I’m the one who told Jake to leave. I laid hands on him first, have always been the one to lay hands on him, and I know it’s wrong, but I can’t figure out how to get through his beer-haze, how to get him off the couch to do anything, especially to find a job…

You should know this city
thirsts for copper-
tinged sediment & meat
fresh from the workers
of the dying farms & fields.
Sick without a steady flux
of salt-leaking star-beaten
bodies, this city turns
in on itself & chews
on my sisters—their faces,
an edible bouquet
of bloody balloons;
my brothers—their ghosts,
hanging spinach in the city’s teeth;
swinging from construction cranes
flags of the dead or dying.

Last month, while driving back
from the funeral in Dallas, traffic
hit just outside of town. I pulled
into a cemetery—to smoke
& think about what waited for me
just down the road under a bypass.
A mall of tents, an officer, and a mausoleum—
all the half-eaten & unclean—
everything under the city’s kitchen sink.

Tired of trying to be touched
in places that no longer exist,

we amuse ourselves in the dark
by hyphenating our names

with invisible bodies, smoking
menthols & laughing

about the large dicks
of our dead husbands.

We share tips about screwing
our tears down to the floorboards,

stowing away our carnalities
deep in the groins of arbitrary men

—sometimes women—erasing any evidence
we ever resisted the sanctuary of sleep.

Gyrating slow, we dip
our shoulders into the swelling Atlantic—

reach back for whatever can be recovered
from the flood. She finds a conch shell.

I find the cowrie. We both stand—counting
the sand we’ve gathered in our bowls.

We bought our rings in the market
down by Café Du Monde,

sterling silver—so the orb
wouldn’t break—

and the old black poet at the table next to ours
murmured that you were lucky to have

such a beautiful brown woman
by your side. You didn’t

correct him. He told us to get married.
You said nothing. We laughed.

What would your family think
when they saw us—with our bands?

We laughed, drank coffee,
and said nothing for hours.

You knocking your ring against
the fragile rim of the mug

in a rhythm I couldn’t quite catch,
as we ate sugar-coated buns and waited

for the sun to lean over us
into the streets

and fall.

F(r)iction is thrilled to introduce our readers to Alex Landragin, the author of the the much-anticipated novel, Crossings. Due out in late July from St. Martin’s Press, Alex’s debut novel is told in three parts, and spans a hundred and fifty years and seven lifetimes.With three narrative threads that can be read either straight through…

I was in line with Dylan and Tanner at Chick-Fil-A when Dylan started on again about how every employee is mandated to say it after a customer orders: “My pleasure.” “Remember: they won’t say it this time,” Dylan said, sitting on the fingerprinted handrail. “So we won’t get a free sandwich.” Tanner scratched his boulder-sized…

After my husband discovered my lover and she fled town, the town declared me damned, fish food for Kraken. I was not asked to defend myself, not that I needed to. The men did not offer a final meal, but I’d had a decadent last dinner regardless—a rich lamb chop stew, cooked by my lover just before we’d been caught. She had wiped the corners of my mouth with her napkin before kissing me. It was that memory I chewed on when they forced me onto a ship.

They told my husband he did not have to make the journey to the squid that the men all feared and worshiped, but he said he needed to see me die for himself. It was his cleansing. His retribution. He was, like all the other wronged men before him, willing to risk it all to see my pain.

He stood beside me, anxious, staring not at my face but at the heavy, damp ropes bound around my wrists, my thighs, my ankles. “You’d better run quickly, my dear,” I whispered, and laughed. “You know what happens to the ones who stay too long.” He unwrapped the ropes and tied them again, tighter this time, licking my blood from his fingers.

We sailed for an eternity, to the edges of nowhere, to the deepest of the ocean, to the middle of the end. When the ship finally drifted to a stop, bobbing like a child’s toy in a swimming pool, all I could smell was salt and rot. An eerie quiet. The men waited, poised with their guns, their eyes darting nervously.

And waited.

And then we heard it. A tremor, like the most devastating of earthquakes. An apocalyptic wail so overwhelming it washed the color from the men’s faces.

“She’s here,” I murmured, and my husband, the coward, backed away from me.

“Let’s go. Quickly!” another shouted, his lips trembling. For he knew what could happen if they lingered too long—if the husbands insisted on seeing it all. The greedy ones who thought their wives could satisfy the Kraken enough to spare the ship.

The men untied me, dragged me to the gunwale. They heaved me over the edge, trembling. “Kraken! Our gift.”

Down, down, down. I hit the icy water so fast it felt like my back had split open, that I had turned inside out. At first, the water was emerald green, the color of my lover’s eyes, but as I sunk further, the sea darkened, swallowing the sun. I drifted down, like hot wax, swelling and bulbing, nudging up against unseen things, a soft yielding here, a nip there.

The squid bellowed again. What had sounded chilling above, though, worked its way through me like a lullaby here in the depths. I saw nothing but her—a pulsating gray glow as colossal as a mountain, bulging and twisting in an impossible silence.

I did not try to get away. I found I did not want to. I opened my chest, slung my arms back, parted my legs. The squid contracted. Her tentacles, long, twitching, suddenly tensed like rubber bands. One whirled around me, wrapping. Hundreds of tiny sucking membranes fed on my cuts and burns. She rolled me toward her horrific, trembling mouth.

Then. Darkness.

When I woke, I was dead. When I woke, I was inside Kraken—no, I was Kraken. I could see through her large eyes, sense her loneliness and anger, feel her—our—drifting tentacles clench and unclench. I was Kraken and all those who came before me. I could see that child’s toy above us, its defiant dance on the surface. Could feel my husband’s self-righteous gaze. He believed he’d won—that he’d forever separated the two women who’d lain in a field of heather under a full moon.

I twitched.

Feast, I said and didn’t say. Destroy, I whispered and did not whisper. I trembled as we descended and I remembered all the things that would never be again—the way my lover’s backside warmed in a patch of sunlight through her bedroom window, the soft indented curve of her chin, the gentle lilt of her laugh.

It was then we stopped, suspended. We writhed—all the whores and bitches and mothers and harlots and lovers and teachers and scientists and witches and gypsies and sluts that had come before. Our pasts came back—the soft midnight whispers, the dangerous scent of sulfur on the sleeve of a laboratory coat, the children that were and never were.

Rise, we pleaded to Kraken, but she was already bellowing, already pushing up, up, up. The light green waters didn’t suit her, but her massive belly undulated with the rage of a thousand women.

We were the size of a city. We were the size of a small country. We were the size of all the nightmares of all the men in all their sweat-stained beds. A collective force of sadness and terror and beauty. Up we came, our tentacles slicing through the water, dwarfing the ship in shadow. The men screamed their man screams as we swept one of our feelers out and across, a terrific arc, snapping the mast like a toothpick. They couldn’t hear us, couldn’t hear the sweet song we sang as their cabins filled with seaweed and salt, as their bones began to break and their skin began to bleed, as the sharks began to circle. Oh boys, we sang and sang.

The Veterans Writing Project is a 501(c)3 organization that provides no-cost writing seminars and workshops for veterans, service members, and their adult family members. The Veterans Writing Project also publishes these writers’ fiction, nonfiction, and poetry both online and in print in a journal called O-Dark-Thirty.

She creaks and groans with every foot we submerge
Layers of paint and rust show her age
Like wrinkles webbing from a grandmother’s cheekbones
We descend purposefully,
Praying our presence goes unnoticed
The keeper of the deep waits for us
He knows we’ve cheated him time and again
He calls for us
Men hold their breath
They look anywhere but at each other
Terrified the fear in their eyes will betray them
A whisper echoes through the steel hull
Trapped here since it was first announced thirty-five years ago
Dive dive
It chants
Dive dive

The Bard War Writing Today: Notes from the Plays

It is the mission.
It is ambition
that creeps across the
stage in dreadful marches
to delightful measures
contrived by those whose
plots have laid inductions
dangerous. Return
and turn around to
endure this going
hence for we shall meet
again—us banded
merry few. There are
deployments yet to
come with battles fought
and wars not won.
Don’t ever unpack.
We’re always going back.

It is late autumn and Ramadan.
Feral dogs and kids without shoes
scavenge the highway looking for food.
The convoy is halted due to a possible threat ahead.
There is a call in over the radio and there might be IEDs.
Gun Truck 1 reports animal carcasses lining the road.
Not one, two, but tree.

Navy, Air Force, Coasties, and Marines:
letters and numbers are not what’s learned in school.
Instead of the ABCs
it’s Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie—
“Niner” instead of nine because
of a couple wars with Germany.
Roger is not a name but affirmation:

Received and understood.
Incoming is not the mail.
YOYO is “you’re on your own.”
Quarters is where you live and would rather be.
Contact is violent and not a mere touch.
The convoy is halted because Tracking is to follow
what may be tracking you.

The convoy is halted because they took a right
instead of a left since right is a direction.
And it should have been “Roger”
but he was in the turret
when they started receiving bullets
from a high, flat rooftop where
clothes and fruit were hung to dry.

Contact left. Contact right.
“Adios, motherfuckers.”
the net heard him reply.
That should have been “Alpha Mike Foxtrot”
censured the inquisition
who came to question the survivors.
It is an ambush but
now from the friendlies’ side.

The convoy commander halted the story and breathed,
“Charlie Foxtrot,” and an analyst asks for the meaning of
what I keep repeating: Clusterfuck. Clusterfuck. Clusterfuck.

(A WAITING FOR GODOT Erasure) Composed by erasure of the text of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (Grove Press, 1954/1982), “a tragicomedy in two acts” featuring a cast of five males. Act I and Act II have been reversed. Otherwise, only punctuation and capitalization have been altered in the un-redacted text. Act II: Ex-dame. No…

During his celebrated career, Benjamin Percy has blurred the line between literary and genre, becoming a champion for beautifully written, speculative work. He is the author of five novels (most recently The Ninth Metal, which will release in 2021 with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt), three story collections, and a book of essays. He writes Wolverine and…

Silence used to make me uncomfortable. It sometimes still does, like dark closets left open at night, even if for a brief moment.In the subway, I listen to Electric Wizard to drown out the screeching metal. At work, I listen to Rachmaninoff and write. At home, I listen to Miles Davis and cook. I’m always…

“All babies cry,” says her nurse.“My Rosie never screamed like that,” says her sister.“You aren’t feeding him enough,” says her mother.She feeds him until her milk runs dry and her breasts bleed. At night, his screams slide down the banister and slither along the floor, wrapping around her, tighter and tighter, until she can’t breathe.Feeeed…

Jennie R.

Claire is an angel! I’m very spiritual and I’ve been to A LOT of psychics over the years, so I know the real deal when I see it! I was going through a really hard time when I found Claire’s page. My cat had just died and she was my baby and my best friend. She got me through so many bad times! She was all I had when I was in a really abusive relationship for two years. I was so devastated by the loss of her light in my life that I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks! My boss didn’t understand AT ALL so I lost my job, and then I just felt so alone. I needed guidance and Claire totally helped me! She told me my cat was still with me and was acting as my spirit guide and I swear I could hear Pawdry Hepfurn purring as Claire spoke! She also saw success and wealth ahead and walked me through each of the cards, explaining their meaning and how it applied to my current situation and my future. Everything she said happened EXACTLY the way she said it would! I have a new job that pays way more than my old one and a new cat and I even got engaged, which she predicted! My life is SO much better because of Claire! I wish I still lived in California so I could get a reading from her again! Seriously, if you’re in a dark place GO SEE HER!

Sara A.

I’ve been a solitary practitioner of witchcraft since I was a child, so I have my own tarot sets and I’m well-versed in the practice of tarot in general. But sometimes it’s nice to have someone do a reading for you, especially when you’re feeling a bit unaligned, which I was.

When I arrived, I asked Claire if she had the Hanson-Roberts deck and was pleased to find she did. She actually had a great selection of decks, but I requested this one specifically because it is my favorite. I think it’s a very underrated deck. The lighthearted imagery has always been deeply calming for me and, as I said, I was feeling unaligned. I told Claire this when she asked why I chose the deck. I explained that I was feeling out of sorts and needed to focus on positive and affirming aspects of my life. That was the main reason I hadn’t done a reading for myself, I said. She seemed to understand and at first the reading was going really well. She had a strong understanding of the cards and she was reading them in more optimistic ways than I might have done myself in that moment, which was exactly what I wanted.

But then she pulled the Death card and everything fell apart. I don’t know what happened. She seemed like a completely competent reader up until that point. I guess she was just trying to con me because she instantly started wailing and clutching her chest and doing all the cliché things you see psychics in movies do when they pull the Death card. Anyone with any experience in tarot at all knows the Death card doesn’t literally mean death. But she was squeezing my hands and shouting at me that an evil presence was following me.

I left without paying her, so I didn’t lose any money to her con, but she definitely didn’t leave me with the feeling of positivity I’d been hoping for. I feel more uneasy than I did before I went to her. It was an extremely bad experience and I would not recommend Claire to anyone hoping to get a decent tarot reading.

Erin P.

TOTAL SCAM!!! Tarot, psychic divination, palmistry, etc. is supposed to be about HELPING people! A good reader puts you on your path to healing. Anytime someone tells you there’s a “dark spiritual presence” around you, it’s a MAJOR red flag. I think she could tell I wasn’t buying it because she didn’t pressure me to give her a bunch of money to “cleanse me of the dark presence” (I’ve had scam readers try that one before). Honestly though, I would have preferred if she asked me for money because at least I know how to deal with that. Instead she just grabbed my hands super tight (ow!) and told me I needed to protect myself, and that I should “leave town, wear amber, and never, ever be home alone.” WTF??? SO unprofessional and creepy! I hate to admit it but she was so intense, she got into my head. I keep thinking I can hear someone in my house and I keep thinking I’m seeing things out of the corners of my eyes. I know it was probably just a scheme to get money out of me, or I dunno maybe she’s just a sick weirdo who enjoys scaring people or whatever, but I’ve been MAJORLY creeped out since I went to see her. It was NOT a good experience. Don’t waste your money on this lady, she’s a psychO not a psychIC.

Paul G.

Went here on a whim a couple nights ago before going out for drinks. I’m not really into this sort of thing. The friend I was with is a total believer though so I figured why not. Claire was a cool lady. She took a lot of time to explain the cards to me and stuff. She said love was knocking on my door and that night I went home with an awesome girl so we’ll see if it’s love lol. My friend said it was the best reading he’s ever had so that’s pretty high praise in my book.

Eric K.

Claire is the only person I go to for truth and clarity when my third eye is clouded by all of the energy pollution in the world. She is a true empath; so intuitive, focused, kind, and compassionate. Whenever I am at a cosmic crossroads, I seek her out and she guides me onto the path of hope and transcendence. She has this diaphanous yellow aura that shines brighter than her candles and fills my heart with a warm sense of well-being. Her readings are such insightful journeys. She knows what emotional space I am in the moment I walk through the door and gets right to work on cleansing me. A true wise woman and spiritual guide. Thank Diana for leading me to Claire! Blessed be!

Megan K.

I thought it was just one of those “a dark spirit is after you, pay me $900 and I’ll get rid of it” tricks because she said something was coming for me, that something evil was loose in our town and it was watching me. It sounded so ridiculous when she was saying it, but then I started… sort of seeing things? I know that makes me sound crazy and honestly it makes me feel crazy just talking about it, but I know I’m seeing… something. Whenever I’m walking home alone, it follows me, but I don’t know what “it” is, if it’s really a dark spirit or if someone’s stalking me… I feel like I’m going insane. Last night, I was brushing my teeth and I saw something move in the corner of my eye and I screamed so loud my neighbor came to check on me. She helped me search the whole apartment, but nothing was there. I was so freaked out that when she left, I realized I was still clutching my toothbrush. It took me forever to fall asleep because my heart was banging in my chest so loud and I was too afraid to turn the lights off, I was so jumpy. Every little sound was freaking me out, so I put on a TV show to try and distract myself and it kind of worked because I fell asleep around 3am, but then around 4am I was woken up by very loud screaming, so loud it was echoing. At first, I thought I was just having a nightmare but it kept going after I was fully awake. It was this really shrill, terrified screaming, like someone was being murdered in my living room, but the crazy thing was… it was my mom’s voice that was screaming. She was screaming and screaming my name and I ran into the living room to help her… but there was nothing there. The screaming stopped very suddenly and my heart was on fire and I was trembling so bad and I started crying. And then I felt something cold grab onto my ankle and I started screaming just like my mom’s voice had been and my neighbor came back and ended up staying with me all night. I have a nasty bruise on my ankle this morning and I can’t stop crying. Nothing like this ever happened to me before I went to see this lady, so I don’t know if she caused it or if she just warned me and it would’ve happened anyway, but I don’t think knowing is helping me. Just stay away from this woman, you’re better off… I think.

Richard B.

It disgusts me to see some of these negative reviews on here. People don’t know what they’re talking about. I’ve been to Claire several times and I’ve always had great experiences. She’s never done or said anything weird to me. I think the people leaving bad reviews are probably just competitors who are threatened by Claire and trying to ruin her reputation. I’d be willing to bet that none of the negative reviews are from actual customers of Claire. It’s so annoying that they don’t verify customers on here. Anyone can say anything they want, even if it’s not true. Well don’t sweat the haters, Claire! Your real customers are loyal and know you’re the best. Honestly, Claire’s readings are always 100% accurate. She has a ton of experience and she knows what she’s doing. Go see her if you want a real reading.

Jason D.

Claire Camille completely changed my outlook. I had a good 9 to 5 job, a nice house, a wife, a dog, life should have been perfect right? Wrong. I just felt like something was off so I decided to get some professional help. I went to Claire and she started my reading and she pulled The Tower card right out the gates and I just knew, you know? I mean, I had no idea what the card meant, but at the same time I knew what it meant. She told me the card meant big change, and then she pulled The Fool, which is all about beginnings. She said my journey was about to start, and so I went home and I asked my wife for a divorce and I just got in my car and drove! It was completely crazy. But here I am, drinking margaritas on the beach in Mexico, working as a valet and I’m finally F-R-E-E my friends! Claire set me on a whole new path to a whole new life. So what if my parents wrote me out of their will? So what if my wife burned all of my clothes on the front lawn? So what if none of my friends are speaking to me? Life is GOOD amigos! Go see Claire, she’ll change your life!!! (I deducted one star because the parking is a nightmare, so it’s not super convenient if you’re in a hurry and also I’m pretty sure the incense she uses made me sick, I had a sore throat for like a week.)

Jaime C.

After reading some of the other reviews on here I’m trembling with fear. I went to Claire Camille and had the same experience as other reviewers. She told me there was a dark force stalking me and that it had already killed other girls. I’ve had hexes put on me before so I wasn’t too worried, I figured I could handle it. I know how to break a hex. But now there’s this thing. This awful thing I keep seeing but not seeing. The way it moves just isn’t right. I know a lot about witchcraft and voodoo and Santeria, lots of different kinds of magicks, but I’ve never seen a hex like this before. I’ve done everything I can think of to break it but it’s not working. I still see the thing. Nothing else has happened so far, but after reading the other reviews I’m afraid this woman put a really powerful hex on me. I’m afraid to close my eyes. I’m afraid to be alone. Claire Camille is into something seriously dark.

Russell A.

I went here with my friend Amy and we had a real bad experience. It was kinda ok when she was doing my reading because she said pretty good stuff and most of it kinda came true, but she said some real real crazy stuff to Amy. Like she said all these hella creepy things about how some monster thing was after Amy and she totally weirded us out. It made me hella mad because Amy was super scared after that and it totally messed up our night. She’s been super scared for like 3 days now so I’ve been sleeping on her couch every night. It was really messed up. Don’t go to this chick she’s so crazy.

Amanda Q.

I’m writing this review for Sara. I didn’t—don’t?—believe in this sort of thing. Psychics and all that, I mean. But Sara did. She was obsessed with it. When we were kids she used to make me go with her to the graveyard behind her house to have séances with her dad’s old Ouija board. The first time she asked me to go, I figured it was just a reaction to her sister’s death. I thought Sara wanted to talk to her. Say goodbye or something. But she never wanted to talk to her sister. Every time we went out to that graveyard—always on a full moon, our arms clutching white taper candles to our chests and little sachets of cinnamon in our pockets—she wanted to find people who had died young and talk to them. I think she was fascinated with death. With the meaninglessness of it. Nothing ever happened during those séances. We’d sit quietly in our little circle of golden candlelight. Sara usually closed her eyes, but I was watchful, turning my head from side to side, staring out across the grey headstones, which cast strange shadows in the silver light of the moon. I’d fiddle with my sachet, rubbing it between my fingers to spark the warm scent of cinnamon. Sara said the sachets would protect us and increase our psychic abilities. Eventually we’d get cold and our jeans got wet from the dampness that collected in the grass as the night wore on and the candles burned down. But Sara never gave up. She’d drag me back out on the next full moon and we’d do it all over again. I went even though I hated it. The séances freaked me out. My heart would turn over every time a twig snapped or leaves rustled in the trees at the south end of the cemetery. It never scared Sara. She sat with her legs crossed and her fingers on the Ouija board, and stayed still and serene as a garden sculpture. She had no fear of shadows or sounds, the darkness or death. Nothing could shake her.

Except Claire Camille.

I knew something was wrong right away when Sara called me. Her voice was like a violin string about to snap. She told me she went to a psychic, which shouldn’t have worried me. It was nothing new for her. But she said this time was different. She said the psychic told her something was stalking her. Something, not someone. She was talking so fast. Her fear made me afraid. She said she believed the psychic, Claire. She said she knew it was true the night after her reading, when she was walking home from work and saw something across the street keeping pace with her, out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, to see what it was, there was nothing there. But as she moved onward, she could see it again, in her periphery. She couldn’t tell what it was, only that it moved with an unnatural gait. She said it was the way the thing moved that made her start to feel afraid. All she could tell me was that it was unnatural. And disturbing.

When she got home, she made herself a protective herb bath. She lit white candles and placed them in a circle around the tub. A few minutes after she got in, just as she was starting to feel calm again, she started to hear noises outside of the bathroom. She said it sounded like soft scratching on the door. And then she couldn’t breathe. She felt like she was drowning. She could feel water on her lips and nose even though her head was not submerged. She couldn’t suck in air and her chest felt tight, like she was being squeezed by a giant snake, she said. And then—as if she had manifested it—she could feel cold scales moving and flexing against her skin. She tried to fight against it, tried to get herself out of the water, to lift her body out of the tub, but she was slipping and thrashing. She said she couldn’t get a grip on anything. She felt dizzy and the room was swinging violently around her. Her chest got tighter and tighter and her nose and mouth felt completely enveloped. Just when she felt like she was going to pass out, she was released and fell limp back into the tub and was able to suck in wet, warm gulps of air.That was what she told me the first time she called me. She started calling sobbing and terrified every night. Even though I was far away, I felt cold and shaken, like I’d been stricken with a sudden flu, whenever the phone rang. I’d never heard Sara cry before, never witnessed her panicked. She could barely get words out, she was choking so hard on snot and tears. After the third night, after her home had been filled with the smell of decomposing flesh—like the way the mouse had smelled in her parents’ basement when they’d forgotten to check the trap for a week—and the ragged screams of her sister’s voice begging for the pain to stop had left her cowering in her closet, I knew I needed to go help Sara. The next day, I called in sick from work, packed up my car, and drove the 10 hours to her house.

She rented a really cute little place on the outskirts of town. It had an amazing garden when she moved in, but she’d made it even more beautiful. I can’t even begin to name all of the herbs and flowers and bushes and trees and vines that curled around the faded white stone cottage with its sage green shutters and iron patio furniture. In the past, whenever I visited, we ate breakfast in that garden, laughing over old memories, sipping coffee and tea, watching butterflies and bees flit around the vibrant, overgrown plants.

Everything was dying when I arrived. All of that flora was wilted and turning brown, withering to ash, despite the fact that it was May. I didn’t notice this right away. First I noticed the cop cars and the fire truck and the ambulance. All of the lights flashing danger into the black night.
The coroner told us Sara died of fright. They found her in her closet, eyes and mouth wide open in an expression her neighbor said over and over he’d never forget. It was her neighbor who found her. He’d heard her screaming and come over. He thought she was being attacked so he went in without knocking. As soon as he stepped in, the screaming stopped. He found her moments later.

They asked me if she had any family history of mental illness or psychotic breaks. She didn’t. Claire Camille said something to Sara that made her so afraid that she died. Don’t go to Claire Camille. Whatever she is doing, however it’s happening, she started the fear that killed my best friend. She is responsible and I am going to find out whatever she said or did that caused this. Until then, I just hope this review will keep people away. Claire Camille is a monster.

Amanda Q.

Update: I’m posting on here one more time. I’ve been staying at Sara’s for the last two months while trying to figure this out. I wasn’t sure at first, but I’ve started to see something moving in my peripheral vision. Every night, I hear Sara’s voice shrieking from the closet where they found her body. I think Claire Camille recorded Sara’s dying moments and hid speakers somewhere in this house. I don’t know how else she could be doing this. I begged the police to come and hear it for themselves, but of course nothing happened while they were here. Even if it had, I doubt they would have done anything. They don’t believe me.

Whatever is happening, I don’t think I have much time left. If anyone has any information, please contact me. If another person comes forward, they might listen. My email is mandybubbles84@hotmail.com. Please