“To whom it may concern”

That’s how most of these letters were started off, although, maybe not with such inadequate writing. And while the lights flickered in the cold dark room, the sounds of water drops echoed in the freezing hallway. Coupled with the billowing clouds that her hot breath made, escaping between pale lips, her body shivered with every letter etched into the makeshift desk composed of a single piece of hardwood and two cinder blocks to which she sat in front of, hunkered over a stool made from a red plastic milk crate.

In her left hand – that’s where she held the sharp blade, almost like carving this into stone. This had to be done; it was a mission, her mission... She shakily rounded every letter, crossing every ‘T’ and dotting every ‘I’. This was not because she was afraid, it was just so cold. And as she continued to write this note that was to be her last, the unprotected blade pierced the skin of her fingers, bleeding out from the tips:

“I am alone. And by the time you read this, it will have been obvious. This world was not meant for me. As I have longed each day and every night for my love to return to me, it shall not be so.”

She stopped the writing only long enough to look to her right. She knew what was there, eerily awaiting her. It was like a blissful gleaming light; to her at least. Though if someone – anyone, were to walk in on this scene as it played out, what they would see might very well prompt them to walk right out the way they came.

There sat a pale skeleton, with matted black hair, oily from lack of washing. She wore a stained, ripped t-shirt, stretched out so that it could cover just under her rump. Her spine sticking through the skin of her back, suctioning the cloth to her body, it was like it wanted to escape the flesh that kept the bones captive. Even her insides did not want to be in this body. The slick, slimy hair of hers covered over one eye, and the eye that had not been shielded was of the most vibrant gray. Piercing through the cracks of her hair, she could do naught but stare down at the weapon of her own undoing, and she would gather her inspiration through the design of her savior. The inanimate object seemed to keep her entranced, mesmerized by this piece of ornate steel. What she knew that it could do, the power, and somehow that got her off. In her sick little twisted way.

“I have no one to apologize to, and I have no regrets. Do not mourn me. For today the pain has ended.”

-M

This was all that she wrote.

The blood had dried up by now, while she set down the rusty blade and stood up. Her knees were scabbed and bruised. Her arms had been cut from wrist to elbow. Some of her fingers had been wrapped carelessly in tattered pieces of cloth, dried blood turning them brown. Her one eye turning to face the soiled mattress where she had slept, the used blanket that hardly covered her, and the only thing that had ever remained clean, untouched, pure; a stuffed teddy bear she aptly named, ‘Ted.’

The dark circles under her sunken eyes scanned over the room and she moved to the open doorway, there had been no door on it. She had been in this abandoned asylum for years now. Both of her hands propped her up while she looked left and then right down the dimly lit hallway. Perhaps she had given it another thought, hoping that someone or something would burst in, and tell her to stop. No one would come it was only her and the dimly lit hallway, where only the moons' rays would touch the walls.

There had been an old radio, it may have come from the early 60’s, but it still worked. And she turned the ancient dial on the wooden contraption. Ironically, Bobby Vinton had been singing. “L-o-n-e-l-y” she decided she would keep that song on. And she stood before a cracked mirror, listening to the music, the sad and pathetic song. Looking at the wasted away person she saw before the mirror. Had she been watching this all happen in a third person view, had she finally left her body before she would pull the trigger?

The frail hand inched its way over, clutching the barrel and then moved it over her chest. Feeling the ice cold steel, against her racing heart, the wooden handle beckoning to be held, the trigger whispering “pull me, pull me.” She would have to oblige, as she stood in front of the mirror only one thought had entered into her brain, before the bullet did. She hoped, she wished, and she perhaps even whispered a prayer that the only man, whom she had ever known. The man who was in the night, taken from her side, before she had entered into her dementia moving into the asylum – Had he be okay, was he still alive? She couldn’t live without him, and no longer wanted to. She had only said “Inamorato” and pulled the trigger, sending the single bullet from its chamber directly into her brain, where she fell directly to the ground. Unmoving, no air escaped her lips, her eyes still open as she watched herself in the mirrors reflection. The last thing to stop moving was the gun that flew through her fingers when it bounced from the ground.

I suppose you’re thinking that someone came to find her just barely breathing, that the bullet did not kill her. Well, gentle reader; this is where you are wrong. Our lovely heroine did die, and did so by her own hand. And yes, she lays under the ground, no zombie here. I know you are expecting a twist, and yes, there is one.

Christianity has historically taught us that Satan and his hordes of demons are about the world attempting to harm, harass, and destroy humans. The belief is that demons can indwell or possess a human being and cause them to behave strangely.

Meet Miss Kimberly.

At the tender age of 10, she had been out after a day of Sunday service with her parents. A good little girl, whose hair made the sunshine dull in comparison, Beautiful tanned skin, and a dazzling smile, with a set of vivid white teeth a dentist could envy. And every Sunday, after she had been allowed to go out and play, she would wander down the back woods of her home town.

Maryville, they called it. It was the perfect town, with the perfect families, and their perfect lives. They had all but forgotten of the gruesome suicide they had found over a decade ago. Everyone had been children, and having all grown up they were having children of their own. Parents were shocked; thirty year police veterans had turned into sobbing babies at the sight, that night swearing off the force for good. No one remembered that place of horror, and those that did, never spoke of it. Everyone, except for our little Miss Kimberly, and on this day, she had been feeling adventurous. She knew of a place with boarded windows, and doors, but she also knew about a little hole that only she could fit in, and had been into that place a dozen times before. She was bored on this particular Sunday, and wanted to visit the strange big building that she grew to love.

Upon entering it, when she climbed through the tiny little hole, she turned on her flashlight with a click of the button and began walking around the hark hallways. Where she found the light, she wished it wasn’t so far away, the place was creepy in the dark.There was always one room that drew her attention, and she climbed the stairs, oh those stairs seemed to travel on forever.

And into the room she went, that very same death room, very little had changed they did not wish to disturb anything when they took that poor girl out. Kimberly adored this room, because it had a picture of a man and a woman, sharing their wedding in a photo. It was stuck in between the frame of the mirror and the mirror itself. They looked so happy. She wished, oh how she wished they were hers.

Today as she sat infront of the mirror, she heard something from the hallway.
The noise didn't bother her, because she thought it was just a mouse, or even a bird.
She just sat and looked at the picture. And for no particular reason, she would keep looking to the right, like something caught her attention.
As children go, she was curious. Something shiny always got her attention, and she went to go see what it was. She put both of her hands on the doorway when she reached there, looking from the left to the right, but there was nothing. She didn't hear anything, and she didn't see anything.... For the first moment. But when she turned around to sit back in front of that mirror, something had hit her so hard in the chest that she flew back.
Striking the ground it felt like something or someone clamped around her lungs, and she couldn't catch her breath. Her head smacked so fierce on the floor that she went unconscious the moment her head hit the floorboards.
She didn't know how long she was left knocked out, but it wasn't for that long, because she could still see the rays of light through the cracks of the doors and windows.
And as she sat up she pressed her hand to her chest, it still felt as though there was something encasing her lungs, and now her heart. There were palpitations, and it seemed to flutter every other beat. Something hard had developed in her throat and she couldn't swallow it down. She was so dizzy, and had a headache, and as the tears started to well in her eyes, she just wanted to get home as fast as possible.
Bolting from the room, she traveled down the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her. She never stopped until she reached home.

Back at the building, in the highest most farthest part of the building, in the coldest, most darkest room. There was a mirror, with a picture of man and a woman on their wedding day that was tucked between the frame and mirror. And on the mirror, written in a dark, black coal were five words.
"Thanks for letting me in."