquiet, I shrugged and made my way into the living room, sitting down on the sofa and switching on the documentary channel.

There was nothing interesting on – just something on psychiatric hospitals, a story about a prison and how flowers grow. I just sat there for half an hour, utterly bored out of my mind, before I decided I would go on my computer.

I walked up the stairs, frowning as I realised that aside from my room, the bathroom and the hallway, all of the other rooms

That is him.

lights where switched off. I headed directly to my room, sitting on my chair and turning on my computer. Again, nothing interesting – just more stories about jail and chlorophyll. So instead of looking for stories, I just watched videos on YouTube about aliens.

Soon after, my phone started to ring. I turned it on and held it up to my ear.

It was my mom – there had been an issue with the car, and I was supposed to meet them down at my gran’s house. It was about three miles away. With a resigned sigh, I closed the laptop, causing it power down. Stuff like this happened – it was life. Sometimes good things would happen, sometimes they wouldn’t, and sometimes they would be interrupted. Like that day.

So I grabbed my bag, put on my jacket, and made my way down the stairs, past the dark rooms of the second floor. I opened the door, the keys in my hand, and moved out, pulling it shut behind me.

But at that moment, I realized that other footsteps had been descending the stairs – and that a tall man was barely a meter from the door.

Which wasn't shut.

Or even locked.

I closed it quickly, fumbling with the key and shoving it in the door as the figure behind the frosted glass moved towards it, grabbing the brass handle.

The door moved slightly as I twisted the key, and the lock mercifully slid in place with a click.

I stared in terror at the man on the other side, his features blurred, but noticeable. He pulled on the doorknob for a few moments - so hard that the door creaked against the strain. For a single, horrifying moment, I thought it was going to break. But then it dropped.

The person on the other side of glass leaned forward, pressing against it, his face looking enraged – I can best describe it as purely fucking insane. He pulled again on the door, trying harder, before, after a final wrench, dropped it and moved back into the house. After a few moments, he disappeared into the living room.

At that point, I realized that my hands were shaking. The only thing going through my mind was What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, but for some reason I found myself holding my phone towards the window of my house. There was nothing, and then the shape of a man moved by. I snapped a picture, then ran.

I called my mum and dad while going down the road, telling them that a man had been inside our house. They protested against it when I told them, telling me that it was a funny joke. I could even hear laughter on the other end.

That is, until I sent them the picture.

The laughing then ceased abruptly and, after several seconds, the line went dead.

That terrified me even more than I already was.

I met my mum and dad on the road about twenty minutes later. My mum was crying uncontrollably, and my dad was white-faced and shaking. They brought me to a police station, where a police commissioner told me what was going on.

Earlier that morning, there had been a breakout from the city jail. Reports were still rather sketchy, they said, but what they know for definite was that three high-security prisoners escaped, killing a guard in the process. Two of them had been recaptured almost immediately, but the last one was still at large.

To my immense shock and horror, the picture they showed me was almost identical to that of the man I had seen in my home. He was a high-profile serial killer, with over fifteen confirmed victims, all brutally murdered. He targeted them when they were most vulnerable – asleep, in a dark alley or alone in their home.

That was the thing that I had seen on the news earlier. The ‘Incident at Barmouth Prison’.

I’m writing this three years after it happened. I’ve moved on now - I accept that it’s in the past, and that I haven’t been hurt…well, physically, at least (the Police did refer me to a psychiatrist).

But this is just a warning to you – this man, whoever he is, is still out there. The Police haven’t caught him, and are no closer to doing so than they were when he first released himself.

I’ve lived my whole life since then from the very same house where it happened.

The odd thing is, though, that this man, according to reports, occasionally portrayed those he killed – masquerading as them to lure in his victims. Once he even used the internet, and an altered story of one of his killings, to bait people in to talking with him in order to become friends with him, even giving information to him that, while initially it seemed innocuous, led to their very violent deaths.

Oh, but this is only a story, remember…

Sweet dreams ;)

Written by Baron Brixus
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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