I’m not sure how I ended up here, but I’m sure I won’t be leaving with all my limbs intact.
It was a cold and dreary night, the kind you’d expect in a horror story, when I stumbled across the old abandoned house. Everything about it seemed off; the windows were boarded up, the door was old and creaky, and the paint was peeling from the walls. I knew I shouldn’t go in, but curiosity got the better of me.
Once I stepped inside, I noticed that the house was filled with cobwebs and dust, and there was an eerie silence all around. I started to make my way up the stairs when suddenly I heard a loud thud from upstairs. I froze in fear, not knowing what to do.
That’s when I saw him. He was dressed in a tattered cloak and had a menacing look in his eyes. He was carrying a large knife and he was coming right at me. I screamed and tried to run, but he caught up with me and stabbed me in the arm. He then dragged me up the stairs, all the while laughing maniacally.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor in a pool of my own blood. My arm was broken and there was no way I could escape. He stood above me and said, “You should have known better than to come here. You’re lucky you’re still alive.” With that, he disappeared into the darkness.
I lay there for what felt like hours before someone eventually found me and called for an ambulance. When I arrived at the hospital, the doctors told me that my attacker had been a serial killer who had been terrorizing the area for weeks. He had already killed three people before me, but I was the only one who had managed to survive his attack.
The doctors patched me up as best they could, but my arm will never be the same again. I’m left with a constant reminder of what happened that night: a broken arm that will never heal.