Attwater, a town of tranquility, equality, opportunity, and of course, murder. As the twentieth anniversary of the widely known Attwater Massacre rolls around, Allison Prescott finds her new home a little more interesting than any other place she's...
In the central part of Attwater, entitled on a stone is "Woodland's Run". The street lights illuminate the neighborhood. Tall trees align most houses, standing up to about 15 feet. Crickets chirp and owls hoot throughout the neighborhood. House lights are off in the windows but porches are well lit.
A girl, with Strawberry Blonde hair, a white jacket, and black jeans, walks along the sidewalk through the dark and vacant neighborhood. Equipped with a blue backpack, she holds a yellow note in her hands. Written on this note is an address, an address belonging to Woodland's Run. Looking up and down, she examines both the number on the note and the house address numbers. She continues this process as she walks along the cement pathway.
Allison: "1119...1120..."
Allison pauses, looking both at the house number and the note's digits. She then exhales, and looks up at a building.
Allison: "1123."
Allison gulps as she stands before a 2-story tan house with a bright red front door. She begins to approach the wooden front porch steps when-
*SNAP!*
Gasping, she turns around; Allison observes the surroundings. Trees stand in the front yards of freshly cut lawns. Crickets chirp and house lights are dim. Nothing out of the ordinary pops out to her.
Allison: "Nothing..."
She sighs.
"It's just my nerves. I'm so scared... what if she doesn't even know who I am? Did Mom even tell her about me? Oh... Mom... Mom..."
Allison: "Mom..."
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(June 13th, 2017) (New York City) (9:00 P.M.)
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Allison sits alone in a white car outside of a movie theater; she sits in the driver's seat, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the faint music coming from the car stereo. The driver's window is rolled down halfway, as Allison looks out to a scenery of crowds of people exiting a movie theater. Leaving the theater is a woman in her 40s. She has long silk chestnut hair and seems to resemble Allison in an uncanny way. Accompanying her side is a man, well-aged, wearing a clean black polo. The two walk side by side and arms linked.
"Are we still on for next Tuesday, Lassandra?"
The woman smiles at the gentleman who looks to her as they stroll out of the movie theater.
