I don't suppose you remember me. I am the singing girl from the window. My name is Johanna. It's been five years since my father's death. It depressed me, for I never knew my real father until the moment of death. Even then, I never truly knew him. It's a terrible thing to remember,but I doubt I'll ever forget the moment I saw him throwing that woman's remains into the furnace, the drying blood that stained his face and clothes. I'll never forget the way he looked at me as he was ready to strike me for a kill. Then he stopped when he learned I was his own offspring. He seemed distraught. I could feel a heat come to my cheeks as they flushed of color. Then, an icey and eerie chill that would not contain itself. Oh, God. I beg of you, forgive me of my sins and wash my soul clean again.

I wish I could believe that everything would be alright. I wish I could believe anything at all at this moment. I find that I've been sitting awake at night at the Inn and writing in this little journal; hoping that someday, men and women could read this and know the true story of Johanna Barker. I am not mad or criminally insane; but rather, haunted and tortured by her father's unsatisfied, blood-lusting spirit. What shall happen to me? Will his voice push me off my rocker and into the downward spiral of insanity? Oh,dearest father, why torture me so? Why? These thoughts are not my own. It is the terrible poetry of a murderer. God only knows what shall become of me... Nay, for if there was a God, I would not be in this predicament. There is no God, I say! Only my father knows... Only he.

I shudder with the thought of my father returning through his spirit. It's unfortunate enough that I lost him,now this? I can't stand it. And thus,my question remains. What shall become of me?

I needn't wait long for that answer. I awoke this morning to a stomach-turning image. I stood from my bed a moment to stretch, but as I placed my feet on the floor, the bottom of my feet were wet. Slippery. I looked at them a moment...Blood. I walked to the tub, cleaning them off, and feeling a bit startled. I assured myself that there was nothing to worry about...But it was on my palms as well. There were terrible gasps as nosy people peaked through the window at my door. I opened the door to a fiasco. A little pool of the same cold red liquid lie spread across the front steps at my door. And in the middle of the pool of blood,lie a severed hand. From the wrist wriggled three magets. Across the window,in blood, was written: "The beginning is now." And I did not doubt it. He's here. My father and his blades. He's ready for me to continue the family business. His blades beckon,but shall I answer his call? I look over at the counter-top where a blood-soaked blade rest... And into the dark,depths of unforgivable sins I plunge.