Moving to "Paradise" was a tragic mistake.
I write this by candlelight, my hand steady on the grip of my sidearm. The Kevlar vest cuts into my shoulders…I haven't taken it off in three days. Can't. Won't.
People here are…sick. Wrong. I noticed it the first week I arrived. The way they stare. The way conversations stop when you walk into a room. Paradise, Arizona—population 4,237 according to the weather-beaten sign on Route 89. Might as well say "Population: Damned."
I hear gunshots after dark. Screams that cut through the Arizona heat like broken glass. At first, I thought it was fireworks. Teenagers raising hell. Then I heard the screaming. A woman's voice, high and terrified, cut off mid-shriek. That was three nights ago.
Now they're calling. Threatening. Anonymous voices on my phone line, breathing heavy, saying I'm being thrown out of this house. MY house. The one I bought with honest money, the one that was supposed to be my fresh start after everything went to hell back east.
Fresh start. Christ, what a joke.
The calls come at 3 AM. Always 3 AM. "You don't belong here," they say. "This is OUR town." Click. Dial tone. I've stopped sleeping. Started wearing the Kevlar vest inside. Started keeping the pistol loaded, a simple 9mm I picked up at a gun store, safety off, within arm's reach at all times.
Sometimes, in that space between waking and sleeping, I hear something else. Not the phone. Not the neighbours. Something deeper. A voice that sounds like it's coming from inside my own head. Whispering. Urging. Telling me things I don't want to hear.
They're coming for you.
You know what you have to do.
They all must die.
I shake my head. Clear the cobwebs. It's just stress. Just paranoia. Just the isolation getting to me.
I can feel them watching the house. Feel their eyes on me through the windows. Sometimes I see shadows moving in the yard. Sometimes I don't. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe the watching is in my head. Maybe it's real. Maybe there's no difference anymore.
When I close my eyes, I see faces. Distorted. Wrong. Mouths stretched too wide and open. Eyes hollow and empty. Grinning skulls superimposed over human features. I blink and they're gone.
Just tired. Just need rest.
Whatever's coming, I'll be ready.