I’ve just moved into a house a serial killer used to own. My closest friends think I’m crazy; but I wasn’t going to turn down such an opportunity.
But I’ve had trouble sleeping here. I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I’ve heard the muffled screams of the men and women who were stabbed to death here. After a few minutes of silence, I know it was just my imagination. But it makes me sad; it’s not like how I thought it would be. The place feels empty, alien.
I wish I never moved out of here in the first place.