I was just an average guy, I had an ordinary job, I lived in the typical small apartment, I did the normal things a 26 year old does. So, I had a fairly boring life. Well, almost.
I had just moved into the small rural town of Kinton. It was a sweet place, streets lined with large oaks, corner shops crammed with all sorts of wonderful things and pathways surrounded by overflowing flower beds. It wasn't anything special but I liked it. I moved there because of my work. I'm an accountant. It's not great but it pays the bills. I'd been there about a month when the strange happenings started to occur.
The first incident was late December when the Post Office owner was reported missing. No one knows what really happened to him but rumours spread that he ran away from his overkill of a wife, or that he was abducted by the local 'Yeti'. Early the following January, my neighbours reported their teenage son as missing. I barely knew him but he seemed like a nice guy. A week later the police found his body drifting in the lake. The public wasn't told much but we were alerted that he was in fact stabbed and it was not an accident. The following week, my boss was found stabbed to death in his own home. I found this horrid. Why did the good people always have to suffer?
Whispers began to form, rumours took hold and slowly, bit by bit the town formed an idea of what happened to the men. 26 years ago, a father was savagely attacked by a gang of unidentified men. These men then killed his wife, and left the new born son to fend for himself. The son was sent off to an orphanage but died in a house fire 2 years later. Apparently it was quite the tragedy, and apparently he's back from the dead to gain revenge.
On the 19th October 1973 everything changed. I was taking the usual route home. I'd just past the corner shop about 2 blocks away from my apartment, when I heard thunder rolling and crashing in the distance. Spits of rain soon followed, landing on my hair and running down my suit to puddle in my shoes. I swung my briefcase up on my head to try and stop the rain. I hate rain. Always have and always will. I could hear my feet splashing in puddles, as I trudged on home. I had a bad feeling about tonight. Maybe another death. But not me.
I eventually made it home. Well to the front door at least. I climbed the 6 flights of stairs in the apartment block, wringing wet to find that my door key, was no longer in my bag. I must have left it on my desk at work. I began to make my way downstairs sighing heavily. It was going to be a long night.
When I arrived at my work, I went around the back and let myself in with the spare key. I walked into the lobby and took the stairs rather than the lift and made my way to my office. I heard noises coming from the room next to mine so I went to check it out.
The blinds were down and I found the door looked. I struggled with the lock but managed to break the door down. I entered the dark room. I could hear whining coming from the back of the room. I struggled to control my breathing as my heart rate rose dramatically. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my spine. I crept slowly and cautiously to the back of the room. I thought I was going to pass out.
On the 20th October 1973, I was found murdered alongside my colleague. But I didn't mind. I'd gotten my revenge. I could now be with my mother and father. I guess you could call it karma.
