Ness

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I stared at the letter the film crew had taped to my door. I’d read it to Kansas before he left and then read it again alone. Then again, with a bottle of wine.  Why hadn’t they mailed it? It seemed so unprofessional. And creepy. Someone who knew about my traumatic childhood and wanted to use me to make money had been on my porch. Had they looked through my curtains? Checked out my backyard? Did they try the doorknob? The possibilities were endless, and I hated every dark thought.
Slash or Pass (Final Girls)
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