I Am A Killer?

It all started as a joke. It wasn't supposed to get serious or go this far, but there we were, staring at letters addressed to five murder victims in my handwriting. “What the heck, Miles, that's your handwriting. Is this some kind of prank?” Ernie, my best friend, questioned. “I don't get it. I didn't write them. Why would I bring you here if I did?” I asked, my hands trembling, suspecting he was pranking me or someone else. How could those letters to the murdered victims bear my handwriting when I had no memory of writing them? It seemed like someone was setting me up.

"I swear, Ernie, I didn't write them; someone must be setting me up. We gotta go," I said, quickly stashing the letters in my bag. If the cops found those, I'd be in deep trouble. "Listen, man, I don't mess with that stuff. Real people died. This isn't a game or a movie. Cut it out," Ernie scolded, shaking his head in disappointment. At least he thought I was pulling a prank on him, ruling him out as the prankster.

"We should go, Miles. This isn't funny anymore," he said, grabbing his torch and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, getting ready to leave. We were in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, where rumors swirled about a killer on the loose being last seen. Three men and two women had turned up dead in just two months, and the killer's identity remained a mystery.This had sparked a flurry of rumors and myths. Some whispered about a killer cult, others spoke of cannibals, some blamed wild animals, and there were even those who believed it was a demon.

Dad's morning advice echoed in my mind, 'Don't go out wandering, boys. The killer's still on the loose, so stay safe,' I remembered. I had assured him, 'Don't worry, Dad, we're just heading to Ernie's to play video games,' but in reality, we were off to investigate the old warehouse, playing detective to uncover clues. It was all fun and games at first, just something to brag about later. Now, it seemed our detective game had taken a serious turn.

"Yeah, Ernie, you're right. Let's bail. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies, but let's snoop around and see if there's anything else here besides these letters," I shared with Ernie. "Hey man, enough with the prank. Let's just leave, alright? I know you want me to stumble upon something spooky so you can play the whole 'killer' thing," he retorted. "I'm not messing with you, Ernie. I didn't write these letters. How could I when we've been together the whole time? You'd have noticed if I snuck out. Plus, we planned on coming here together. I wouldn't come alone, I swear," I reassured him.

"Hold up, if it wasn't you who wrote them, then who did? 'Cause that handwriting is all you. So, whoever wrote this must really know you. I'm not saying I believe you, but you're starting to give me the chills, man," he said, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Yeah, Ernie, I'm starting to worry," I said, scanning the room. "Okay, let's split up. You check that side, and I'll take this one," he suggested. I began to walk around with my flashlight, opening some of the old drawers without any specific goal in mind, just exploring. There were broken glass shards on the floor and dusty wood pieces. Some of the old tables had broken legs or were split in half, as if someone had been forcefully slammed onto them. The thought sent shivers down my spine.

"It's getting dark, Miles. We should head home. I haven't seen anything, have you?" Ernie inquired. "No, I guess it's just the letters," I replied, peering out the broken windows, noticing the sun had set and the chill was setting in. "Let's leave. Should we return here tomorrow?" I proposed as we walked out, avoiding the glass shards and wood fragments, making our way to the door.

"I can't, I have to help my dad. How about coming back on Saturday? We'll both be free," he said as he ran outside. "See you later, slowpoke!" he shouted as he hopped on his bike and started cycling, challenging me to a race. I rushed out and got on my bike, determined to catch up to him even though he was the better cyclist.

"Wait up, you win," I shouted at him, panting and ready to admit defeat a few minutes later.

We rode home silently, me still trying to unravel the mystery of those letters and marveling at the precision of the handwriting. Ernie was the only one who knew me so well, enough to mimic my handwriting, even down to the way I wrote 'Ws' and 'Rs'. Could he have written them to spook me? Yet, he appeared just as surprised as I was, so maybe not. People can put on a show, so I wasn't completely convinced. I resolved to keep a watchful eye on him moving forward.

"See ya Ernie, we go back on Saturday, right?" I said as I hopped off my bike and wheeled it into the garage. Ernie lived a bit further, so he had to continue on. "Bye Miles, see you Saturday," he replied without making eye contact. Ernie's behavior seemed suspicious, prompting me to decide to return to the warehouse the next day without informing him. Maybe I'd catch him planting something else to prank me with, if it even was a prank. The consequences of the previous prank were severe; if the police found those letters, I could have been arrested. So, why would Ernie plant them there, especially where everyone believed the killer was last seen? Was he trying to set me up? Weren't we supposed to be best friends? All these questions swirled in my mind as I entered the house.

"Hey Dad, I'm back," I called out, making my way to the kitchen where I could hear the rhythmic chopping sounds, assuming it was my dad. "Oh, hey son, you're back. Hope you had fun," my dad responded, focused on dicing the tomatoes on the chopping board. "I did, Dad. There's something I need to take care of; I'll be in my room," I informed him, climbing the stairs to my room. "Okay, son, dinner will be ready at 7. Don't be late. Your sister's running behind again; must be that Russell boy. I asked her to bring him home so I could meet him. Be there," he added, still engrossed in his chopping.

"Yes dad," I replied as I shut my room door, sinking onto the bed. I had to get to the bottom of this situation, and even though I wanted Ernie's help, he was my main suspect at the time so I would have to tackle it alone.

'chop, chop, chop, chop.'

The noise of my dad's knife hitting the chopping board kept disturbing my thoughts. Ugh, thanks, dad, I muttered to myself. I had no clue where to even begin. It wasn't like in the movies where the hero always had the answers magically appear when needed. I had to uncover who was behind this twisted joke. With five people dead, I couldn't afford to be a suspect. The last thing this town needed was a scapegoat, and I was not willing to be it.