Frankie Arielli (Apt. 407)

I left today. Left The Foxberry, left the town, and most importantly, left Frankie. I always hated the town and dying there didn't make me like it any more. Paradoxically, the only thing keeping me there anymore was the death that made me hate it. I was obsessed with someone else ruining my life and in the process was ruining someone else's. I left Frankie with one thing, or really the lack thereof. She knew she kept inexplicably finding clues to my murder and I don't think she should know why. But I wanted to remove my presence from her life completely, to let her rest in peace and do my best to do the same. I took her body one last time and took all her pieces of the puzzle to the cemetery. I buried those pieces where they belong, with me, and took her body back home. There I left her in her bed and gave her a last look.  I could never stand the cold, but since I'm cold all the time now, it's about time I saw the Northern lights. I woke up at 11 this morning, ...

I gave Frankie a few nights off but it's time to get back to our usual nightly sleuthing. I gave her the nights off because I had found a new friend. Other than Noah, no one seemed to see me. There are plenty of others roaming around, unseen, but they have no interest in one another. Seems that the urge to socialize dissipates after enough time in limbo. But I hadn't been here long enough to be so dissociated. I found someone. Someone else to see me. I spend hours each day staring into those yellow eyes, having them stare back at me. The sadness in those eyes, the sadness that seemed to repel the crowds, drew me into the cage with him like a fish to water. Like a ghost to sorrow. So far during my tenure as a dead man, nothing had been able to draw me away from my quest for revenge until now. Frankie was now an afterthought. And don't you go feeling sorry for her. She's a real asshole--using the people around her for her own selfish gain and stalking that poor Bret l...

It itched at me constantly. Left me clawing at my scalp, turning and my bed, and worst of all, it had me leaving my bed altogether. Today I woke up in the strangest place yet. The dead don't scare me--death doesn't either-- but waking up under the headstone of Aaron Mose III left me shook to say the least. I looked around my surroundings and was surprised not to see any strange objects laying around. So far it had been a knife, a finger, a bloodstained shirt, and a single black sock. The black sock didn't seem as outwardly important, but it felt more important than any other piece of the puzzle so far. My life had been intruded upon, interrupted, infested by a curiosity that seemed to be constantly punished by new clues to decipher and rewarded by interactions with Bret. Maybe that what keeps me intertwined with this whole plot. For the third time, I woke up with no explanation of how I got there, but unlike in past instances, the ground I found myself desperately searc...

My eyes and brain fought with one another, but eventually my eyes won out and opened to a darkness even more prevalent than that provided by my eyelids. I reached to my right out of habit to turn on my lamp only feel it pass right through my lamp onto the damp ground. I was suddenly aware of the roughness of the ground beneath me and the cold air on my face. I sat up suddenly and began to really understand my surroundings. My hand sat in the puddle by my side and cement had left my stomach scratched and bruised. My first thought was booze, but I hadn't been drunk in over 48 hours, a record for the past month. In my defense, I've had a pretty rough time of it. Since our pact of secrecy, the four of us haven't spoken of what happened with the knife. Unfortunately, Brett has seemed to lose interest in speaking to me all together since that day. And his new girlfriend was no help to my mood either. Despite my better judgement I followed them into Scary Carrie's only to fi...

Thank god the police had come just a few days earlier. Their questions would be a lot harder to answer now. When they came by the cutlery museum I put up with their questioning for a bit, but soon enough they were beginning to get on my already fraying nerves and I basically told them to fuck off. I actually did tell them "fuck off". Luckily, right as the bigger officer's face was contorting into what was sure to be a mighty scolding, the other officer caught a hint of the weed and they took off towards the back. Their pursuit of the kids left them in no mood to deal with my "bullshit" as they called it. Today, on the other hand, started out much better. My mom and I actually had a nice conversation this morning over our mutual hate of Councilman Randall and and feta cheese. Then I had an amazing conversation with my boss, Bret. Not amazing really, but any interaction with him leaves me hot and flustered. I don't know what it is about him. He's not...

The scent of weed wafts through the museum, overlaying the scent of cutlery. Yes, cutlery has a scent. I never would have thought so until I spent eight hours a day surrounded by it. Now I can't even open the silverware drawer without being met with a pang of boredom. Most days, I just let the kids sneak in the back and light up in the spork section, but today is not one of those days. This morning left me in no mood for bullshit. While my dad is usually already at work by the time I wake up, today he and my mom were waiting together downstairs. They sat over a beautiful breakfast of bacon, omelettes and french toast. With a breakfast so beautiful, I knew the yelling was bound to be ugly. I tried to keep my eyes in my food, while my parents stared at me expectantly. It was only delaying the inevitable. "So how's the cutlery museum?" "I dunno dad, why don't you ask the cutlery museum?" "You know what I mean." "It's fine. A few ...