I see him. He’s half a mile away. He’s everywhere. When I move my head, he shifts with it. He’s always there. His tendrils outstretched across my vision. There’s nowhere left to go.
I hear footsteps in the snow behind me. I won’t fight him. I’ve never committed violence. I will not start now.
I don’t have much time. No time at all. And yet every second is precious. Every second is a few more words I can add. The last few words of a dead man.
I’m not afraid.
I’m going to see Caleb.
I love you, Samantha.
I’m sorry, Annabel.
Never stop running.
Never stop struggling.
Never stop hoping.
Stop letting others die.
Isn’t this interesting? It seems he wasn’t quite finished with his post. I suppose it was rude of me to interrupt him, but it almost works better this way. After all, now I can explain events directly and save you a report, Messenger.
Donovan Swihart is dead. On February 12, 2011, mere minutes ago, he was accosted by myself. It’s strange. He struggled at first, but only because he seemed glued to this phone. Strangely enough, as soon as I felt the bones in his wrist crack under my grip and he was practically forced to let go of it, he simply gave up and refused to fight back. Looking back over his post, it seems almost ironic, doesn’t it? He stopped struggling very quickly. He also never tried to run, although that might be because he knew it was futile to even try with broken knees. It’s a shame I had to resort to a tool as inelegant as a lead pipe to do so, though.
Fortunately, the human body, the perfect tool, was more than enough to snap his neck. Don’t worry, Raven. I prefer quick, clean efficiency. Your Donovan did not suffer.
You thought you had me on the run? You thought you could bring Raven back to her old self? You thought that I wouldn’t find out about any of this? Please, Messenger, give me more credit than that. And Raven, I’m very disappointed in you. Have you learned absolutely nothing? I thought I had made it clear that a doll like you should know her place.
The car will be burned with the body inside. This blog is over.
So, Messenger, was that satisfactory?