⫸ Dearest readers, apologies for the slightly slow start to the story. I promise, it will get more interesting with these next couple instillations ;)

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Your walk back to the motel with Wally was mostly full of him chatting about all of his friends in town. There was Frank, a very smart fellow that loved butterflies. There was Julie, a very cheerful gal that loved to get on Frank's nerves with her joy. There was Barnaby, Wally's best friend (whom Wally claimed was a dog taller than himself, but you would have to see it to believe it, even after seeing Howdy's strange appearance in the grocery store). And of course, there was Howdy, the shop keeper that always saved the most delicious apples for Wally himself.

Wally truly did have a beautiful voice. In another life, one where you were not constantly worrying about a group of strangers coming to take their revenge on you for escaping their clutches, you might have liked him. You could imagine watching him sing in a musical, or sitting down to dinner with him at a fancy restaurant.

You wondered what food he would like. Apples, certainly, but aside from that. Sushi maybe. Or steak. Steak and red wine in a fancy restaurant with a white table cloth and cushioned seats. Wally seemed like he would like red wine, and fancy cushioned seats. Maybe jazz music would be playing in the background. He would probably stare at you across the dinner table while you took a sip of whatever drink you had ordered, that content expression smeared on his face making you feel like you were the only person he ever wanted to look at — or making you wonder if he had roofied you.

You blinked. What an odd daydream.

Then, suddenly, Wally asked about you. "So, Charlie, where are you from?"

This question struck you because you did not know how to answer. You did not anticipate how small this town would truly be and, therefore, did not prepare a full backstory for any questioning bystanders like Wally. You were just going to have to make something up on the spot. Thankfully, the motel was only a little ways away now, so you would not have to pretend for long.

"I'm from Michigan," you said, smiling at Wally. An easy lie. "The upper peninsula, to be specific. It's beautiful up there in the summer. Weather can be pretty bad in the winter, though."

"Why did you come visit us?" Wally asked.

"Well... I'm looking for a new home," you said.

"What for?"

His eyes never seemed to leave yours, even while the two of you were walking. "A change of scenery," you said.

"What about all of your friends? Your family? Did you have to leave them behind?"

"Well, yes. I left everyone behind," you said. "But I told them why I was leaving and they understood me." You paused, looked at him with an eyebrow cocked, then continued, "Why are you asking me this?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I'm curious. We don't get many visitors, especially not ones looking for a new place to call home. Visitors either really love it here, or they hate it and leave swiftly."

"Do you love it here?" you asked.

"Of course."

The motel was right there. You were almost there. Almost done pretending. "That's nice," you replied.

Several moments of silence passed. Only a couple more steps to the motel's front yard.

"Do you like to paint?" Wally asked.

Now this, you could be honest about. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Well, I'm hosting an art lesson at my house tomorrow evening. Have you met Eddie?" Wally glanced at the motel, then stopped, probably deciding that this was where he should turn around and go home.

"I have met Eddie, actually," you said. "The mailman? He was the first person that I met here."

Wally nodded. "He's a lovely fellow. I'll have him deliver you an invite so you have the details."

"Oh. Okay." That was all you could muster. The way that Wally phrased his proposition sounded like he was doing more than inviting you — he was welcoming you. It was phrased like an offer that simply could not be turned down. The way he smiled at you accentuated your inability to tell him no.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

With that, he turned and began walking the way you two had come. The sky had fallen even darker now, the air even more still and silent. You watched him, listening to the rustle of his bag of apples for a moment. Then you went inside.

Once you were in your room, you felt a sensation of relief wash over you. It was then that you realized you had been on edge during the entire conversation with Wally.

What was it about him that irked you so much? Your paranoia, which you previously blamed on the group that forced you to kill for them, seemed to only come around when you were around Wally — other than the time you first arrived at the motel. Was he the reason for your unease? And if he was, then why?

You supposed that the only way you could answer this question was with an experiment. Tomorrow evening, you would have to attend his art lessons.

What was the harm in going anyways? You needed to act natural and fit in if this was going to be your home. Going to Wally's event was a good chance to prove your normalcy.

The one thing that did worry you was the blatant fact that Wally asked too many questions. Sure, it was probably innocent curiosity that provoked him to ask about you, but it could prove to be dangerous if you were not careful.

You sighed and began putting your groceries away in the mini fridge near the TV. You made yourself dinner and ate in silence. The whole time, you thought about your past, your family, and how you were going to fare in a town like this.

There was a lot of new information for you to digest right now. In order to remain less stressed, you tried to bite off small chunks of thought and chew them individually, like your food. Start by thinking about the group. Then think about your family. Then think about Wally. Then think about where you were going to work to make a living here.

It still stressed you out. Too much to think about.

Thankfully, you had packed a couple of books with you. After finishing your dinner, you sat in bed and opened one of them. Reading took your mind off of the oddity of this place, but thoughts of your past still found a way into your mind.

In reality, you were mostly wracked with guilt.

You had killed someone upon arriving home from work one night. Someone had obviously broken into your home, for your door handle was broken off and the door itself was wide open. Thankfully, you kept a pistol in a kitchen cabinet in case something like this ever happened. (You had also packed this pistol with you before leaving home.) So you crept into the kitchen and grabbed it.

One thing led to another. The man tried getting violent with you, so you shot him.

You were too frightened to call the police or an ambulance, so you hid his body in the trash can of a nearby restaurant.

Once you finally thought the murder was well behind you, a package appeared on your doorstep. Inside were pictures of your house, your license plate, and the robber's body along with a letter. The letter was written by someone unknown and stated that you had a week to kill someone else, or else your deeds would be confessed to the police and your act would be charged as murder. They also said they knew everything about your family and would hurt them, too, if you did not do what you were told.

So, you killed the person, framing it as a suicide like the letter told you to do. It came with precise instructions on everything you needed to do. They had been a father, struggling with drug use by the looks of their home. The kids were not home when you entered, probably as planned by the true killers.

The next letter came several weeks later with a new person to kill and more threats on your life and your family. The cycle continued for a while before you finally decided to leave.

24 times the cycle repeated. 25 lives lost at your own hands, if you counted the homeless man.

Unable to focus on reading, you slammed your book shut and rolled over to sleep. However, your sleep was full of guilt-heavy nightmares, so you did not really get much sleep at all.

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