Natalie's Diary

The scream was not human. Or, rather, it was too human, a raw, primal sound of absolute devastation that tore through the quiet night. It came from next door, from Mrs. Driscoll, and it was the kind of sound that lodged itself in your bones and refused to leave.

My parents were out, leaving me alone in the house, a perfect target for the kind of dread that sound inspired. But instead of hiding, instead of turning up the music to drown out the horror, I ran. I threw open the front door, stepping out into the thin fog that already clung to the air.

And then I saw it. Mrs. Driscoll, crumpled on the walkway, her wails echoing, framed in the sickly yellow light spilling from her house. And in the shadows, draped over the wrought iron fence like a macabre sculpture, was Natalie. Her loose hair obscured her face, but the dark, ever-widening pool beneath her, dripping from her fingertips, told a story I already knew.

My heart, caught between stopping and hammering, threatened to revolt against the late-night pizza in my stomach. But there was no time for nausea. Only action. My phone was in my hand, 911 already dialed. I murmured my emergency, keeping my voice low, just loud enough for the dispatcher, not loud enough for Mrs. Driscoll to hear the words that meant something, that weighed something: dead.