July 31st, 1982: I have recently moved into a new house. “New” isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe the house, but I am new to it. I have moved in here because my husband recently died, leaving me with nothing except my sorrow. I could not bear to stay at the house where my husband and I spent the better of thirty-five years at. I am now fifty-eight. I could not sleep in the bed where my husband had died. I could not stay in the room where we had tried to conceive a child and succeeded, only to lose the child. The bedroom is full of so many painful memories.

My husband was the only family I had. I was an only child. My mother and father both died of lung cancer when I was a child. My parents did not have any living family, so I was put into foster care. I had home after home of abuse and neglect. As soon as I turned eighteen, I went out to get a job. It was hard to get any high-paying job considering that I couldn’t care less about education. I worked at a fast food restaurant. I lived on the streets. I was homeless for two weeks before I decided to do something drastic. I robbed a bank. I used every precaution and was never caught. I bought an apartment. I continued to work.
One day, when I was twenty, a man came into the restaurant. I walked over to take his order, and my mind went blank. All I saw was him. I could tell that he was interested with me as well. Despite my horrid life, I wasn’t bad looking. I was 5’8, long, black, glossy hair, bright green eyes, and a slight tan. He was 6’0, blonde hair that grazed his shoulders, dark blue eyes, and very pale. He seemed to be around the same age as me. As I found out later, he was twenty-three. He opened his mouth to order something, but what came out was a request to me to go out on a date with him. I accepted. We went out that night to a club. We danced, had drinks even though I wasn’t of age. He drove me back to my apartment. Before I went inside, he kissed me before saying that he will call me. We dated for two years before marrying. We began searching for a house, but couldn’t find a reasonably priced one. His parents had both died and had left the house to him. That was a problem that solved itself. We lived in that house for the rest of our lives together. The day he died, I began to look to sell the house. It fetched a good price, and I bought this place. I haven’t looked around yet. That I shall do tomorrow.

August 1st, 1982: I woke up this morning very uncomfortable. I didn’t notice this yesterday, but I have a very uneasy feeling about this place. I went downstairs to the kitchen. All the appliances have been left in the house from the last owner. I opened the refrigerator door to clean the contents in it out, if any. I was startled by what I saw in there. There were jars of dark red liquid. The pit in my stomach told me what it was, but I took out one of the jars and opened it. I went over to the sink and poured it out slowly. It confirmed my suspicion. It was blood. I have seen plenty of blood in my time. Living on the streets showed me that. I could recognize blood in an instant. What little appetite I had disappeared. I forced down the bile that was coming up my throat.
I went back up to the bedroom to unpack the few possessions I took. Those possessions consisted of clothing, pictures of me and my husband, my wallet, this journal, and my pens. It was all I needed. I did not have a job any longer.

When I had married, I had quit my job. My husband was the president of a huge corporation. He could make all the money we would ever need. I spent my days at home, baking and sketching and writing, waiting for my husband to come home and eat dinner with me. 

The rest of the day I stayed up in the bedroom. I didn’t want to explore the house anymore. Not today, anyway. Something told me that I would not like what I found. Tomorrow I shall explore a new area of the house.

August 2nd, 1982: Today I went downstairs to the basement. When I opened the door, the strong smell of whiskey hit my nose. Apparently whoever lived here last was a bit of a drinker. I treaded down the steps. My guess was correct. Shelf after shelf, bottle after bottle of various alcoholic beverages lined the walls of the basement that I would call more so a cellar. I searched to see if there was anything else down there. As I looked, a drop of liquid hit my chest. I touched it with a finger and observed it. My first assumption was red wine. I touched it to my lips. Recognizing the taste, I spit it out. It was more blood. I looked up at the ceiling. There was patch of dark red on the ceiling. I ran out of the cellar very quickly.
I went back up to the bedroom. I was liking this house less and less. I sat on the bed, and pulled my knees in tight like I was a little kid. I wished my husband was here. I wished that we were back at our house. I have always felt safe there with him.

One night, I was woken up by the sound of the bed creaking as my husband got out of the bed. I sat up slowly. I watched as he pulled the gun he kept out from under the bed. When he stood back, he saw that I was awake. He looked deep into my eyes and put a finger to his lips. I understood immediately. I closed my eyes and focused on my hearing. I was able to hear the faint sounds of someone walking around downstairs. I opened my eyes and looked into my husband’s with fear. He signaled with his hand to stay there. He left the room and went downstairs. I heard shouts and then a gunshot. I screamed. I shook with fear. I got out of bed and went downstairs. If my husband had been killed, then I would join him in death. If my husband was alive, he could comfort me for this experience had been traumatizing. I ran down the steps. Standing there with a smoking gun was my husband. On the floor was the figure of a man. My husband told me to go upstairs. He said that he would get the police. I did not want to leave him. He kissed me on the forehead and held me close. He assured me that everything would be alright. I obeyed and went back to the bedroom and fell back to sleep, knowing that my husband would always protect me from any harm.

After recovering from the shock of the blood, I came to a horrifying realization. What was right above the cellar was the bedroom. I climbed down off the bed and got down on the ground. I looked underneath the bed. Lying there was a severed arm. I screamed before scrabbling back onto the bed. I laid there crying until I fell asleep.

August 3rd, 1982: I woke up feeling very tired. Crying does that to me. I went out today to the store to get food. I only bought food that I would not need to refrigerate. Until I can get the fridge hauled out of the house, I shall not eat refrigerated foods. I decided to see if there was anything interesting in the attic. I opened the door that revealed a staircase. Immediately when I had opened it, a terrible smell filled the air. My eyes watered. I walked up the stairs cautiously. Once I reached the attic, I turned slightly to see a light switch. I flipped it on. I turned to see a sight that almost made my heart stop. Hanging from a rope was a dead body. It was missing an arm. I fainted. I could only take so much. When I awoke, I went back upstairs and called the police. I began to pack my items. I was done living here.

My husband lay on the bed, coughing. He whispered for me to come to him. He kissed me one last time on my forehead. He caressed my face, and then his hand fell to the bed. I cried for hours. I took his body and burned it. As much money as I had, I did not want to have a huge ceremony. I wanted something personal. I spread the ashes in our backyard. I met with a real estate agent. I told her that I wanted to be secluded from everyone. I gave her the price range, and she showed me the house I am currently in. It looked very nice from the outside. I told her that I would take it. My house was sold very quickly to a young couple. They reminded me of my husband and me when we first moved in.

I fell asleep on my bag. I awoke to the sound of crashing. I knew it couldn’t be the police. I hid in the closet. Writing this now, I realize that these could be my final words. My final request is that I am burned and my ashes are scattered in the backyard of the home that I lived in with my husband. I can hear them coming down the hallway. The door to the bedroom is opening. I can hear my bag being rummaged through. They are coming to the closet…

When the police arrived to the house, they found everything the woman had reported plus the woman herself. They saw the gun lying beside her. Her death was considered as suicide. One police officer happened to be the man of the couple that moved into the woman’s house. He found the journal underneath her body. He read the words that had been written with a shaky hand. The pages had drops of blood all over it. He read the few pages that had been written. He knew the truth of what happened. He honored the woman’s final request. He doubted, however, that the woman’s murderer and the murderer of the hanged body in the attic would ever be discovered.