5. Starla
Chapter 5
Starla
T he interview was exactly what we needed to put a spark into everyone. By the time we got back to the library production is in full swing. I'm proud of what we've done today even if it brought up some horrible memories of my own experiences.
When I lost my mother, I knew that I'd miss her forever, but I never realized just how many little situations would remind me of her.
Being there with Brynn's mother brought up some guilt for me. I can't say I was the best child. Of course, I respected my mother, but there were points when I was a teenager when I know I made things hard for her.
"You're going to burn yourself out before you have a chance to do anything." Pete says, standing next to me.
I jump slightly. I didn't even hear him walk up. He's right though. I can feel the strain in my eyes. I've been staring at this screen for too long. "I just want to make sure all the images we got today are good."
He places his hand on my shoulder and internally I cringe a bit. Something about Pete seems off to me but I'm not sure if it's something I should be worried about or not.
"It was great. You really have an eye for this. But you can't try to do everything in one night. That's not going to be good for anyone."
I nod and push back from the desk. He's right. I know I have a deadline, but I want to make sure this documentary is a good quality, not just quickly done. "You're right. I should head home for the night. Where is everyone else?"
I look around the nearly empty library. I didn't even realize that it was so quiet. I was lost in my own world.
"It's just you and me. Everyone else already went home for the night. Do you know how long you've been sitting here?" He chuckles and takes a step back. Maybe he realized he was making me uneasy. Either way, I'm grateful for the space.
"A few hours, I guess from the way my head is pounding." I joke right along with him.
"Have you eaten today? You want to go get some food?" He asks.
Once again, I'm not sure what his intentions are, and I don't have time for any dating.
"Nah, I think I'm just going to head home and get some sleep. We've got a big day again tomorrow." I shrug and side step him.
"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Well, get home safe. I'm just going to shut down my equipment. I'll lock up." He nods and I give him a tight smile.
I'm grateful to see there is no one outside waiting for me this time when I leave the library. Maybe the townsfolk just needed me to know they were unhappy with what I'm doing and that was the end of it. I can only hope.
The drive back to my rental house is short but long all in the same. All I want is to get in the bed and close my eyes.
As I pull into the driveway of my rental house, the familiar weight of exhaustion settles on my shoulders. The day has drained me, both emotionally and physically. I just want to collapse into bed and shut the world out for a while. But as I step out of the car, I notice a group of young adults standing on the other side of the street, their laughter piercing the quiet of the night.
They’re college-aged, maybe a little older, and the sight of them sends a shiver down my spine. My heart races when I spot one of the boys among them—the same one I saw during the near-riot the other day. His face is familiar, and as our eyes lock, I feel a chill creep through me. He doesn’t say anything, just stares, and the intensity of his gaze makes me uneasy.
I try to shake it off, forcing myself to move toward the house, but I can’t help glancing back. The group is loud, their drunken state apparent as they joke and shove each other, carefree and reckless. It’s a stark contrast to the weight of the day I’ve just had.
Inside the house, I lock the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, trying to steady my breath. I can still hear their laughter echoing outside, a cacophony that wraps around me like a heavy blanket. I head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the day and the unsettling feeling that’s settled in my gut.
But the rowdiness outside only grows louder, a relentless tide of noise that seeps through the walls. I can’t escape it. As I brush my teeth, I catch snippets of their conversation, wild and uninhibited. It’s all harmless fun—until I hear someone yell, “I hope you’re proud of what you’re doing to the town!”
The comment is sharp, aimed directly at me, and it lingers in the air like a bitter aftertaste. My heart drops. I know that was meant for me, a reminder of the tension swirling in this community, a reminder of my role in it. I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth, trying to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
I force myself to focus on getting ready for bed, but every rustle outside sends my pulse racing. I pull on my pajamas, the fabric feeling too tight against my skin, like a reminder of the weight pressing down on me. I try to drown out the noise, but their laughter transforms into a haunting echo, amplifying my own anxiety.
I can’t shake the feeling that they’re still watching me, waiting for something. I draw the curtains tight, shutting out the view of the street, but it doesn’t lessen the tension in the air. I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, hoping to find some semblance of safety within their fabric.
But sleep won’t come. The group outside continues their raucous revelry, and I can’t help but listen, my heart racing with each shout and laugh. I know I should just ignore them, but the sense of dread tightens in my chest. What if they decide to come over? What if they take their anger out on me?
As I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. The town is on edge, and so am I.
I roll over in the bed, doing some deep breathing techniques trying to get my brain to settle down. It's no use.
No matter how much I try to clean up the old house the lingering musty unused smell doesn't go away. On top of that It feels like the heat isn't working. I'm cold. All the windows are closed up tight but no matter how much I try I just can't seem to get warm.
Grabbing the blanket my mother quilted for me I wrap it around my body and try to snuggle in.
The peace it brings me only lasts a few seconds until I hear it.
*Tap, Tap, Tap*
My eyes spring open and I turn my head in the direction of the sound. It's not coming from the door but the side of the house.
The sound seems to echo in the nearly bare house.
My heart races and I wait to see what's going to happen next. I'm not home or even in a town that I trust. I could say this town is safe but I'm here to investigate the story of a never caught serial killer. This place knows some danger.
I hesitate, my breath catching as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The darkness feels thicker now, wrapping around me like a shroud. I move to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peek outside, but I can’t see a thing, just an inky blackness that swallows everything whole.
The laughter from the group across the street still carries through the night, their voices a cacophony of drunken revelry. I tell myself it’s just one of them, probably that boy from the protest. The realization hits me with a sickening twist: he’s one of the victim’s brothers. My stomach churns at the thought, a mix of guilt and anger rising within me.
How dare he come here, trying to terrorize me here where I'm staying? The audacity makes my blood boil, but I know confronting them is a dangerous gamble. I can’t let them see my fear.
I draw the curtains tighter, shutting out the darkness, but the feeling of being watched creeps in, clawing at my insides. It’s as if the shadows outside are alive, their presence pressing against the glass, waiting for me to make a move. I back away, my heart racing, trying to calm the frantic thoughts swirling in my mind.
What if they know I’m here? What if they come for me? I push the panic down, forcing myself to breathe slowly, but it’s hard when every sound outside feels amplified, like a drumbeat echoing in my ears.
I glance at the clock—2:13 AM. The world outside should be quiet, but the laughter continues, mingling with the tapping that refuses to stop. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re toying with me, testing my resolve.
I step back from the window, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I can’t let them see me afraid. I can’t give them the satisfaction. I take a deep breath, scanning the darkened room for something—anything—that might help me feel safer. My phone lies on the bedside table, but I hesitate to reach for it. What would I even say?
The tapping resumes, more urgent now, and I feel a surge of adrenaline. I’m not their target, I remind myself. I’m here to document the truth, to shed light on the darkness. But the fear gnaws at me, relentless and suffocating.
I tiptoe back to the window, peeking through the curtain once more, the shadows still cloaking everything outside. I squint into the darkness, searching for any sign of movement, but all I find is the quiet menace of the night.
Then, just like that, the laughter stops. There’s a silence so profound that it sends chills down my spine. My breath catches in my throat as I realize that whatever was out there is now gone.
But the feeling of dread lingers, clinging to me like a second skin. I know I should try to sleep, but the darkness has become a living entity, and I can’t shake the sensation that I am not alone. I crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, willing myself to believe that this is just a trick of the mind.
I don't hear them laughing outside anymore but that doesn't mean my brain has shut off. Now I can't stop thinking about the case. Flashes of crime scene photos and my own creative reanacctments play in my mind.
The police never found out who was behind the killings. It would make sense for it to be someone in town. That means it could be one of those men outside. It could be the brother.
Thinking back on that specific case I remember there being some rumors floating around that he was the one behind the murders but after an investigation nothing came of it and the brother was cleared. But what if the police were wrong. What if he truly was the one behind all this?
From what I know about him, the brother has a notorious anger problem. He's definetely not someone I want to be on the wrong side of.
The tapping continues and I do the only thing I can do. I pull the cover up over my head and hide.
Logiacally I know it'll do nothing to save me if someone decides they want to break in but just being swathed in the quilt is enough to calm me even just a bit.
I need to think. Need to keep my wits.
I could call for the police but doing that means they would blame me digging into the towns sordid past. The last thing I want to do right now is jeprodize the documentary in anyway. No calling the cops isn't an option.
Finally, the tapping stops and instead of me going to investigate again I let my mind convince me that it was all in my head. After all what would anyone get from killing me. I'm a nobody. I don't have anything of value. Sure killing me might stop the documentary but then people are going to want to know more about what I was doing that would cause someone to kill me. That would just bring more publicity to a town that clearly doesn't want any.
I'll be fine.
I'm sure of it.
Suddenly the laughter starts up again but this time it sounds like they are closer. Just as soon as I was starting to calm down my panic rises again.
I've never been the type of person to lose my cool but right now I can't process what's going on. I don't feel safe. That much is clear.
In a ditch effort to make myself feel better I yank the covers from over my head and dash in the direction of the kitchen. Thankfully the house is mostly clear of any clutter because I'm suer I'd have tripped over something I'm moving so fast.
Flipping on the light in the kitchen I look around for anything I can use as a weapon and my eyes settle on the lonely steak knife I have in the dish drying rack. I'm not sure how good it'll do me but just grabbing it in my hand is enough to make me feel even a little bit empowered.
If anyone tries to get in here tonight I'll have something to protect myself with.
Slowly, still clutching the knife in my hand, I go back to the bedroom and lay down. I tuck the knife under my pillow but keep my hand on the hilt.
Talk about a security device.
With the weapon in my hand and my mother's quilt wrapped around me I finally start to calm down.
The exhaustion of the day settling over me like a thick net. My eyes slowly drift shut and sleep takes me.