His Calling Card
643 Words
The sun rose, but Lila barely noticed. Light bled through her curtains, pale and hollow, as if it too was afraid to touch what lay on her windowsill.
The paper was still there.
She hadn’t moved it. Couldn’t. Just the sight of it—the fragile white folded with unnatural care—made her skin crawl. She’d slept on the floor farthest from the window, cocooned in her blanket, watching it like it might breathe.
Her alarm buzzed.
6:30 a.m.
She slapped it off without looking and sat up, groggy, her joints stiff from the cold hardwood.
Today was Monday. She was supposed to go to school. Pretend nothing happened. Pretend she hadn’t witnessed someone die and then received a message from the killer.
A message meant for her.
She stood up, legs shaky, and moved closer to the window. She still couldn’t make out what was inside, but she didn’t need to. Her mind had already played the reveal over and over again.
Hair. An eye. Wrapped in paper like a gift.
She thought about telling someone—her mom, the police, a friend. But each time she imagined opening her mouth, her throat seized. She didn’t trust them to believe her. Worse—she didn’t trust herself to tell the story without sounding... guilty.
Why hadn’t she called 911 when she saw the murder?
Why had she waited, watched?
Why had a part of her liked it?
She didn’t even know the answer.
After a long hesitation, she cracked the window open just enough to grab the paper. It was damp from dew, light as ash in her hands.
She unwrapped it slowly.
The hair was thin and pale, curled like ribbon. The eye was cloudy now, no longer vivid. But she couldn’t look away.
There was a message scrawled on the inside of the bond paper in red ink—too red to be anything but blood.
“You saw beauty in it. I saw you.”
Her knees buckled.
She dropped the paper, but it fluttered instead of falling. It landed gently on her desk like it had chosen the spot. Like it belonged.
Tears prickled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
Not yet.
Downstairs, she heard her mother calling.
“Lila! Time to get ready!”
She quickly threw the paper and its contents into her desk drawer and slammed it shut. Her hands shook as she got dressed in silence.
In the mirror, her reflection looked hollow.
At breakfast, her mother was smiling, sipping coffee like it was any other day. The news was on in the background—talking about inflation, some celebrity scandal, a local fundraiser.
No mention of the murder.
No mention of the building across the alley.
She was alone in this.
School passed like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Teachers droned. Friends waved. She forced smiles, hollow laughter, routine responses.
She didn’t mention the man in the window. She didn’t speak of the message or the eye. But she did check the alley from every classroom window she could. Always scanning. Always wondering.
By the time she got home, the drawer felt like it was calling her name.
She opened it.
And froze.
The paper was gone.
But the hair was still there.
The eye... was on her sketchbook.
Staring up at her.
A fresh drawing had been added beside it—his face, more detailed now. Like he’d drawn it himself.
Lila stared, paralyzed.
There were no words.
Just that same expression.
The smirk.
The mark of someone who knew she wasn’t going to run.
And for the first time, she realized with a chill: he didn’t want to kill her.
He wanted her to understand him.
To feel what he felt.
To see the art in the horror.
And worst of all... she was starting to.
- Writer
