Chapter 325

The town of WeeWee Hollow was quiet, too quiet. Beneath the overcast sky, its streets seemed to twist and curl like something far more sinister than the sleepy little community it once was. The pavement cracked in places, the buildings sagging in their decay, like old men hunched against the cold wind.

No one ever left WeeWee Hollow; those that tried found themselves drawn back by some invisible force. For years, no one had noticed the cracks, the shifts in behavior, the subtle changes that had started to corrupt the place. But it had all become impossible to ignore now.

The first to fall was Mrs. Gregson, the elderly woman who ran the local thrift store. Her throat was slit as she bent over the counter, sorting through clothes. No one saw or heard a thing. It was quick, as it always was.

Then came young Tommy, no more than ten, who liked to skateboard in the park. He didn't deserve it, of course. No one ever deserved it. But he had crossed paths, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The blade had come down so fast that he barely had time to scream.

It was all the same. No one was safe. There were no warnings, no signs. It was just the way it happened.

But the thing that made it worse, the thing that made it unbearable, was that no one seemed to care. Not really. People simply accepted the deaths as a part of life in WeeWee Hollow.

That's what made it easier for him to keep going. That's what allowed him to walk these streets without anyone noticing the madness unfolding under their very noses.

He didn't stop. Not for a single person. Not for the women who crossed him or the men who mocked him. He was the judge, the executioner. And they would all pay.

He moved like a shadow. No one ever saw him coming. By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was already too late. He had always been there, lurking beneath the surface. The town had failed to see it, failed to recognize the anger, the bitterness festering in him. But now they would know.

His name was Tom, but no one in town remembered it anymore. He wasn't Tom, not anymore. He had shed that part of himself like a snake shedding its skin. He was simply... nothing. The embodiment of every cruel word ever spoken to him, every failure, every disappointment. No one had given him anything but disdain, so now they would all pay.

He had his weapons, of course. A butcher's knife he'd stolen from a nearby shop. It was the only thing that felt right in his hands. The weight of it was familiar, almost comforting. He gripped it tightly as he walked the streets, heading toward his next victim.

There was no hesitation. He didn't need to think about it anymore. His hands moved with purpose, slicing through flesh, carving through bone. He had done it enough times to know how it worked. How easy it was to take lives. They were so fragile, so breakable. Like glass.

He passed by the corner store, where a young woman was stacking cans on a shelf. She didn't see him. Not until it was too late. One quick swipe, and the knife slid cleanly across her throat. Blood sprayed out in a terrible arc, painting the floor red. She gurgled, choking on her own blood, but it didn't matter. The deed was done. He walked away without a second thought.

Across the street, a group of teenagers stood on the corner, laughing, as they smoked cigarettes. They were just the kind of people he hated. They didn't even notice him until it was too late. But once they did, it didn't matter.

He stepped forward, his knife flashing in the dull light, and the first kid dropped. A single slice. The others screamed, tried to run, but they didn't get far. One by one, he took them down, slashing, stabbing. It was too easy.

But Tom didn't feel satisfaction. He didn't feel anything at all. It was just what he had to do. They had hurt him, mocked him, called him a freak. They had deserved it. And yet, there was no joy in the killing, no thrill in the bloodshed. There was only emptiness. He was numb to it, detached.

He moved down Main Street, his boots tapping against the cracked pavement. The night was falling, and with it, the fog rolled in thick and heavy. It wrapped around him, obscuring the world from view. The streetlights flickered dimly, casting long shadows on the ground, and the town seemed to hold its breath.

He made his way toward the school. It was late now, but the building still stood dark and foreboding. In the windows, he saw the faintest movement. A group of students, still lingering, oblivious to the danger that was creeping closer. They were all going to die.

His eyes narrowed as he entered the school grounds. The door was unlocked, as always. No one thought to lock it at night. Inside, the hallway was quiet, save for the soft thud of his boots. The silence pressed in on him.

The place smelled of chalk dust and stale air. His heart beat slowly in his chest, and his breath seemed to echo in the emptiness.

He paused outside the classroom where the students had gathered. A few were sitting on the floor, playing games, while others leaned against the wall, talking in hushed voices. He could see their faces in the dim light, their eyes wide with innocence.

They hadn't done anything to him. They hadn't even known him. But they would die anyway. They would die because it was their turn.

Without a sound, he moved toward them. His footsteps made no noise on the carpet, as though he were gliding. He didn't want them to know he was there. He didn't want them to see him coming.

He reached the first student, a girl, maybe fourteen, sitting on the floor, unaware of his presence. His hand was steady as he raised the knife, bringing it down into her back with one swift motion. The blade sank deep. She barely made a sound before slumping forward, lifeless.

The others didn't react right away. It was like they couldn't process what was happening. By the time they looked up, it was too late.

He took his time with them. They begged. They screamed. It didn't matter.

When it was over, the room was silent once more. The fog outside had thickened, creeping through the cracks in the walls. Tom stood in the center of the room, surrounded by bodies. He wiped his knife clean on the sleeve of his jacket, his face expressionless.

But in the silence, something shifted. The fog was no longer just outside. It was inside now, too. It crawled along the floor, a presence all its own. And it wasn't just the fog. The room felt... wrong. Like it was pressing in on him from all sides.

Tom took a step back. His heart raced suddenly, and his breath caught in his throat. He tried to steady himself, but his hand trembled. He turned, glancing over his shoulder.

That's when he saw it.

A figure, standing in the doorway. It was tall, cloaked in black, its face hidden in shadow. It wasn't human. Not fully. The thing in the doorway moved slowly toward him, its movements stiff and unnatural. There was something terribly wrong about it.

Tom's legs wobbled as he tried to back away, but the figure closed the gap in an instant. It reached out with cold, bony fingers, grabbing him by the throat. His breath was cut off as he struggled to break free. But the thing's grip was unrelenting. It didn't even need to squeeze harder.

The last thing Tom felt before everything went black was the cold fingers digging into his skin.

He woke up later, but not in the way he had hoped. He was still in the school, but the bodies were gone. The room was empty. The fog had vanished, but the oppressive weight of the place remained. He felt... off. Like he wasn't really there. Like he was trapped in some other world.

He looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. But it was not his blood. His own body felt foreign to him. It wasn't the body he remembered. It wasn't the one that had killed. It was something else.

A voice spoke, low and guttural, but not from anywhere he could see.

You are not the one who decides. Not anymore.

Tom tried to scream, but no sound came out. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. Something inside him had been taken. Something that would never return.

He had become what he always feared.

Nothing.