Flash Fiction by Jeff Hill
He comes at night. Not every night, but most. The worst part isn’t the stares he gives me. Not even the things he sometimes does. No, the worst part is that no one believes me. They never do.
He’s here right now.
I tried screaming the first dozen times, but no one ever came. They just walked right by. “That’s just the crazy girl in room 218,” we’d occasionally hear over my cries and his panting.
He has a knife this time.
My roommate never showed up for school in the fall. She would have believed me.
Originally published in Microhorror in 2011.
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