Chapter 2

She wasn't even sure if she was still alive, she looked out the window in front of her, the thought that he could see her and she couldn't see him made the fear even worse. The darkness outside was his cover, she kept wondering when would he strike? She figured he would taunt her first, keep torturing her over the phone, then he would torture her for real. Gale turned and faced Dewey, concern was in his eyes.

"You can see me?"

"Uh-huh."

"What am I doing right now," she lifted her hand in the air with her middle finger held high.

"Who the hell do you think your dealing with? I'm not playing! You're going to die tonight Gale Weathers, with Dewey by your side!" She heard the click of the killer's phone, he had hung up.

"Dewey we have to get out of here," she dropped the phone, it spread out into three pieces on the floor as it smashed. Gale grabbed his arm and picked him up out of the chair, she felt a small tear gathering in her eye. As she pulled him out of the kitchen, the silence of the house was broken with shattered glass falling on the tile floor. The plane solid window was now nothing but jagged glass, and there was a white package guilty for breaking the window lying on the floor.

"Dewey, go get your gun," as he ran off to the bedroom she walked over to the package on the floor, each chunk of glass was like a puzzle piece around it. Gale ripped off the first layer of paper, and she couldn't have been more surprised at what was thrown through the window. A ghost face on the cover, and small streaks of blood running down it. The title on the book said The Woodsborrow Murders and the authors name was her own. Gale looked at her book and didn't understand, she opened the front cover, the killer had written her a note:

Who do you think will write the story of your murder?

"Come on, Gale," Dewey said as he dragged her away from the book, his gun held tight with the other hand.

"Dewey, what do we do?" The second she had finished her sentence, every light in the house died. Dewey cocked the handgun.

"He turned off the electricity; he must be at the circuit breaker in the basement. Gale, I want you to run out the front door and get help."

"I'm not leaving you here."

"You have to, go next door and use the neighbors phone to call the police," she knew he was right but she didn't want to believe it. She stood up on her toes, and kissed him, preying that it wouldn't be the last time.

"I'll be back in five minutes, be careful," she grabbed him with her arms, "I love you."

"I love you too," he whispered, "now go."

Gale walked away from him, she felt around in the dark for the railing as she slowly walked down each step, wondering how long it would be before she came face to face with ghost face again, and his blade. The hardwood floor of the stairs were like ice on the bottoms of her feet, she reached the bottom step and stared down the hall to the front door. The walk was so short, maybe ten steps if she ran. Gale took the first step, and stopped, they thought the killer was in the basement, and to get to the front door, you had to pass the basement door, which was wide open.

She took the second step, if she had been asked; she wouldn't be able to tell anyone what she was feeling. Third step, next step would be level with the basement door. Gale couldn't bring herself to take the fourth step; she knew the second she passed it she would meet ghost face again. Run, she thought, just run past the basement door, and out the front door. On three, one, two, three!

She ran. She didn't even look in the basement as she ran past it, almost there. The door handle of the front door was also cold; she twisted the deadbolt back, and swung the door open. Gale looked outside, and realized something. What happens after this? This is the fourth killer, who's after him? Gale Weathers realized it would never end, and that there is some thing worse than death and one of them was living this way, waiting to die. These were the exact thoughts that ran through her head as she stared into the black eyes and screaming ghost face, who was standing on her front porch, with a knife in his hand.