I got two phone calls today. One was from Simon. The other, from DCI. Duncan. Apparently, in my absence, absolutely nothing new has happened. No sightings, no new disappearances. They're currently stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, they've got a dead teacher, a dead architect and a dead seven year old, and they want to bring the culprit down, but on the other, they have no leads, and anyone who's spent any major amount of time looking at the photographs has mysteriously fallen ill. All claiming, surprise surprise, headaches. The headaches have defied explanation, but it's affecting more and more people. I haven't had any in a while.
Okay, there're something I didn't tell you about that night. Up in Ms. Fisher's flat. While you know how she died, and what had been done to her from the newspaper article about Joey, there was one thing I hid. The look on her face. I don't know how I'd expect someone's face to look having had that done to her, but it wasn't like this. Her face had a look of the most abject horror, like everything she wished she would never lay eyes on was advancing upon her. It's quite a fear, that. Not just to be scared of the unknown. Not just to be scared of something that startles you. But the long, all-consuming dread of being trapped with something beyond your most frenzied, wild nightmares as it bears down upon you. Past screaming. Past crying. Nothing but horror.
That's what Daddy was.
No wonder I can't sleep.
Not for days.