There I was breathing heavily, as he held the trigger just centimetres away from my face. I was so scared I couldn’t move, thinking that if I had even moved a muscle that trigger would probably have been pulled. The heat was unbearable, the room felt so stuffed that if an old man had been there he probably would have suffocated. Still holding the gun in his hand, with an evil threatening voice, the man said to me,
“No worries, you’ll be joining your ancestors in just a matter …of …sec-” As he said the last word, he had pulled the trigger and the final word he said was blown out by the sound of an explosion. I woke up. My face was full of sweat and my heart was beating as fast as the drums of a rock and roll band. It was just the dream again, this reccurring nightmare coming to haunt me.
Morning came as I drove on my way to work, I work as a crime investigator. In the past 2 weeks there have been 4 murders predictably by the same murderer. First murder, April 12th, Brooke Thatcher. April 15th Margaret Shields, April 21st Bobby Smith and April 23rd Katie Baker. All murders took place in the middle of the night at their house, all were killed the same way, they were shot twice in the neck. The latest murder, Katie Baker, happened to be a close friend of mine, she told me before died that she got an unknown message saying that shes ‘next’.
Jack, my partner, barged into my office.
"Miss Current, there has been a report of another murder of a young boy by the name of Sam Maurice. Two bullets found in his neck."
“Sam Maurice, Sam Maurice…hm” I said, as his name sounded vaguely familiar. “Sam Maurice! Hes in the same class as my son! Poor boy, we must find out who this murderer is and stop him!”
The day went by as I got into bed. I breathed heavily and calmly closed both my eyes. Right before me, I see his face. He reloads the trigger, turns around and tells me;
“My, my, my… these days have been just far too busy for me, first Thatcher, then Shields, then Smith and the list goes on… but don’t worry my dear, I’ve still got time for you…” He points his gun to my direction, pulls the trigger, the bullet exits the gun and I wake up. Its morning.
I get out of bed and check the mail. I get a message with no postage stamp or name, all it says is that it is addressed to me. I open it up and in letters cut out from magazines and newspapers the letter seems to read out:
“Your next… From, the man of your dreams”