Blood-curdling screams haunt my dreams. Intimidating storm clouds creep in closer every day, shrouding the street in darkness. I silently creep through the house, my head on the swivel. All is still, all is silent. And there is nothing worse than deadly silence, lonely silence, when you are waiting for death. The first one to go was that ditzy college drop out from number one. A nice, quiet girl. I feel a pang of guilt run through me now, when I realise I never knew her name. She never caused any trouble. And she was far too young. They never found the body; they barely had any proof that she was dead. But the neighbours all swore that they heard her ear-piercing shrieks in the night, the villainous laughter, the sound of her door slamming shut. She was never seen again. People tried to forget the girl had ever existed. But they couldn't seem to carelessly ignore every other death that followed. The residents of Peter's Avenue have been living their lives in darkness and terror for quite a while now. Rumour has it that every full#moona mysterious figure draped in a flowing, black gown wanders the street searching for defenceless prey. They say it carries an unnerving axe dripping with ripe, red blood. The only trace left of each petrified victim is a crusty, scarlet 'X' painted in blood on their door. A sign. A message, maybe. Warning the others they're going to die. Or maybe just their to freak people out. CREEEEAAAAK! My hands are clammy, my chest feels tight. A floorboard beneath my feet almost causes me to jump out of my skin. I feel like I have an entire ocean sloshing around in my stomach. What am I doing here?! My breath is making peculiar shapes in the frosty night air: the steam dances around my head, reminding me of the souls who lost their lives because of some brutal murderer. The eerie#moonlight bursts through the gap between the curtains-an unwelcome visitor. I don't like this. I don't like this one bit. I can literally hear my heart thumping like an enormous base drum. It punches at my insides, trying to escape. I want to escape too. But I can't. Too late for that now. I dare to venture up the stairs, trying to steady my feeble, shaking fists. Closer and closer to the door. Behind it, he is waiting for me. I try desperately try to restrain myself, scrunching up my face and covering my ears. No. no. NO! But it's no use. I must open the door. When I do, I see his ugly face, his cold pig eyes staring into mine. "Why did you come here?" he questions, trying to stay calm. I understand that must be hard. "I'm sorry," I weep. A tear runs down my face. My axe Me. A murderer.