Let me skip the frilly intro here, or the long drawn out explanation of setting and whatnot. My name is Annabelle Leigh Holden, and I’m dead. Now, this may scare you a little bit, but let me tell you how I died. I was murdered. And guess what; they cops are still trying to find my killer.
For those of you who think they’ll be afraid of this story, just stop reading right here. Seriously, I don’t mind. I was pretty scared myself. But now, two months later, I’ve just about come to terms with it, and I’m writing everything down for you to know. Isn’t that nice of me? And hey, maybe one of you readers will be the one who finds the man that did this to me.
It was a sunny spring day in Candy Land and I was skipping through a meadow of flowers when " OK, if you seriously believed that’s what happened, then you’re off your rocker. Here’s how it really went:
I was walking home from school on cool November day. Wind whipped my unruly brown hair around my face, and my fair cheeks were becoming red from the cold. My back was beginning to hurt from the weight of my backpack, but I continued walking.
I lived in town about an hour away from Boston; which is in Massachusetts for all of you geography flunkies out there. Anyway, I was walking through the center of town, and I had to press the button and wait until the light turned red so I could cross the street. North Attleboro, the town where I lived, wasn’t super huge like a city, but not super small like some rural place where the nearest doctor is twenty miles away. The center of town consisted of about a mile of shops and little restaurants, the town library, the town pool, town hall, and one of the six elementary schools. It’s a very cute place if you ask me.
So, where was I? Oh, yeah, the part where I was waiting to cross the street. Well, I was waiting to cross the street, and a car pulled up next to me. It was one of those black cars with the dark tinted windows, but I didn’t think anything of it. The passenger side window rolled down, and a man leaned over to ask me directions. OK, I know that you’re probably thinking, “Why the heck would she actually stop and talk to the guy!? You’re never supposed to talk to strangers!” but let me just tell you this: hardly anything bad ever happens in North Attleboro. So, I stopped and gave the man directions to the mall, and he thanked me, rolled up the window, and drove away. At the time, I didn’t find the way he looked at me strange or creepy or suspicious in any way. It was almost a kind look. Boy, I wish I knew what I do now back then. I probably wouldn’t be in this situation if I did.
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