Part I

I slammed the trunk shut, the sound muffled by icy rainfall. The last of my boxes rattled inside, sealing off what remained of my life in Jackson City. Even with wind clawing at my coat, I felt lighter than I had in months. Finally, I was leaving it all behind. The crumbling sidewalks, the derelict buildings and roads riddled with potholes.

Jackson City, or The City of Death as the headlines called it. My job had brought me here just before it all began. The murders, that is.

At first, the city seemed ordinary enough, even with the perpetual haze that made the streetlamps glow like dying embers.

The first of killings happened right in my own apartment building. An elderly man on the floor below me. Bludgeoned in the early morning hours with a claw hammer. Brutal and senseless. No motive. No suspects. I was questioned by detectives but could offer nothing. I’d been asleep and unaware. Just like everyone else.

Then it happened again. And again. Each attack more depraved and twisted than the last. Each victim struck dead with a hammer. The city trembled with whispers of a serial killer. The headlines only fueled the panic. The truth settled in my chest like a boulder. I was trapped in a city where death stalked the living like a predator.

One night, I walked to the corner store for a case of beer, my mind on the game I planned to watch. The streets were silent; the fog was hanging thick around the neon signs. Then I felt it. The eyes. Someone was watching me.

At the far end of the block, a dark figure stood motionless, just a silhouette in the haze.

I froze. My pulse surged. The killer? It had to be, I thought.

I started walking faster. The figure began moving too. He was moving too fast. Panic took over. I broke into a sprint; my case of beer crashed to the pavement. Fifty feet to the door. The footsteps were right behind me, heavy and pounding. Thirty feet. Closer. Ten.

My hands shook as I fumbled for the keys. The lock finally gave, and I threw myself inside, slamming the door behind me. Through the fogged glass, the figure stood on the stoop. His chest heaved, his shoulders rising and falling. Then came the sharp ring of something metallic tapping the glass.

I stumbled backward, tripping over the entrance rug, sliding along the metal mailboxes that lined the hall. My heart pounded so violently, I thought it might burst.

Then, suddenly, his head snapped to the left, like something had caught his attention. He froze for just a moment. and then, he was gone.

I locked my door, and dialed the police, still gasping from my sprint upstairs. A detective arrived soon after. Hartly, I think his name was. I told him everything. He took notes, handed me his card, and told me to call if anything unusual happened.

When he left, I collapsed onto the couch. Rain began drumming at the windows, lulling me into a restless sleep as the game played on in the background.

A breaking new bulletin jolted me awake. Another body had been found, just behind a corner store. My corner store. My blood ran cold. The figure last night...it had to be him. And he had seen me.

He knew where I lived.

Several missed calls blinked on my phone. I called the last number back. Detective Heartly answered. He wanted me to come in for some follow-up questions. Of course I agreed. I had nothing to hide. After all, I had nearly been a victim myself.

The interview room was dim, and the air was heavy with tension. He asked again about the night before, then mentioned a name I recognized from the news: Molly Childers. The woman found dead last night.

Hartly explained that her murderer probably saw me walk past the ally shortly after killing her. Maybe he thought I'd witnessed it and decided to follow me. The realization hit like a hammer, I’d been just feet from death. My survival was nothing but a stroke of dumb luck.

That’s the moment I made my decision. I couldn’t stay. Not as a witness. Not with the killer still out there. Jackson City had claimed enough from me. It was time to disappear. Before he came back to finish what he’d started.

Part II

Relief washed over me as I watched The City of Death disappear in my rearview mirror. For the first time in months, I could finally breathe. With every mile I put between me and that gray, concrete hell, the weight on my chest lifted. The farther I drove, the lighter I felt, less burdened by the anxiety, less consumed by the fear.

The clouds thinned as I left the city behind, sunlight breaking through in fragile streaks until finally, the sky cleared. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen that shade of blue.

I turned on the radio. A smile crept across my face. I was finally starting over.

The following weeks were more peaceful than I could have imagined. My new home, the town of Milton, looked like something out of an old postcard. Tidy little houses with manicured lawns lined the streets, which were completely void of potholes. Children played ball, and everyone I passed greeted me with a cheerful, “hello.” For the first time in years, life felt simple.

I found a job at the local hardware store, Owen’s hardware. I didn’t know much about tools, but it didn’t matter. Mostly I stocked shelves and helped customers find nails, screws, or the right size wrench.

Life in Milton was perfect. There was always something happening: concerts, fairs, farmer’s markets. That month’s even was Movies on the Lawn at the park. It sounded quaint, almost nostalgic, so I decided to go.

I spread a blanket across the grass as the opening credits flickered on a giant inflatable screen. Children darted through the crowd; their laughter echoed in the soft twilight. The smell of popcorn drifted through the breeze. Families sat close together, their faces glowing in the projector’s light. A couple in front of me held hands, the woman rested her head on his shoulder, her hair catching the light and shimmering in the movie’s glow.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to capture the perfection of that moment.

Then from the couple in front of me, the woman whispered, “Did you hear about the Johnson’s cat?”

My ears picked up.

“No,” the man said, straightening slightly. “What happened?”

“She thinks it got hit by a car,” the woman murmured.

She leaned in closer, her whisper was hardly audible, “But they found it in the yard.”

A chill crawled up my spine. I knew Mrs. Johnson. I’d helped her load her car at the hardware store just the day before. My thoughts tangled. How could a cat get hit by a car in the yard? It didn’t make sense.

Unless...Someone had done it on purpose.

The rest of the movie played on in a blur. The laughter of children, the smell of popcorn, the flicker of the screen, all of it faded beneath the pounding in my ears. My mind kept circling back to the same question:

What the hell happened to that cat?

Part III

The following day passed exactly how I liked it. Uneventful and quiet. Things almost felt normal.

Mrs. Johnson stopped by the store that afternoon, her eyes red and swollen, still grieving the loss of her cat, Florance. My heart ached for her as I rang up her items: a small wooden box and a shovel. She gave me a weak smile, thanked me in a frail, trembling voice, and left.

The next few days slipped by in an easy rhythm. Work was steady. The town was peaceful. Mr. Owen’s, the owner, even mentioned he might even let me run the store when he retired. He also brought up some missing inventory during the last audit. A few hand tools that had vanished.

“Probably just some punk kid,” he said half chuckling half annoyed. “Guess it’s time I join the rest of the world and install some security cameras.”

Saturday morning came like all the others. I woke up around seven-thirty, brewed a pot of coffee, and sank onto couch to watch the local news. I didn’t even know why I bothered. Nothing ever happened in Milton.

The anchor’s voice cut through the calm morning.

“...was murdered last night.”

The mug slipped from my hand, shattering on the wood floor. Coffee splattered across my socks as I stared at the screen.

The broadcast cut to a live reporter standing outside an apartment building. My stomach turned. I knew that building. It was next to mine.

I rushed to the window, pulling the blinds apart with trembling fingers. Police cars lined the street below, lights flashing red and blue against the brick facades. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind, cording off the crime scene. A small crowd had gathered. Neighbors, reporters, strangers. All trying to catch a look of the chaos.

My mind spun. No, this couldn’t be happening again. Not here.

The reporter’s voice carried from the television, “Police have not yet named a suspect in the killing of a man in his early thirties...”

I sank back into the couch, pulse hammering in my ears. They gave a name, Brandon something, but it didn’t sound familiar. The reporter mentioned drugs or money as a possible motive, but it was just speculation.

I stared at the television long after the segment had ended, unable to move. The rest of the day drifted by in a haze. From my window I watched as the police cars pulled away one by one, followed by the news vans. By nightfall, the street was empty again. Empty and eerily still.

I lay in bed that night, watching the light from passing cars crawl slowly across the ceiling. My Mind replayed the words: not yet named a suspect over and over. It had to be a coincidence. It had to be. They hadn’t even released details about the weapon yet. There was no proof it was the killer.

But as I stared aimlessly into the dark, I couldn’t shake the feeling, deep down.

I already knew what the weapon was.

Part IV

That Sunday passed almost without me noticing. Before I knew it, Monday had arrived, and it was time to head to work. It was a routine that brought a small level of comfort. I’d unlock the doors, switch on the lights, count the drawers, then walk the aisles to make sure everything was where it should be before flipping the sign to OPEN. The normalcy felt good. It felt safe.

The day dragged by, despite being unusually busy. Mostly people buying slide locks and deadbolt sets. Then two guys came through. Construction workers, by the look of their dusty boots, and worn jeans. They asked where the extension cords were. I pointed them to aisle three, then went back to straightening a display of paint rollers on at the endcap.

Then I heard it.

“...yeah, the poor bastard had his head bashed in with a hammer or something. It was all over the news this morning.”

I froze as the box of rollers I held fell to the floor. My skin went cold. The words echoed in my mind until everything around me dissolved into static.

A sharp snapping sound pulled me back., Mr. Owen was waving a hand in front of my face. “You alright, son?” he asked, his voice heavy with concern.

I blinked as focus returned in slow pieces.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Just...not feeling great. Maybe something I ate.” Telling him the truth felt dangerous. Like saying it out loud would make it more real.

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and told me to take the rest of the day off.

I didn’t argue.

Back at my apartment, the silence was deafening. I tried to distract myself with leftover pizza and mindless TV, but the hours bled together. One moment daylight. The next, the world was swallowed by darkness. It was like I'd drifted through time without realizing it.

The evening news murmured from the television. Just background noise. The usual filler stories: a town hall meeting, a prize-winning horse, the high school football team heading to state. Then the anchor’s tone shifted.

“Authorities have confirmed the identity of a man murdered in his Milton home late last night. The victim, thirty-two-year-old Brandon Keller, is believed to have been viciously attacked with a hammer.”

My pulse quickened.

“Detectives say the killing follows the same pattern as an unsolved string of murders in Jackson City, roughly one hundred and thirty miles southeast of Milton.”

My heart sank as I heard it. Jackson City.

I stared at the TV, the glow flickering on the walls. The room seemed to be closing in on me. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

I couldn’t help to think, however unlikely.

He had followed me here.

Part V

The weeks that followed were tense. Just an endless grind of sleepless nights and growing unease. Then, strange things began happening. Small at first, but enough to keep me awake at night.

Sometimes, while lying in bed, I’d hear a faint tapping at the sliding door. Metal on glass. The same sound I’d heard that night back in Jackson City.

I’d lay perfectly still, my heart pounding so loud I was sure if the killer was out there, he could hear it. I was certain this was it. Certain he’d finally tracked me down.

Sometimes, I’d get out of bed, reach out, and part the vertical blinds just enough to see the deck outside. Nothing was ever there. Nothing to explain the noise. Other times I’d just lay in bed and wait for whatever might happen.

But some nights were worse than others. Some nights, I saw him.

A dark silhouette standing just outside the door. Motionless. Watching. Waiting. His coat hung heavy at his frame, his shoulder slumped. But every time I blinked, he was gone.

My mind must have started playing tricks on me, I told myself. The hallucinations were being caused by the exhaustion and the constant, suffocating anxiety day after day. That’s what I wanted to believe anyway.

Work passed without shape or texture. Nights began to vanish before I could even close my eyes. My thoughts were frayed, stretched thin by running away, even though I was staying put.

Then one evening coming home from work, I opened my door and froze.

A single sheet of paper lay on the floor. It was a handwritten note someone had slid under my door. The handwriting was familiar somehow, but I couldn’t quite place it.

You can’t run forever.

The words burned themselves into my mind.

From that moment on I became vigilant. No... obsessed.

I installed chain and slide locks on my door and triple-checked them every night. Each evening, I searched the apartment, room by room. I’d check under the bed, behind the shower curtain, inside the closets. Once, I even checked the fridge.

I knew it was ridiculous, but the fear didn’t care about reason.

After work, I’d linger outside the store just waiting to leave with others, desperate not to walk home alone.

I even started carrying an ice pick from the store, slipping it into my pocket every morning. Just in case.

Every move became deliberate. Every action measured. Every sound dissected. Every shadow investigated. I told myself I was taking control. Taking control of my life.

But deep down, I knew...

The fear was the one in control.

Part VI

Before I knew it, fall had turned to winter. You could smell it in the air. You could feel it at night. The cold crept through the cracks in my apartment and wrapped around me like even it was trying to stay warm. Every time the doorbell chimed at work, a gust of wind followed, slicing straight through to my core.

But I was alive. For now.

I started to believe the precautions were working. The routine had become its own kind of comfort. Being alone didn’t feel quite so terrifying anymore.

Sometimes, I even caught myself wondering if I’d overreacted. There was no proof Brandon’s murder... Or Mrs. Johnson’s cat had anything to do with the killings in Jackson City. Just a few coincidences that my mind turned into patterns.

Brandon just got caught up with the wrong people, I’d tell myself. Maybe Florance, the cat really did get hit by a car. Still the tight knot of anxiety stayed wedged deep in my chest. Then there was the call.

I was at home, TV flickering against the walls. The doors locked, I’d already triple checked. Every inch of the apartment had been searched, the ice pick rested on the coffee table. My phone buzzed with a blocked number.

My body went numb.

I answered like the phone might explode if I moved too quickly. Detective Hartly’s voice came through the speaker, low and gravelly. “Good evening. I just wanted to double-check... you’re still in Milton, right?”

My stomach dropped.

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Still here. Barely.”

“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to give you a heads up. We think our guy has moved. I’d caution you to keep your eyes open and lock up...tight.”

The line went dead.

I stayed frozen on the couch, the sound of his voice echoing in my head.

That call solidified it. He was here. The figure outside. The tapping. The note. None of it had been my imagination. It was real. And the town of Milton was in danger now.

After that call, sleep became a memory. I’d lose hours with no explanation, waking up on the couch with no recollection of even laying down. I’d drag myself to work on three hours of rest, so worn down, it felt like I was moving underwater.

The exhaustion started twisting reality. At the register, I’d look up at a customer and for a split second, their face would shift. They’d be mutilated and bloody, almost unrecognizable. Sometimes it was Brandon. Sometimes the woman they found behind the corner store.

And sometimes it was someone the killer hadn’t even gotten to yet.

Sometimes it was Mr. Owen.

Part VII

I woke suddenly; my cheek pressed against cold tile. Blinking, I slowly took in my surroundings. Rows of pegboards, shelves, the faint smell of sawdust and iron. Owen’s Hardware.

I was lying on the floor of the store with no idea how I’d gotten there, or why.

I pushed myself up, my heart hammered in my chest. Nothing looked disturbed. No alarms. No broken glass. Just a hammer lying on the floor, as though it had fallen from the hook. I put it back.

I slipped out the back door, keeping to the shadows, cutting through the alleyways. I don’t know what was worse, the thought I might run into the killer, or someone telling Mr. Owen they’d seen me wandering around his store at three in the morning. Both made my stomach twist.

The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet, like the wind held its breath. By the time I reached my apartment my hands were numb from the cold.

The smell hit me first.

Rot.

Not garbage-day rot. Something deeper, more putrid.

Decay.

My apartment was wrecked. Not by a burglar, but by me. Weeks, maybe months, of neglect layered on itself.

Dishes rotted in the sink. Trash littered the floor. Mold climbed from half-eaten take-out containers. Something smeared the walls in sick colors.

The television blared, it’s light cascading across the ruin. Just as I reached for the remote, a news bulletin cut in. “Sixty-five-year-old Bradly Owen has been found dead inside his home. Officials are calling it undoubtably foul play...”

My pulse stuttered.

The anchor’s voice changed, it was thick, almost demonic as it oozed from the speakers. “You beat him to death with a hammer. The same one you used to kill Brandon Keller. And Molly Childers. The same one you used to kill them all.”

Then he looked straight at the camera, straight at me.

His eyes turned black.

“You did this.”

The screen flashed with photos. Faces caved in, blood sprayed across wall in heavy drops, skulls cracked open, brain matter gleaming under the flash.

I lunged for my phone and dialed Detective Hartly. I don’t even know why. Maybe to turn myself in. Maybe just to hear a human voice.

There was no ring. Just the flat tone of a disconnected number.

I tore through my wallet, searching for his card. All I found was a scrap piece of paper. His name and number, written in my own handwriting.

I sank onto the couch. Something pressed hard against my hip. I reached down and pulled out a hammer that was wedged between the cushions, its head crusty with drying blood.

This was no exhaustion fueled hallucination. No matter how badly I wanted it to be.

The hammer fit perfectly in my hand. Like it was made for me.

Outside the wind howled and screamed into the night. Inside, everything was still.

I hadn’t escaped the City of Death.

No... I built it.

Body by body. Blow by blow.

Just me...and my trusty hammer.