I wake up this morning to find an envelope on my windowsill. It is made of black paper with my name written in white. It’s covered with drawings of skulls and bones and headstones. Inside, the letter is simple and written in jagged cursive.
It’s Brian’s handwriting.
I can’t bring myself to open it immediately, so I watch it from my closet while getting dressed. Watch it from my bowl of cereal. The areas between the white become eyes. Black eyes have overtaken my dreams lately.
I turn it over in my hands a couple of times, making fingerprints in the dust left by the windowsill. I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. All my fears come true: on the sheet of paper are the five worst words imaginable, followed by a horrible frowning face.
I know about the videotape.
I reread the line and put it away. The waning sun filters into my room, but instead of warming me, it only serves as a reminder of my brother’s new omnipotence. I close the blinds, shutting out whatever ghoulish world Brian has become a part of.