A Paper Cut

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of child death, grief, psychological manipulation, and revenge. It also includes references to corruption, injustice, and emotional trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

Marie,

I’m sorry for what followed you home and what you lost.

– T.

It’s the simple things in life that are the scariest, I say as I place the letter inside the envelope and seal it shut. The creak of a staircase when no one else is home, the flicker of a lightbulb in the corner of a dark room. It’s these moments, the ones that don’t make sense, that send chills down your spine. For all the million-dollar CGI budgets spent on horror films, it’s the cheapest, simplest moments that scare the shit out of us. The unknown truly terrifies us.

When horror has a face, we can deal with it. It might frighten us for a moment, but we can face it because we can see it. We can find its weakness. But what if we can’t see it? What if all we know is a pale hand on a screen, a shadow in the corner, or a few cryptic words on a page?

Yes, the beauty of horror, of true terror, is in its simplicity. You don’t need fancy makeup or latex masks to scare people. You really only need a few well-thought-out words showing up randomly in someone’s mailbox.

Fear doesn’t have a face. It doesn’t need one. It’s the absence, the things left unsaid that make the skin crawl. People come to me when they’ve been wronged—when the law fails them, when they’ve been betrayed by a system that’s too broken to fix itself.

Take the woman who watched her family fall apart because her husband left her for someone younger. He took everything—house, kids, money—and she was left with nothing but a broken heart and a shattered life. The courts gave her no recourse. They gave him a pat on the back, a victory parade, while she faded into obscurity.

Or the politician who killed an entire family after a night of drunken driving. The evidence was clear, but his friends ensured the sentence would be a slap on the wrist: ten hours of community service, a half-hearted apology. He still greets his constituents with a grin as wide as a Mississippi river.

I don’t bring people justice. I can’t. I bring them terror. A fear that lingers in the back of their minds, a fear that haunts them at night, that makes them check the locks, that makes them look over their shoulders when they walk alone. I’m the paper cut that never heals.

Because fear doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t care how much money you have, how many bodyguards or lawyers you’ve got. Fear is the great equalizer. And it doesn’t need a verdict to thrive. All it needs is a few words on a page.

Now, there’s Marie.

The first time I saw her, I was sitting in a corner booth at a restaurant, my hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, barely touching it. I saw her standing there, smiling like she owned the place. She’d just won another case. Another court that bent to her will. Another death left unpunished.

She’d killed nine times. Nine. Nine lives cut short by her careless driving, her indifference to the consequences. But every time, the system let her slip away. Every time, the evidence didn’t matter. A judge, bought and paid for, let her walk. She’d smirk, raise a glass, and laugh with her friends—her wealthy, powerful friends who shielded her from accountability.

I’d watched her from across the room, a cold knot forming in my stomach. I had no real plans to confront her. Not yet. But I admired her audacity. She wasn’t afraid. Not of the law, not of death, not of anything.

But I quickly learned that I’m not in this business for admiration.

I’m in this business because people like Marie need to understand what it feels like to lose everything. To feel helpless, powerless. She needs to feel the terror of knowing she can’t control what’s coming for her. She needs to feel that hollow, creeping sensation that you can’t escape, no matter how hard you try.

Marie is different. Beneath the designer clothes and the ice in her veins, there’s something else. A raw, gaping fear. She doesn’t fear death—she fears losing everything. Her wealth, her status, her grip on the life she’s built. She clings to it like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling into the abyss. But there’s one thing she can’t escape: loneliness.

She’s surrounded by people who protect her, who serve her, but none of them love her. They’re just there to keep her from facing the truth: she’s alone. No one really cares about her. Not the way they care about someone like Olivia.

Olivia. My daughter. My world.

She was twelve when Marie ran her over, in the front yard, during a game of tag. The sound of the impact—like a punch to the gut—still rings in my ears. The neighborhood had been full of life one second, and then… silence. Just me, kneeling by her side, praying for a miracle that never came. My hands were shaking as I held her, as I realized she wasn’t going to make it.

“Dad?” she had whispered, her voice barely audible, her tiny hand squeezing mine.

I should’ve seen her grow up—kiss her first boyfriend, dance at her wedding. I should’ve been there when she needed me the most. But I wasn’t. And now, the world that should have been hers—gone. Snatched away by Marie’s cold indifference. Not because of Marie. Not because of the law. But because of people like her, who always win, no matter how many lives they take.

Marie doesn’t care. She never has. But I’m going to change that.

I don’t want revenge. No, that’s too easy. I want her to feel the slow burn of terror. The kind of fear that slips under your skin and stays there. I want her to look over her shoulder when she walks to her car. I want her to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when the door creaks open at night. I want her to know that there’s no safe place for her.

I’ve spent years perfecting this. I’ve learned how to read people, how to break them down from the inside out. I don’t need to hurt her physically. I just need her to believe that something’s after her. I need her to see the cracks in her perfect life, to hear the whispers in the dark. And that’s where I start: with a letter. A simple letter, slipped under her door, carefully written with my old typewriter.

The key to all this is the typewriter. It’s almost archaic in a world of digital perfection, and that’s what makes it so unsettling. The imperfect letters, the slight smear of ink—it’s not clean. It doesn’t fit into her world, and it makes her question everything.

Marie will get the letter, just like the others. At first, she’ll dismiss it. A joke. A prank. But it won’t stop. The letters will keep coming, each one a little more personal, a little more precise. At first, she’ll laugh them off. Then, she’ll start looking over her shoulder.

And then, she’ll start feeling it. The cold spots in her house. The footsteps behind her when she walks down the hall. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night and feel someone in the room, but when she turns, there’s no one there. The fear will creep in, slow and steady. She’ll question everything. Who knows these things about her? Who’s been watching her?

But it won’t be anyone—except me.

I’ve never needed to hurt her. I don’t need to break her physically. I just need her mind to crack. I need her to question everything she’s ever known. She’ll start to wonder if she’s losing her mind. She’ll start to hear things in the quiet of her mansion, see things in the corners of her eyes. The shadows will blur, and she won’t be sure what’s real anymore.

That’s where the true terror lies. Not in the things you can see, but in the things that are just beyond your reach. And that’s where I live. In the shadows of her mind.

I don’t care if she knows who’s behind it. I don’t care if she ever sees me. I don’t need her to. I just need her to believe in it. In me.

Marie will never escape it. She’ll never know peace again. And I? I’ll be here, watching. Waiting.

Her world, once so perfect, is beginning to crumble. Every letter, every shadow, every unexplainable thing will push her closer to the edge. I’ll make sure of it.

Fear will be her sentence.

And I’ll make sure she serves it.