My memory is actual human garbage. So there are pieces of this that are missing and probably pieces I made up over the years to fill the holes. But know that, much like my favorite movies, it’s based on a true story.
I had a sleepover in 7th grade. There were maybe five or six of us and if you were also a teenage girl (which I’m assuming you were) (I truly don’t think males read this and if so, they are only here to see if I vague blog them), you know what middle school sleepovers were like.
Did we talk about boys? Yes. Did we prank call said boys using a phone that was in the actual shape of a motorcycle? Also yes. Do I now wonder why we had that phone since no one in my family owned a motorcycle? You bet.
But what I remember most, other than taping sleeping girls the floor in my basement and yelling FIRE, is telling them about my creepy neighbor.
He kept to myself. Didn’t have a wife or kids or any family, or even friends. Funny enough he had a motorcycle, but that was really it.
I was truly only going off of the weird vibe I felt about him when I told my friends he buried bodies in his backyard because he was, in fact, a serial killer.
If you know me, or have been following along for a while, you know the house I live in was my great-grandparents’ house. And my parents’ house is right next door. Who lives on the other side of my house, you might be asking yourself? None other than the maybe serial killer.
He goes by a different name now, which is aggressively suspicious, but he still lives alone and recently put a massive camera outside the front of his house that is MOTION SENSORED and ROTATES.
Who’s to stay what he’s really up to inside of that house, but this true crime murderino loves speculating.