I continued.

The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that kI continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking stI continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.

This was sick. Properly sick.

My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looI continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiereI continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.

I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
d on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth

er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.

Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
ked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, ever look at it again
was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! in sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.

It s that there were so many pages left.

raight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in a black evening d
ress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her back. Her makeup
was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, begging me to help. B
ut I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in
a black evening dress with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
eeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.
I continued.
The dark figure became more and more present in each photograph. I could almost
make out features. His presence was towering, and as I turned the page I expecte
d to see him disappear. But instead, as the photographs grew closer to her eight
eenth (each birthday was marked by a caption underneath the Polaroid saying Anoth
er year. ) she was no longer somewhere I recognised.
Instead, the photos were of her in a dimly lit house. Her face contorted by fear
, striking all sorts of weird poses. Sometimes she would be dressed like an anci
ent queen or she would be dressed like a maid scrubbing the floors, the figure w
as there even closer now. His legs, or his arm would appear in each and every on
e. No matter how she was dressed, in every photo her face had this desperately p
ained expression. It killed me. There were bruises on her face. She looked thin,
ill even.
I couldn t do it.
This was sick. Properly sick.
My girl.
I soldiered on.
The last photo I looked at, before I slammed the book shut and swore to never, e
ver look at it again was of her eighteenth. The caption underneath read At last! i
n sloppy writing.
She was looking straight at the camera, crying. She was on her knees, dressed in

a black evening dress

with an apple in her mouth and her hands bound behind her
back. Her makeup was ruined by her tears. It was as if she was pleading me, beg
ging me to help. But I couldn t.
I closed the book and left the room, my whole body convulsing with sobs.
I couldn t call the police, of course. She was dead.
The thing that keeps me up at night, isn t the content of what I saw.
It s that there were so many pages left.