"Thrashing. That's how I started my morning. The blanket had twisted its way around my neck-- the pristine, cold sheets must've escaped the mattress and decided my death was their next immediate goal. As my body hit the cold, wooden floor, I was happily blessed with the fact that I didn't have a roommate to witness this godforsaken tragedy.

  Hello! I'm Sherri Lovelace, but I prefer Shay. (I feel like a kindergartner saying this.) Until very recently, I was a well-known and respected author. I'm currently in the middle of Small Town Fuckville to see an uncanny, burnt down lighthouse I can write about. We all know that a lighthouse is a lovely setting for a thriller. I hope this helps me think up some ideas.

  Now. I know speaking about every strange happening I come across in a similar manner to a starving Victorian child is a very Lynchian thing to do. However, consider the following: we can probably sell this. The imaginary crowd cheers! (The crowd is me. I am cheering.)

  And now, as I speak into this two-bit tape recorder, I hope you envy me. I hope you know I've gotten further than you in life. I've got the world in the palm in my hand, and all you had was my heart. I hope you never taste sea air on your tongue. I hope you never see a ghost crab for yourself. I hope you know that every transaction we have from now on is entirely business related. It's funny that you're gonna have to go through all of these. I hope it kills you.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I hope you know you're never coming back, Delilah. I hope you know you'll never feel the warmth emanating from my life again.

  ...can we omit this one? From being heard by anyone else.

  A secret. Between just you and me."

  A click, then silence. The morning light settled into puddles on the floor, refracting off of cracked glass and wooden floorboards. Eye-like knots stared from the wood beneath her slippers-- what were they trying to say? Those grooves and swirls seemed judgemental. Observant.

  Shay sighed, tossing the brick-like tape recorder on her death trap of a bed. The satisfying thunk really emphasized the irritation simmering beneath her skin. She had just arrived-- what a journey! Flickers of lightning and seemingly endless dark clouds marked her journey here. Turns out, she could've just driven. What a way to make things difficult. A road trip! Instead of getting rained on!

  Whatever. This was her fault. She was here, now. The curtains rustled in nonexistent wind, a specter ruffling their lacy edges to mess with her. The water-stained popcorn ceiling seemed to be falling apart, ready to burst if looked at wrong. This place was her home, for now, murderous blankets and all.

  Tomorrow, she'd go. To the lighthouse-- or what was left of it. She'd run her hands along burnt-up ruins, would watch soot seep beneath her fingernails. Chipping paint and eroded stone would characterize her afternoon. It would be nothing short of beautiful-- or so she'd like to think. (The masses love a good gothic. Surely they'll forget about what happened. She hoped to God they'd look at her the same way they did before. She missed awestruck gazes and wide eyes.)

  I wish they never stopped loving me.

  ...I miss Chicago.

  She missed much more than just Chicago. It disgusted her.