Evere

A Chapter by GhostOfTheLight

Evere

He stomps through the upper floor windows,

he treads through the halls in the dark,

the glimmer from the glass in the shadow

will cuttingly leave it’s mark.

Don’t run or hide from the demons inside,

no escape from the slice of his blade,

curiosity can kill

when one’s without will,

the reflection that makes you insane.

My name is Evere.

I’m sitting on my living room couch.

I’m scared.

I think the most terrifying thing about him is the reflective property of his mask; you’re forced to see yourself scream, the blood that begins to pour from your body when you’re stabbed, the entrails that tumble out. That’s what makes him terrifying. It isn’t his knife or the way he slowly lumbers towards you. It’s seeing yourself.

Going to Darkridge has been hell. I don’t care about any of the students or the faculty or the bullshit teachers that think they know how to handle a classroom because they read straight from a textbook. I’m only going here because my parents are making me. That’s it. I’d love to drop out, especially with the string of recent murders, but I can’t. That fact alone eats at me from the inside out like a parasite overcoming my body. It’s disgusting.

I could keep going on about my depressing social life, but I’ll spare you the pain.

I’m here to figure out why he’s doing this.

I’ve watched enough television to know how this goes down; murders happen, girls scream, bodies found, schools close down, murderous rampage ensues. It’s like a pattern that nobody wants to witness.

If this guy’s murdering people, he must have a reason; he surely wouldn’t do it for fun. If I want to come to any kind of consensus as to why, I need to look deeper into the message he sent us students of Darkridge.

He calls himself a messenger. A messenger of what?

He claims it to be in a fit of retribution, which I can understand to a point with the scum of Darkridge right now, but going as far as to murder them for it is too much. It isn’t human.

But is he human?

If he’s never taken off the mirror, there’s no way of knowing. If anybody has gotten a glimpse at his face, they’re probably dead and couldn’t have ever told anybody else. They could’ve managed a last ditch effort to call the cops, but they’d be too caught up in trying to survive. He might not be human. He could be a ghost, or a spirit, or some kind of demon. I’m not one to believe in the supernatural, but has the supernatural ever been proven to not exist?

He also feels that his murderous rage is beautiful. Something about killing his victims and restraining them in an innocent way before plunging the blade into them expresses some kind of elegance to him. I find that to be the most interesting thing about him and I can’t exactly put my finger on why. Is he just some creepy pedophile or a person infatuated with the idea of preserving fright?

Speaking of preservation, we need to take into consideration the mirror. The point of a mirror is to reflect. Whether the reflection be of emotions, of hatred, of yourself, that doesn’t matter; what matters is that whatever is in the mirror is bouncing back towards you. If he’s murdering those who he thinks don’t deserve to live, then a whirlwind of sadness and depression will be bounced back.

I don’t know how I come up with these things, but my mind wanders past midnight. The sound of my television is soothing and tugging at my brain to chug with ponders, and I’m willing to allow that. I love late night thinking and I’m not anywhere near tired.

Right now I need to collect my thoughts, my senses, my conscience, maybe even try to piece this all together to make some sort of understandable result. I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I intend to fin-

I freeze.

I hear something in the kitchen.

Some kind of shatter. The shattering of glass. Is that what I heard?

My senses are on high alert, but I shrug the sound off as some kind of animal.

I try focusing on the television set, but I hear another sound.

A crunching sound. Somebody’s stepping on the broken glass.

Broken glass.

There’s nothing in the kitchen made of glass.

I can hear the pinging of shards on the tile floor in the other room. It’s getting closer.

More crunching. Human footsteps. No ghost, no spirit…

A demon can’t have footsteps, can it?

It’s one in the morning and I’m alone.

I’m alone.

He’s here.

The mirror.

My reflection.

I’m at the peak of my innocence.

***

If something ever happens to me, people will know what led to my insanity.

I’m writing this journal in spite of fear. No other reason. I don’t want others to die or to die myself at the hands of Mirror Face. Everybody is too scared to try and stop him, so I’m going to take action.

My dream last night was far too vivid, from the silence around me in my living room, to the crunching of the glass in the kitchen. It was real. I felt real fear. I never want to have to feel that fear again, that knowledge that your life is on the edge of disappearance. It didn’t feel right. Waking up saved me from a fate unknown.

I felt like that girl who died yesterday, who did nothing wrong.

I never talked to Laurie; we didn’t click. We shared nothing and we said nothing. Our lives were separate, but in that moment of pure fear, I felt like how she did. How she felt before she died.

My trek to school was slow and cumbersome, my walk like a zombie’s. I had no intent on staying at Darkridge for much longer, but the students there need help. The principal doesn’t care one bit about the students; his mind is too concerned about the reputation of the institution he runs. He’s a piece of trash, that one. I hope he’s murdered just like Laurie. He’s the only one I want to be dead.

I keep trying to get my mind off of the dream, but I can’t. It’s sticking like glue. Something about it felt familiar like I had experienced it before. Maybe I’ve dreamt something similar in the past. I don’t know.

I don’t know a lot right now.

I don’t know if the man, if I can call it that, is really human. He should be dead. People always talk of the spirits of the dead living on in our lives, but is his worthy of doing so? I mean, God, he’s killed six kids.

His mask was there. It was his. The mirror and all. It’s either a sick prank or a reality, and right now I don’t know which one is more believable. I don’t think I care.

All that I care about is making sure that nobody else dies.

I will end this even if I have to die to do so.

prev chapter