Chapter 1

why

I had just moved to New York after finally graduating out of college. It was a nice apartment near the top of the building—good sized room, a window overlooking the city skyline. I looked at my calendar, checked off the moving day text marked in bold red marker, and read the date. October 21st, 1956. Not a bad life.

After a couple days, I decided to start going onto the roof. Before I moved, I didn’t sleep quickly all that often, so it was a bit of a habit for me to stargaze for an hour or so.

On one particular day, however, I had gone onto the roof, per usual, but there was a figure sitting on the edge, legs dangling off. My mind raced between the possibilities. Were they going to jump? I tried calling out to them, but no response. Thinking of the worst, I grabbed their shoulders and pulled them back, seeing their face. What looked back was a man without eyes, a nose, or a jaw, and different cuts and scratches. There was blood all over him, dried blood. It was certain he had died. Out of terror, I let go and raced to my room, calling the authorities using the telephone.

I was questioned for a long time, but eventually I was let go. The police told me not to worry, but I did not go out onto the roof for a long while.

Around eight to nine months later, another incident had occurred with an elderly woman who lived a floor beneath me. She was killed in her own home, despite her door being locked, but it seemed they had broken in. The police figured out the murderers were criminal maniacs who wore masks and brutally killed victims because of evidence left on the scene, but there was seemingly no pattern to who they killed. I no longer felt safe, so I decided to move to a different apartment building that was more secure, but security costs money that I did not have.

I began looking for a roommate, and eventually ended up with a man who was 28. His name was Terrance. He had noticeably blue eyes, and seemed nice enough. We both split the cost of the apartment and lived together. He, similar to me, also enjoyed staying up late. We were best friends, and enjoyed each others company very much. He preferred to ride his bike around the city, so we weren’t together often.

On May 18th, 1957, I had ended up back in my apartment room, getting ready to sleep, when I noticed Terrance’s photo album opened up nearly under his bed. I bent down to close it, but just as I was about to, I saw the pictures inside, and my mouth gaped. They contained photos of masks, bodies, limbs, and teeth. I grabbed it and dialed the police once again. The police came, but Terrance did not.

This time, I was questioned for a longer time, far longer than before. I was obviously a suspect—a man who was involved in two cases of murder—of course I was suspected! Once my parents had heard, they insisted I came back home. I no longer felt safe sleeping at night; they knew who I was, so I took their offer.

Years after, I thought it was finally over. I moved out and got married, and had a son whom I named Zane, after my grandfather.

Then, the mail started arriving.

Letters with no return address, but plenty of threats. Mail containing gruesome, descriptive stories of what would happen to my family. I thought back years ago, to the man on the roof, to Terrance, and fear overcame me. I had gone into a frenzy, which led to my wife divorcing me, but my divorce did not stop the letters from coming. Finally, in an episode, I took my son with me, far away from anyone who could follow me, and purchased a small home in the woods, where they would never, ever find me or Zane.

G-d, I was so fucking wrong.

Not even a month in, I was out with Zane chopping down trees to use for a fire, when I saw one of them watching me from far away. A man in a clown mask, similar to some in the photo albums, covering most of his face, but I could see his eyes. Deep blue and bloodshot, staring directly at me, holding a fire axe. We locked eyes, and he started charging towards me. I yanked Zane with me as we rank back to the house, but the maniac was faster than us, and we were not going to get back before he could get to us, so I told Zane to keep running, and faced the man, slowing down to a stop and holding my axe defensively. He slowed to a stop too, and then charged at me once again, swinging the axe down at me so hard I swear I had heard something pop in his arms. I moved back, narrowly avoiding what would have been fatal, and continued to sprint back to the house.

I had made it back, locked the door shut, and left through the back door with Zane. We left that house forever, for it wasn’t safe anymore.

Even years after everything, I’ll still hear that axe swinging down, and remember how lucky I am to have escaped. They still try to get to me. I don’t know why.