s*x in death
My fingernails tore as I pried up the loose board.
There, hidden in the dark dust, was a small, leather-bound diary and a dried rose stained with old, brown blood. I opened the first page. The handwriting was mine, but it was frantic, jagged.
"If you are reading this, I am dead again. He doesn't know he's doing it. Look at the mirror in the North Tower. The reflection isn't him. It's—"
The sentence ended in a bloody smear.
Suddenly, a cold hand clapped over my mouth from behind.