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"Stop! I didn't kill anyone! I didn't do anything! Don't ...Don't talk about their daughter. I didn't do anything!"

"Of course you didn't," the memory of a shadow said, hiding in the furthest reaches of his mind.

"I didn't, it was you, You all along," He shouted to the room "Why do you do this to me? to them?"

The voice that responded was cold and cruel, "Oh but you did. Poor little Millie..."

He banged against the table, and it groaned under his weight, rocking back and forth. Closing his eyes, he shouted: "GET OUT! I don't want you here, I've told you that a million times!"

"I heard yelling," The voice came from the doorway, a young woman in a dressing gown, "I didn't mean to intrude, I'll leave then."

He turned, and his gaze greeted the woman. She flinched at the look in his eyes. " . . . "

"Yes, yes, I better go," she said nervously, undoing the edge of her skirt in her jittery fingers. "I'll go..." she ran out the doorway, and the man was left alone with his thoughts once more, the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"No, don't go," He whispered to the room.

"They don't want you, you're crazy they all know it," the voice in his head cackled, "You'd kill them all if you got the chance."

The man was slient, just for a moment. Thinking, thinking about what he had just heard, imagined? No it was there. But was it true? He turned around, cautiously, barely opening his eyes past the perpetual slit he kept them in, but finally laid back against the wall, arms folded. It must've been... Nothing. Nothing at all.

"You hearing noises in your head other than me now," the voice said, "I'm offended, is it going to get crowded in here soon crazy man?"

He didn't reply. How could he reply. "Is that a yes?" the voice questioned.

"No!" He yelled, at him self? At something, at it! "You're not real, I did nothing to that girl and you're not real!"

Suddenly, something cold and unfeeling, unhuman, began to cloud his vision, and he leaned forward precariously. The man fell to the floor and lay there in an unnatural position, kicking against the unknown force.

"Whoever said I wasn't real?" The words escaped from his throat, strangled and coarse, " You were the one telling me I had done it."

Suddenly movement. But not his own. His arms where heavy, he couldn't move them but something else could and something else was. His movements where fast and uncoordinated as he was forced to his feet by the thing in his head that didn't exist.

"That girl, she was a pretty one, we've seen her before too," The voice had a coarse, hissing quality to it, "The appartment across from ours I believe, and you like her, all the better."

"What are you going to do?" his voice was now weak compared to the coarse, cold voice that still pushed itself out of his mouth.

"You know, just you watch." It said, then fell silent.

He watched in horror as it took him to the kitchen, retrieving the large cleaving knife. He tried to fight it, but with each second that presence gained more control. He was helpless unable to not see what what was about to happen. As it took him to her door he wished it was like the others, he wished it would let him fall into blackness, not knowing what it did.

"Just you watch" it had said, this time it meant it. He didn't fall into blackness. Just like a movie he was forced to watch. He walked on, his body felt numb, he wanted to scream, run or both at the same time but now, now the thing had stolen his voice. All he could make were small mumbling noises, small chokes or coughs. It was when he has totally lost control that he came to the door of her flat.

She opened the door when it knocked, now dressed in a flimsy nighty. He tried to move, tried to warn her but it was no use. She backed away though, but the creature was quick to intervene the cleaver hidden from view.

"I came over to say sorry," It was using his voice, "I was practicing for a play, totally immersed in the character, I didn't mean to scare you."

She looked at the man in front of her. "Um . . . that's okay," he seemed different, but she couldn't tell what had changed. "What's the Um . . . play about?" she asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh it doesn't really matter," it said letting a little bit of it's self seep into the man's voice.

"Oh," she said, still staring at him in some kind of horror, but her confidence and manners were overcoming that, "Do you, want to come in?" She asked, hoping he would say no.

"That would be lovely," he smiles plesantly. The man tried to struggle again, but now it seemed hopeless.

"Linda!" he screamed in his head "Linda!" but it was never heard, or spoken. Only noticed by the thing that now controlled his body, and it laughed.

It was too late anyway, she had turned away, the cleaver rose as if with a mind of its own. He couldn't turn away, though he wished to. It fell and her screams tore through the building.

And, as the man watched the monster, he started to cry. But his tears, much like his voice, were not noticed by anything other then the voice. Again it laughed as the man felt the numbness fade away, and soon enough he regained control. There in his hand was the cleaver and there at his feet was Linda. He tried to choke out words but, the one time he could speak, he didn't.

But Linda wasn't dead, not yet anyway. She groaned, her slowly fading eyes gazing up to met his, and he just stood there. He wondered whether he should finish it, he knew she wouldn't live. He turned his head as the final blow fell, the killing blow, not made by the monster inside but by him.

"See," It said, once more in his head only, "You are a killer. And you'd better get away, I think the whole apartment heard her pretty little screams.

But he couldn't move, not as the minutes ticked by. Not as the police climbed up the stairs and not as they damanded him to drop the knife.

"Drop the weapon!" they cried, hiding behind their guns and vests. "Or we'll shoot."

He saw the oppurtunity, his one chance for freedom. He turned to the doorway and raised the cleaver high.

"What are you doing?!" The voice screamed in his head, "You can't take them!"

"I don't plan to." He whispered as the bullets tore through his body, and finally the voice was silenced and his life of death had come to a close.

Description
"Stop! I didn't kill anyone! I didn't do anything! Don't ...Don't talk about their daughter. I didn't do anything!"

"Of course you didn't," the memory of a shadow said, hiding in the furthest reaches of his mind.

"I didn't, it was you, You all along," He shouted to the room "Why do you do this to me? to them?"

The voice that responded was cold and cruel, "Oh but you did. Poor little Millie..."

He banged against the table, and it groaned under his weight, rocking back and forth. Closing his eyes, he shouted: "GET OUT! I don't want you here, I've told you that a million times!"

"I heard yelling," The voice came from the doorway, a young woman in a dressing gown, "I didn't mean to intrude, I'll leave then."

He turned, and his gaze greeted the woman. She flinched at the look in his eyes. " . . . "

"Yes, yes, I better go," she said nervously, undoing the edge of her skirt in her jittery fingers. "I'll go..." she ran out the doorway, and the man was left alone with his thoughts once more, the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"No, don't go," He whispered to the room.

"They don't want you, you're crazy they all know it," the voice in his head cackled, "You'd kill them all if you got the chance."

The man was slient, just for a moment. Thinking, thinking about what he had just heard, imagined? No it was there. But was it true? He turned around, cautiously, barely opening his eyes past the perpetual slit he kept them in, but finally laid back against the wall, arms folded. It must've been... Nothing. Nothing at all.

"You hearing noises in your head other than me now," the voice said, "I'm offended, is it going to get crowded in here soon crazy man?"

He didn't reply. How could he reply. "Is that a yes?" the voice questioned.

"No!" He yelled, at him self? At something, at it! "You're not real, I did nothing to that girl and you're not real!"

Suddenly, something cold and unfeeling, unhuman, began to cloud his vision, and he leaned forward precariously. The man fell to the floor and lay there in an unnatural position, kicking against the unknown force.

"Whoever said I wasn't real?" The words escaped from his throat, strangled and coarse, " You were the one telling me I had done it."

Suddenly movement. But not his own. His arms where heavy, he couldn't move them but something else could and something else was. His movements where fast and uncoordinated as he was forced to his feet by the thing in his head that didn't exist.

"That girl, she was a pretty one, we've seen her before too," The voice had a coarse, hissing quality to it, "The appartment across from ours I believe, and you like her, all the better."

"What are you going to do?" his voice was now weak compared to the coarse, cold voice that still pushed itself out of his mouth.

"You know, just you watch." It said, then fell silent.

He watched in horror as it took him to the kitchen, retrieving the large cleaving knife. He tried to fight it, but with each second that presence gained more control. He was helpless unable to not see what what was about to happen. As it took him to her door he wished it was like the others, he wished it would let him fall into blackness, not knowing what it did.

"Just you watch" it had said, this time it meant it. He didn't fall into blackness. Just like a movie he was forced to watch. He walked on, his body felt numb, he wanted to scream, run or both at the same time but now, now the thing had stolen his voice. All he could make were small mumbling noises, small chokes or coughs. It was when he has totally lost control that he came to the door of her flat.

She opened the door when it knocked, now dressed in a flimsy nighty. He tried to move, tried to warn her but it was no use. She backed away though, but the creature was quick to intervene the cleaver hidden from view.

"I came over to say sorry," It was using his voice, "I was practicing for a play, totally immersed in the character, I didn't mean to scare you."

She looked at the man in front of her. "Um . . . that's okay," he seemed different, but she couldn't tell what had changed. "What's the Um . . . play about?" she asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh it doesn't really matter," it said letting a little bit of it's self seep into the man's voice.

"Oh," she said, still staring at him in some kind of horror, but her confidence and manners were overcoming that, "Do you, want to come in?" She asked, hoping he would say no.

"That would be lovely," he smiles plesantly. The man tried to struggle again, but now it seemed hopeless.

"Linda!" he screamed in his head "Linda!" but it was never heard, or spoken. Only noticed by the thing that now controlled his body, and it laughed.

It was too late anyway, she had turned away, the cleaver rose as if with a mind of its own. He couldn't turn away, though he wished to. It fell and her screams tore through the building.

And, as the man watched the monster, he started to cry. But his tears, much like his voice, were not noticed by anything other then the voice. Again it laughed as the man felt the numbness fade away, and soon enough he regained control. There in his hand was the cleaver and there at his feet was Linda. He tried to choke out words but, the one time he could speak, he didn't.

But Linda wasn't dead, not yet anyway. She groaned, her slowly fading eyes gazing up to met his, and he just stood there. He wondered whether he should finish it, he knew she wouldn't live. He turned his head as the final blow fell, the killing blow, not made by the monster inside but by him.

"See," It said, once more in his head only, "You are a killer. And you'd better get away, I think the whole apartment heard her pretty little screams.

But he couldn't move, not as the minutes ticked by. Not as the police climbed up the stairs and not as they damanded him to drop the knife.

"Drop the weapon!" they cried, hiding behind their guns and vests. "Or we'll shoot."

He saw the oppurtunity, his one chance for freedom. He turned to the doorway and raised the cleaver high.

"What are you doing?!" The voice screamed in his head, "You can't take them!"

"I don't plan to." He whispered as the bullets tore through his body, and finally the voice was silenced and his life of death had come to a close.