The funerals for Andrea Jennings, Don Krenshaw, Justin Ryan, Jill Oberlin, Karl Muffen and Eve Clemens were held the Sunday after they were supposed to return home from a trip to Justin’s cabin in upstate New York. Andrea’s parents had returned only one day earlier to hear the terrible news of the fire in the cabin, and the tragic death of their daughter.

There were many attendants to the sad event. It had been so terrible. A fire had started in the cabin and Justin Ryan had called the police. By the time they got there, there was not much left of the cabin, and fire was spreading. They had been able to put out the fire, but no survivors could be found. Police had no idea how the fire had started.

Among the attendants was Miss Carol Bennett, a local English teacher. She was crying, she had had almost all of those kids in her classes. They were great students. They had wonderful imaginations. She was so sad to hear of their tragic end.

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The candles beside me still burn, the guiding lights of my tale. I feel some relief in having written all of it down, but my relief is shallow. My story is not yet complete, and I don’t quite know how it will end.

I have spent hours writing. It has grown dark outside. These hours I probably should have spent figuring out what has happened, analyzing each event of this past week, but I find no answers doing this; I find more contentment in my writing than I could discovering how I would die. It makes me feel as if I have done something productive with my time.

As I said at the very start, I know great fear. As I sit here in anxiety, my fear is really all I know. The darkness contributes to my fear, I know. It adds a sense of mystery; I don’t know what, or who, may be lurking in the shadows. I don’t know where Justin is.

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Here’s the next section from the “novel” I wrote one winter in high school.

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“Wow,” I breathed, almost speechless. “That was great. You have some imagination!” The story had definitely moved me.

“Who says I made it up?” Justin asked.

“Personally I would have added more sex and violence,” Karl said. “But I definitely liked the part when William chopped their heads off and blood was spilling all over the floor. It was vivid, and of course, I like all that gory stuff.” He smiled.

“I swear you have a one-track mind,” Jill muttered.

“Yes,” Karl admitted. “And it’s such a wonderful track to be on. I think I’ll stay awhile.” He laughed.

“It was sad,” was Don’s only comment on Justin’s tale.

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Here’s the next section from the “novel” I wrote one winter in high school.

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After dinner, when the night deepened, we all went and sat around the campfire that Justin had prepared. We awaited our wonderful tale. We were not disappointed. Justin, like Karl, did not stop during his tale.

* * *

Long ago, in Medieval England there lived a vampire named Richard. There had been others, but they had been younger and weaker than Richard and had therefore died in battle. But the same would not happen to Richard. He was six hundred years old, and had drunk the blood of at least seven thousand people. He did not mind killing. Blood gave him strength and agility. He was a master with his sword, the common weapon of the time. He needed no shining armor; his excellent skill, and faster-than-life reflexes allowed him to kill anyone who got in his way.

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“What are you doing with that paper?” a cold voice demanded.

I whirled around to see Justin, with an expression of anger on his face.

“I-I’m sorry,” I said through chattering teeth. “I-I didn’t kn-know it was y-yours.” It was so cold and I was scared. I had seen pain in his eyes, great sadness, but never the fury I saw then.

“Does it matter?” he asked, a cold hardness in his voice. “You knew it wasn’t yours, didn’t you? And what the hell are you doing down here anyway? Is that what you came here to do? Spy on me? I don’t appreciate that, Andi.”

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Within seconds, everyone was gathered and ≈assembled in our room. I was in tears. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything in my mind was spinning out of control.

I couldn’t comprehend it. I had talked to Eve only the night before. How could she be dead now? How had she died?

“It looks like she died by bleeding to death,” Jill said, speaking softly. She too, was crying. I don’t think there was one of us who wasn’t. Even tough, strong, Karl had tears running down his face. “There is a cut near her left shoulder-blade that looks pretty nasty.”

“Do you think she fell and cut herself or something?” asked Don with a shaky voice.

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“And we’re all defenseless, alone in a cabin in the woods with this guy? I’m getting scared,” Jill said jokingly.

“The story was pretty good,” Justin observed. “I never expected the end.”

“It wasn’t that good,” Don said. “I’m sure I could do better if you gave me awhile to think of one.”

“I think it was very amoral,” Eve remarked. “I mean, the girl who was trying to help everyone and kill the killer got killed and blamed for being the killer. That’s not fair at all.”

“That’s life, baby,” proclaimed Don. “Not all stories have happy endings.”

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