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PROMPT:  'One day your main character is walking and is handed a sketch by a stranger. The next day, a woman is found dead in a nearby river. She matches the sketch.'

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╰┈➤ The following story is written by Veera and Chesha

A line of red bleeds across her page.

She digs the tip of her pen into the page, slashing another line over a failed string of words. No matter how much she tried, everything fell apart like broken glass in her hands.

Her publisher had been ringing her phone for days, the urgency hidden underneath polite words and pleading tones.

She had to flee the confines of her small townhouse, fearing that the baby blue walls that she had freshly painted would come crashing down around her. The edges of her nails had been picked clean, red and inflamed from her gnawing on it.

Her mother had called last night, inquiring about her. All she could say was the usual; "I'm fine and I'm busy."

It's a lie.

She closes the book with an aggressive flick of her too thin wrist.

The chances of becoming a published writer are small. The chances of becoming a successful published writer is smaller.

Somehow she had beaten those odds.

But like all things, humans needed three things to survive: food on the table, clothes on their back, and a roof over their head. No one talks about the fourth most important thing—money.

She had made a decent amount of cash with her debut novel but if she wanted success and financial stability, she needed to keep writing.

She got an idea, she wrote a few chapters, and then it all fell apart. Her mother called it writer's block. She called it useless worry.

This was the fifth time she had tried to pen something.

She sighed, flopping back onto the blanket.

It was a mild day, not a cloud in sight. The sun was creeping ever so slowly towards the west, peeking out behind skyscrapers.

It was time to go home.

She got up, brushing off grass and crumbs. She shoved her blankets and notebooks into her backpack. The park was full of people trying to enjoy a nice day out. Some people brought their families, the sounds of laughter and barking dogs.

A child brushed past her, their hair blowing in the wind as she squealed with laughter. They held a bright red kite in their hand. She watched as the child ran into the grass.

She felt her shoulder slam into someone, the force of it rattling her teeth. Her bag came loose from her shoulder, tumbling down as the zipper opened. Her notes spilled out in front of her like the guts of a whale.

Her clip slipped out of its holding. Her hair was now a wild, curly mess of curls that tumbled down her face and shoulders, obscuring her vision.

The person who bumped into her gathered up her notes and pushed them back in the bag. She felt them grab her by the arms, pulling her up as if she weighed nothing. It made her feel uneasy, something cold and heavy settling low in her gut.

Perhaps she needed to rest. Or perhaps...it was just a very long, unproductive, and uninspiring day.

She pushed her hair out of her face, a curse on the tip of her tongue. It dried up in her mouth, the ashes washing away.

A young man stood in front of her, dressed in all black. His hair, his eyes, his clothes, and even the mask on the lower half of his face. His apologies were muffled behind it and she wanted this awkward encounter to end.

"It's alright," she said, brushing the man's hands away. "It's just a little accident. No harm, no foul."

He muttered another apology and stepped away. She gripped the straps of her bag, her nails aching as the tender flesh dug into her skin.

She watched him go, a line of darkness that disappeared into the crowd.

She quickly walked to the bus station, relieved that she hadn't missed her bus. All she wanted to do was take a warm bath, read a book for inspiration, and then sleep blissfully.

Soon, she reached her home and took a deep sigh of relief.

The encounter left her unsettled.

She hastily started searching for the house keys in her handbag but they were nowhere to be found.

"Must've dropped them somewhere." She frowned, muttering to herself.

She felt like she was being watched, their imaginary eyes digging into her back the longer she went without her keys.

She gave up and decided to walk to her neighbor's door. She wiped the sweat off her forehead as she rang the doorbell.

She waited for him to open up and when he did, he looked disheveled. Messy hair and an unbuttoned shirt. He looked at her with a confused face.

"Oh, hi!" She waved. "I...actually lost my house keys. Can I get the extra ones from you?" She requested and he simply nodded.

He smiled, used to the sight of her on his doorstep and went inside. She sat down on the brick steps, going through her back.

She scattered her notebooks, digging through the bag once more.

He came back with a small key a moment later, handing it over to her carefully.

She thanked him, gathering her notebook. As she was about to pack everything, he leaned over, casting a long shadow encased in the gold light of the sunset.

"Did you make that drawing?" He asked, his face showing amusement.

She picked up an unfamiliar piece of paper and placed it in his hands.

"Oh? This? No!" She casually replied and chuckled. "Actually, that's not even mine."

"Who did then?" He raised his eyebrows, handing the drawing back to her.

"I'm...not sure." She turned it over in her hands, noticing that the figure in the drawing looked familiar. "That's weird."

"What is?" He turned to her. "She's beautiful. Who is she?"

"Yeah. She is." She said simply, ignoring the nagging feeling that lingered.

He bumped her shoulder with his hip. "I'm sure you picked it up by accident," he teased. "Don't sweat it."

She felt the hairs on her neck standing up, like the hackles of a deer when a predator was near. That same feeling of dread crawled into her veins and settled between her ribs.

"It's a good photo. I hoped you paid the artist well. You know how it is for our kind out here." He smiled reassuringly before shutting the door.

She sighed and trekked back to her house, the paper feeling lead in her hand.

The house was quiet and messy, just as she left it. She walked straight to her room and tossed the crumpled picture onto the topmost drawer of her shoe rack along with the rest of her bills and recipes. She always promised to go through the ever growing pile but constantly forgot about it.

She shedded her jacket and shoes, not even bothering to peel off her jeans before she flopped onto the bed and quickly fell asleep.

She slept like a babe in their crib, unaware as the night bloomed into day. Whatever pleasant dreams she had were shattered by the ring of the door bell.

She groggily opened her eyes. The sunlight filtered in, specks of dust shining like gold flakes.

Who could be disturbing her this early in the morning?

She got up from the bed, stretching her arms. With slouched shoulders and barely open eyes, she walked towards the door.

She sighed before opening it. She winced as the full force of the light slithered through the small opening.

The officer on her doorstep swept away her grogginess, leaving her awake. He was dressed in a familiar navy blue uniform, his hair thinning near his temples and his eyes partially covered by his bushy eyebrows.

"Hello, officer. How may I help you?" She said, trying not to sound lousy. Her throat felt dry and hoarse.

"Morning, maam." He greeted, nodding his head. "Sorry to disturb you but we just want to ask a few questions?"

She raised her eyebrow, suspicious. "Do I need a lawyer for this?"

He chuckled. "No, Ma'am. You see, a woman was found dead near the river. We're just canvassing the area for information." He swiped on his phone and faced the screen towards her for her to see.

Her eyes widened with shock at the sight of the person in the picture. She gulped, pushing back down the bile and fear. This can not be happening.

"Do you by any chance know her?"

She looked at him, schooling her facial features.

"No, actually. , I don't know who that is at all." She replaced, forcing a small smile. "I've never seen her before."

"Okay..." he didn't look very convinced, his eyes suddenly perceptive as they flitted across her face. "Thank you for your time. You should be careful, Maam. There's lots of sickos out there."

She felt her nails dig into her fingers. Instead she smiled gently. "Of course, thank you."

She watched as the officer turn around and leave. He walked with heavy steps towards his police car where his partner was waiting. They exchanged some words before they got into the car and sped off to the next house.

"What in the world?" She whispers to herself.

Was she hallucinating? She pinched herself, registering a sharp prick of pain.

Definitely not dreaming then.

She locked the door and turned on her heel, her plans for brainstorming gone. She found her shoe rack and got down onto her knees as she dug through the pile, her fingers sliced but the thin paper.

She finally found the paper. It was crumpled up, distorting the lines which had been hastily drawn. It was unmistakably clear, this was the same woman who had been murdered. The same eyes and nose, the same curve of her mouth.

"The same freaking person!" She shouts in horror, her lower lip trembling as she starts to feel a lump form in her throat.

She drops the paper, letting it flutter to the floor. The woman looks up at her with accusatory eyes, begging for answers that she didn't know.

The early morning light gradually fades, the sun reaching high in the sky. She sits on her sofa, a cold drink on her coffee table as she searches for more information.

This is insanity.

It must be.

The news of the murder spreads quickly. The police in this city are incompetent despite boasting to the press that they have everything under control. It's all lies.

"The victim is twenty three year old Dahlia Cortez. A young and popular guitarist of the band The Dead Bloods." The news woman speaks, a faux expression of sympathy on her face as she stands next to the figure of the girl. "According to law enforcement, she was found dead in the pond of Forest Park."

"Given the high traffic area, police are concerned and have warned the public to be vigilant. This is the fourth murder this year involving a young person. While the police commissioner is reluctant to admit that this might be the work of the infamous Sunset Killer, many have wondered if the city will be seeing a new wave of violence this coming winter."

Poor girl.

The Sunset Killer.

All this time she thought it was a fancy and morbid rumor going around. But this chills her to the bone.

Her research was clear. The Sunset Killer had his sight on young folk, usually people who were budding talents. Dahlia was the guitarist of a small but quickly growing rock band. Before her, she was a violinist with the city's orchestra. And before him, a ballerina who was set to become the lead.

All of them had one thing in common. They each had a picture of the next victim.

Why did she get her pic? Is it a coincidence? Or maybe she was next.

Or perhaps...it was a joke.

There's been a lot of punks who think it's a wonderful idea to scare the daylights out of someone. Perhaps one could've snuck in a drawing.

But then again, how would they know the woman who was actually dead?

She slams the laptop close, trying to silence the thoughts in her brain. This was unbelievable.

Now here's the catch, she tends to overthink a lot and there's no way she could be associated with that killer. What could she have even done to them?

She was no budding talent.

The potential target of the serial killer gets the picture of the victim the serial killer is planning to attack next...Now, that's interesting.

She grabs her note book and starts to write. The words come naturally, flowing out from her mind like the ink from her favorite pen. She spends the next few hours writing down her own thoughts.

She has not only an outline but the beginnings of a short novel that she could pitch to her publisher. Art imitates life and life imitates art.

Why not? The Sunset Killer isn't the only one who is crabapple of being creative.

She feels her stomach rumble as she finishes the last chapter. She looks out the window, realizing that it's horribly late. The sun is long gone and only darkness remains.

She stood up, feeling her unused muscles stretch as she made her way to the windows. She had these installed last winter because she liked to sit in front of them and write. Now she regretted them, it felt like the dark was staring back at her.

The bushes had become over grown, their branches smacking the class and scraping across them like fingernails.

She felt a familiar chill despite the fireplace being lit.

The air felt still and the wind grew in intensity. She took a step back as the windows seemed impossible large. There was no light in her house except for the lamp and the fireplace. Her reflection in the glass was a smudge color.

But she wasn't alone.

She felt the cold kiss of a knife pressed against her throat. The smell of wood and rust wrapped around her. She had never been alone in the first place. They were watching her, waiting for her to stop writing.

She whimpered, afraid to breathe.

"Thank you for the book," a gentle yet masculine voice said. He was covered in black from head to toe, looking like a ghost in the reflection. She could see her terrified pale face as it distorted as they rattled.

How did he get into the house in the first place?

"Don't worry," he said, pulling her hair back to expose her neck. "You won't even feel it."

She closed her eyes and waited.

Morning came once more, the golden light filtering through the large windows.

Soundlessly, she laid there lifeless and the embers of her fireplace glowly dimly, the proof of a dying existence.

Her death was quiet and loud at the same time. Many people who knew her and knew of her mourned, her family buried her, and the police added her picture to a wall of other victims. The police commissioner even apologized for not releasing information about the Sunset Killer to the public.

Little did that help.

A month passed and the hysteria passed, the city buckling down for a seemingly quiet winter.

Her novel that she had written before her death was published with consent from her parents and went on to top the best sellers list. A part of it was due to sensationalism and the rest was speculation.

Her neighbor sat on his porch as he went through his mail. His old jeans were stained with red paint from the painting he was working on.

He had found a thick envelope in his mailbox this morning. He didn't know what to make of it.

He carefully ripped it open and shook the bag. A book came tumbling out, landing on the floor.

He bent down, picking it up as he curiously flipped through the pages. Someone had sent him a book that she had written. He had refused to read it when it came out, the death of his friend and neighbor too painful.

She didn't deserve to die that way. None of the other victims did either.

He paused on the dedication. "To those who chose art above all else," he read out loud.

Below that was a folded piece of paper with his name on it. He sat down on the brick steps and unfolded it.

She looked back at him, her eyes sad and despondent.  

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