He's here. He's outside. He's in our back garden. I've just called the police, they're on their way. God only knows how he followed us all the way here, but he's here. And there's something wrong with his arms. Jesus, his arms. I thought he was holding something but I kept looking even though I thought he'd see me and even though I don't know whether or not he did and the more I looked the more and more I thought that his arms were long enough to touch the ground, just like his victims, and he's thin. He's too thin. He's thin and tall and with long, thin arms and no face. He doesn't have a face. No face at all. He's tall. He's taller than the six and a half foot fence around the back garden that he's standing into, staring up at the house. I don't know if the police will be here in time. Oh God, this is the first time I've seen him with my own eyes, that I'm not too pissed to remember. My head hurts and he's here and I don't know if I'll ever write anything ever again. I love you Simon. I love you Mum. I love you Dad. I love you Laura. I love all of you. Just...I hope that this isn't the last time I get to tell you this.

Please don't let me end up like the others.