You probably want to know who this is, don't you? Well I'm not going to tell you. Ha. Ha. Ha. See, even if I told you who I was, it wouldn't matter. You don't know me, so my name would mean nothing. But I know you. You're Christina Stoker. Your favorite ice cream flavor is cotton candy and you eat it with rainbow sprinkles. How do I Know this? Again, not telling.
Think that sounds psychotic? Good, you've got the right impression of me.
So , Where am I, and how do you find me? If you asked anyone this , they'd tell you to look at the return address, but you know there isn't one. They'd tell you to look at the post mark on the envelope to find out where it was mailed from. But you know that it wasn't. Mailed that is. You know that you found it taped to the inside of your window. Your bedroom window.
So who am I? Where am I sending you these things from? How did this end up in your room? What do I want? Well, you're just gonna have to find out, aren't you?
Today, I turned sixteen. Lots of people would say that I should be happy. But I'm not. I mean, being sixteen sucks. You can't get into movies cheap anymore, even if you can get into them yourself, but I never go anywhere by myself, so that doesn't really matter.
You can't really do anything when you're sixteen. You're too young to stay with the adults all the time, but you can't pay with the little kids anymore either. This is especially a problem when all of your relatives are either way older or way younger than you are, so they fit into either of the above categories.
It also doesn't help that I have;
A) a stalker
B) an extremely creepy secret admirer
C) My friends have an extremely weird sense of humor
D My brother is being a creep. AGAIN
It's such a pretty name you have. A little long though. Would you mind if I called you Chris? How about Tina? I like Tina. I'm going to call you Tina.
So Tina- you probably want to know why I'm contacting you like this. If I really wanted to talk to you, why don't I just call you? I know you have your own phone line, and therefore, your own answering machine. But you see, there are flaws. If I had called and left a message like the note I gave you, you would have brought it to the cops, or traced the call. it would have given you too many clues at once. Don't worry Tina, I like clues. Clues are fun! In moderation of course. TO many clues are bad. But contrary to popular to popular sayings, they're not bad for you, (in this case) but for me. Too many clues could lead the cops right to me, and I don't like the cops that much.
So, Tina, to change the subject, have you figured it out yet? Which one am I - A, B, C, or D?
This guy is so weird! He keeps leaving me these weird notes on the inside of my window. Taped be hind my curtain, just the end sticking out so you know it's there, but so it's still hard to see. He rights on weird stationary. The paper is heavy, and its a weird , marbled tannish color. It fades from light to dark in different spots, like a really weird tie-dye.
I get the feeling that he spends more time in my room then I really want anyone too, let alone someone I don't even know. I think he reads my diary. He knew about the whole ABCD thing that I do, with solutions to my problems. But I do that all the time, not just in here. I just realized that I keep calling the "note writer" a he. I don't really know if it's a guy or not. I don't know anything about the person. I don't know
What they look like
Where they are
What they want
If they're dangerous