M.J. Pack

The next day, Marilyn was seen to have bruises on her shoulders and back. The studio hairdresser covered them with makeup.

Listen, I’ve told the cops my story three times now. You can keep asking but I’ll keep saying the same thing. I know what I saw – I’m not crazy.

It ends with the singer asking himself: underneath it all, is he just like the Killer Clown? The answer: “Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid.”

The twins began to speak only to each other and their younger sister. Therapy didn’t work, and sending them to boarding school caused them to go completely catatonic when separated.

“Jeez, Red, you got a lotta rules,” she laughed, but there was tension in her voice now, something I hadn’t heard back at the rest stop.

I listened hard and heard it again: two notes, one high, one low. Like someone calling to me.

There’s something super unsettling about her smile, like the opposite of Mona Lisa.

This is where shit gets weird. I mean, even weirder than hooking up with a guy that crawled out of the sewer.

I’m literally so scared right now.

After I really heard it the first time I waited to see if it was a fluke. But after a second, again: tap-tap-tap-tap.

At night, when we’re almost asleep, we can just barely catch the scuttling sound as they hurry across the hardwood floor.

We looked at the house, a good distance away now that we were in the car, and saw he was right. The woman was standing in the doorway, not much more than a silhouette from where we sat, but definitely watching.