Today was going to be a fresh start for Nikki Jones. As a just-retired police officer, she was glad that she no longer had to deal with rotting corpses or serial killers. She had just bought a fairly cheap house, with a beautiful seaside view and a backyard pool.

The perfect retirement house. As she started grabbing boxes, another man offered to help her, but she denied the help. “Just put the boxes on the ground and I’ll take them all in.” She said, her voice sounding younger than her 71 years of age. 

“But Ms. Jones . . .” 

“I’m old but I’m not weak. I’ve been working my job longer than you’ve been alive. I may look weak, but don’t even try to underestimate me.” She chuckled as she easily stacked three heavy boxes and carried them all inside.

A few hours later, Nikki had finally carried every single box and every single piece of furniture inside the house. Now she could finally explore. I’ve been so busy with getting everything in that I haven’t even looked around yet. She thought to herself as she went into the attic, soon to be her reading space.

A thin beam of sunlight came into the room, illuminating a small desk in the corner of the room. “If God’s sending me a message, then this is it.” She said to herself as she walked over to the desk, examining it thoroughly.

She fiddled with it for a moment before finding a secret compartment on the bottom part of the desk. As it slid open, a thick leather-bound journal thumped onto the floor, sending dust flying everywhere.

“I might as well take this back downstairs to read . . . that chair sure isn’t comfy looking.” She said as she descended the stairs back down to the first floor.

Nikki fell back onto her sofa, relieved to finally be sitting down. She’d leave the rest of the exploring for later. For now, she just wanted to unravel the mystery about this book.

She popped open a can of soda as she untied the knot around the book, taking a huge swig of the soda. As she opened the journal, the first thing she noticed was how dirty the pages were. The second thing she noticed was almost fifty pages were torn out, causing even more frustration.

“Dear diary, today marks my two-year anniversary of my first kill, Tracy Howards.” She paused. Tracy Howards. Isn’t that the girl that went missing? Did I just find . . . the diary of her killer? She put her thoughts aside and kept reading. “To mark this momentous occasion, today also marks the day of my 25th kill, Patrick Stewart. Of course, with all the others down in the cellar. I found him on a dark street, and lured him back with the promise of a house, and I-” 

She slammed the book down and picked up her phone and immediately called the office she’d just retired from. “I renounce my retirement. I just found the diary of a serial killer. I think the man that sold me the house might have been him. I-” 

The phone went dead. To this day, no one knows where Nikki Jones disappeared to. Only one person does, and he’s still out selling the house to potential victims.