Tweet M for #Murder

It’s a dark and stormy Saturday night, and yet again you’re home alone because you have no social life.  You’re tempted to spend the night playing candy crush on your iPhone but it’s down to 1% and the charger is all the way across the room, which would require you to move. Even with every single working light in the house on (which has to be some sort of hazard), you still feel an eerie presence that you can’t shake.  The TV seemingly turns itself onto The Blair Witch Project. You frantically attempt to change the channel, but the image remains on the screen.  At the height of your panic, you realize you’ve been pushing the volume button.  Close call. Still, you decide watching TV wasn’t a good decision.

You sing the first song that comes to mind to relieve yourself of some anxiety.  “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?  RING DING DING DING DINGERINGEDING.  RING DING DING DINGDINGERINGEDING.”  As you sing expressively, you hear an ethereal echo. It is the voice of a vaguely familiar girl.  You stop.  The voice whispers the unnerving last questions, “What is your sound?  Will we ever know?”  It sounds like it’s coming from directly below you, so you walk upstairs.  You continue to your room, lock the windows and doors, grab your cat, and think happy thoughts.

Your phone vibrates— on your screen, from an unknown number, is the creepiest emoticon ever

😉

You text back, “Who is this?” and get the response, “Open your closet…” at which point your phone conveniently dies. Suddenly you hear a faint knocking from inside your closet that escalates into distressed bangs.  You prepare to investigate. You’re ready.  No you’re not—you sprint down the stairs, grab your dad’s pocket knife and the emergency survival kit you made in 3rd grade and whip open the front door to make a break for it.  Your dad is on the other side.  “Oh hey, I forgot my phone.”  You hand him his phone, and shut the door.  This is your horror story, not his.  You turn around and gasp overdramatically.

It’s a girl from your history class.  Wait what?  She looks like a possessed demon-child.  “How did you get in my house?” you ask.   She pulls out her phone.  “See this?”  She opens the Twitter app and points to the number under “followers.”  “114. Just lost one.”

She didn’t even answer your question.  Rude.  You look into her soulless eyes and scoff, “You mad?”  You immediately want to take it back.  “It was you,” she whispers, “prepare to die.”  You laugh and respond “It’s too late for that my friend.  #beentheredonethat.”  Surprise, you were dead the whole time.