Killer Can't Kill Me (Jeff the Killer fanfiction) *COMPLETED*

Chapter One

Chapter One

~An article from the Dunswill newspaper~

August 21, James Burr's body was found in his home, brutally murdered. The police have yet to release the exact cause of his death, but they have said the weapon was a kitchen knife. He was discovered by his wife, and it was stated at a press conference on Friday that his seventeen year old daughter witnessed his murder. Members of the town, friends and family to the Burrs send their sympathy. No suspects have been named.

Six Months later

I poured myself a cup of coffee into a chipped blue mug. The coffee was cold now but I was too lazy to wait to heat up the coffee maker. As I took a sip of the coffee, careful not to place my lips where the chip on the mug was, I glanced at the clock. Two thirty-five in the morning. Wonderful. Downing the rest of the coffee in a large gulp, I left the tiny kitchen and accented the stairs to my new room.

The walls were freshly painted pale beige, and the room reeked of paint still. My antique desk was crammed against one wall, my queen sized mattress taking up most of the room. The bed had two fluffy white pillows and a dark brown comforter. The bare wood floor was cool under my bare feet as I walked to my deck. The last box of my things was before the desk. Next to the box

was my large art easel, which had a million spots of paint on it but still had a charm to it. My large, cardboard box at my feet was loaded with paintings. Setting my mug on my desk, I grabbed a half empty box of thumbtacks. I was exhausted, despite the pot of coffee I had slowly been drinking throughout my evening, and was slow to hang up all my beloved paintings.

Each and every painting was covered with walking, dead corpses, or as society called them, zombies. I was a zombie freak, but what can you expect from a girl who watched her father die? The thought made me frown, but I refused to cry, it was time to stop crying over him.

My father and I had been really close. He taught me to paint, though I quickly surpassed his basic skills. Dad was the manager of a huge Gander Mountain, which was a store for outdoorsy people and hunters. Sometimes he would take me to the store with him and I would walk Down the long isles, staring at tents, survival kits, coolers, guns, fishing gear, backpacks, stuffed deer and nature calendars. When I started painting, it mostly consisted of mountains, lakes, and meadows.

One evening Dad, Mom, and I were sitting on the couch together looking for a movie to watch, and Dad accidentally changed the channel to the horror channel. It was an a marathon of old horror movies. The movie that was playing was an old George Romero movie, Night of The Living Dead. The zombies enchanted me. I sat inches from the TV, watching the zombies kill off the odd ball group of survivors. The plot was great, but I loved the zombies. After that, I was hooked.

At first, My parents disapproved of an eight year old watching horror films, but when it was apparent the films didn't scare me, they let me watch them. The only rule was nothing crazier than PG 13 unless it was old, old movies weren't as gory as the directors thought they were. My painting turned from picturesque nature scenes to graphic rotting monsters. Every Halloween I used my talent at painting zombies to make the best zombie costume. Each user was anew theme, Zombie Barbie, Zombie Witch, Zombie Ninja, and several other peculiar themes. The thought of my costumes made me glance in my closet, which was on the opposite wall of my bed, beside the door. In a corner of the large closet hung my costumes, all sealed in bags so fake dust, dirt, blood, and gore didn't spoil my other clothing.

"Done" I said finally, my walls covered in paintings and sketches. Hollow eyes and mashing teeth watched me, but I only felt like a proud parent over my art, there was nothing to fear about a painting. Making sure my door was shut, I crawled in my bed, turned off the light, and closed my eyes, instantly drifting off to sleep.