"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym." - Stephen King

It appeared on the wall in front of Steve's eyes as he watched. One moment there was nothing and the next there was a large brown wooden door with a brass knob and a lion faced knocker of the same colour.

The door he would usually use to leave the room was gone, disappeared. It wasn't because he couldn't see it in the dark, the room was well lit. It wasn't there anymore, the place where it was now had a coating of peach wallpaper matching the rest of the empty room.

George Tareyton, just like the cigarette--Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch--was losing the fight. George would have liked to blame the popular slogan and highly visible advertising campaign (featuring celebrities like Martha Stewart with black eyes) for his current condition. But the fact of the matter was he started smoking Tareyton cigarettes in 1954 years before any of the ads came out because he felt cool smoking his namesake.

The weightless form of Captain Thorpe floated gracefully in the void of space as the last ray of sunlight disappeared behind the Moon's horizon. A corona of light, hypnotic in its beauty, shone with a concluding display of spectacular radiance before finally disappearing and leaving him in the shadows of the dark side of the moon.
He shivered at the sudden drop in temperature but like always, watching the sun set in outer space was worth it. Especially as the sun would not emerge again for another fourteen days.

He saw the vase fall and shatter from the corner of his eye, the speedy flutter of yellow wings aiding the destructive little fairy's escape by window. The toy maker just shrugged and let it go, and even though he didn't see many faeries with yellow wings anymore, he hashed a plan. His collection was devoid of yellow-winged fairies, and he even double-checked his drawer. Seven pairs of blue wings, three pink, two red...and no yellow. He would fix that tonight after work.

"Mama!"

The word screams through my brain, plays on my tongue, but leaves my throat in a strangled gurgle. Troubled eyes scan the darkened corners of my room, probing the comforting shadows that have become home. A cold trickle of sweat creeps down the back of my neck and the memory of my nightmare remains as vivid and haunting as that cursed day.

He slipped the pill into his shirt pocket and replaced the lid on the prescription bottle, sliding it back into the medicine cabinet. The family was waiting downstairs. He looked in the mirror, straightening his black tie and brushing the lint off the padded shoulders of his black suit. He leaned forward, his face almost touching the glass, to stare at the blond freckles sprinkled on the bridge of his nose. He noticed two new ones.

Downstairs, he mingled with the crowd, mostly family, that had gathered for support. It had been three days since the sudden death of his wife, Kathy, and he still couldn't believe she was gone. Several times he walked into the kitchen and forgot why. He reminded himself to be careful because it was critical for him to be alert at a time like this. He still had to take care of the children.

Valerie stood at the door of her apartment, looking down, confused. Jutting from under the door, was a blue piece of paper she hadn't noticed until now.

The morning had started off bland enough: Up by six, showered by six-thirty, coffee and muffin by seven, then out the door by seven-forty-five. Perhaps it was her daily routine that had blinded her to the odd package under the door. It could have just been slid under there only moments ago. Then again, it could have been there since she locked herself in after work last night. No telling, really.

She bent down and pulled it from its resting place. It became much more than just a blue corner. In fact, that blue corner was just the beginning of a rather beautiful interpretation of a sky that was looking down on a rather odd looking scene.

My current victim has no idea that I have been watching, that I am watching her this very second. She has no idea that I lurk outside her window, creeping through the darkness, to gain the best view of her and to observe her every move. Stealth movements, silent, invisible like a soft breeze.

I gain access to her place through a back window. So easy, cut the screen with a razor-knife and pry the window open with a screwdriver. I let the screwdriver fall to the ground outside, something for my adversaries to ponder over, inspect, worship. I look at the razor-knife... sharp, precisely crafted, reflecting a spot of light from its fine edge like a twinkling star in the night sky. It has more work to accomplish tonight.

I'm John Young. My NetLink number is 635769-22-1. I'm all alone now, and I only have a short time left to write my story. The clock on my desk softly ticks away the seconds, reminding me of my destiny.

It's just past midnight, so technically I'm beginning the celebration of my forty-second birthday. However, we haven't honored such occasions recently. I'm not looking for sympathy. I just want to document what's happened to me and my family.