Ryder's words from our last conversation rang in my ears. He was right. I-the only thing I ever seem to do was read Anna's diary, and only talk to Billy, if I talked at all. I have a problem. I know that. So why can't I fix it? It's what I've been asking myself, over and over again for the past week. It's been almost a year since we've moved into this house-effectively my prison, until I figured a way to stop being haunted.
That was another thing. Apparently I was the only one who could speak to Anna, the dead girl who's supposedly 'cursed' to kill, until someone gave back her precious little sentimental object that no one knows about, because she won't bloody tell anyone! And so, that was how I got tied into being haunted until I found this goddamned object for her.
Suddenly, I was aware that there were quick and heavy footsteps running past my door, and down the the long flights of stairs. I scrambled for the hallway. "What's going on?" I shouted at the loud throng of people rushing to get past one another.
A close friend of mine, Jocelyn, squeezed my arm and dragged me along into the crowd. "What's going on?" I repeated, my eyes swiveling to the mad panic of young adults around me. I had an increased feeling of scared nerves and nervous butterflies going manic in my stomach.
"Wait. Just wait until we get downstairs, and see. See what-what that-witch-did to Jackie!" The butterflies were turning into birds now. I had a feeling this was something to do with Anna, and my anger pulsed inside me.
Sobbing echoed and resonated from within the kitchen, and grew ever louder as we approached the marble filled room. Eyes widened, shaking hands covered gobsmacked mouths, and knuckles were pressed into disbelieving eyelids. Feet backed away and friends were comforted as the tears started to fall.
I placed gingerly placed footsteps after gingerly placed footsteps to get a better view of Jackie. Pushing lightly through the clumps of students, I came to abrupt stop. The sight was horrifically morbid, and the word nightmare scrabbled and clawed to the front of my thoughts.
Trails of blood trickled down from Jackie's nostrils, dripping and staining her chin and t-shirt. The blood was crusty on her nose, where it had been broken several times over, causing her once beautifully sculpted eyes and cheekbones to become black, swollen. Her hands were tied above her head, attached to the old, rusted meat hooks that hadn't been used since this building had been constructed. Next, I saw her smile, cruel and twisted with bloodied safety pins that had been pushed delicately through the skin of her cracked lips, so obviously done by the mind of a psychopath.
Jackie hung limply from the ropes, her body swinging like a wet towel in the wind. Her head was pushed against her arm, eyes glazed, staring at the door frame. In one swift movement, her cranium flopped forward, causing the several behind me to whimper, and moan. One person screamed. Jackie's feet were bare, and the flesh ripped open with crawling maggots. I had to swallow the bile rising quicker and quicker in my throat.
Stepping forward, I placed a finger with a fairy like touch against her cheek, only to instantly recoil. It was freezing cold. Aren't corpses still meant to be warm for a bit after they die? I thought, instantly pushing the idea away. I didn't want to-couldn't believe-that one of my best friends was dead.
Jackie was dead. The killings had started.