@Mcr_Fob_Phangirl wrote this intensely interesting and creepy story which will definitely shock you!

My name is Cameron. And i'm dead. I don't know how it happened or who did it. It wasn't me.

It was a grim morning and the rain splattered down on my coat, each drop feeling like a bullet on my tired, aching, shoulders. I looked left, right. Then again. Nothing. I took one step onto the busy London main road. Then another. Then another. Phew. First road crossed. I wiped my brow, flicking off warm sweat and icy rain. Not that it helped.

Another road.

I looked left, right. Then again. I took a couple of steps this time. Then some more. Halfway. I didn't notice the screeching of the driver. I didn't notice the screaming of the tires on wet concrete. Just numbness. Then pain. Then blackness.

I don't know who killed me. But i will find out. And i will kill them. Whatever it takes to get my revenge. Some may call it cruel. I call it karma. What goes around comes around. And i'm just delivering it.

I sit on top of the post on the end of the bed. Unnoticed by my parents as they slept. I tapped along to the gentle rhythm of their breathing. Satisfying. A thought flashed across my mind.

They didn't grieve for me.

They didn't grieve for me. I smiled. I was going to just deliver karma to the driver that killed me. But wouldn't it be fun if i, maybe, took someone with me. No i wouldn't do that i'm a good person. Yes. No. Yes.

Yes.

I stepped off the bedpost and ran downstairs. Gleefully making asmuch noise as possible. I want them to see me when i die. My father we hunting. Every sunday. He would always take along me. Dull if you ask me. But he loved it. He should have a gun. Shouldn't he?

There it is.

My fathers most prized possesion, hanging up high on the shed wall. I picked it up carelessly. And heard metal scraping on metal like nails scraping on a long, thin blackboard. That didn't effect me. I wrapped my fingers around the cold, heavy trigger and pulled. I may be dead, but i can still feel. I'm not stupid either. I loaded the gun with equally heavy bullets. I remember my father teaching me how to hold one, a couple of days before i died.

Lovely.

Lets start with my mother shall we. I raised the gun above her head. And aimed. A low bang echoed across the room. I missed. Narurally if you had heard a gunshot right next to you, my parents woke up with a start. A shrill scream escaped my mothers chapped lips, her tired eyes wide awake with shear terror. My father snatched the gun off me and held me down.

"How come you see me?" i screamed at them.

My mother nodded to my father. What are they doing? "Thankyou." my father simply said and pressed the barell of the gun to my head, the barell breaking my skin.

I never died.

I was simply in a coma.

I smiled to myself. Ready, aim and fire.