THE MURDERER

POV- MIA CARTER

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Six Weeks Later

The courtroom was cold.

Not from the air.

Not from the marble floors or high ceilings.

It was cold because of how they looked at me.

Like I wasn’t human anymore.

Like I was a monster dressed in flesh.

A liar. A manipulator. A murderer.

No one met my eyes.

Not the judge.

Not the jury.

Not even my lawyer.

The prosecutor’s voice sliced through the silence with surgical cruelty.

> “Three dead. One survivor. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of this so-called ‘game.’ Only her fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

He held up the photos, one after the other, like trophies:

Claire’s pale, lifeless face—her eyes open, staring at something she never got to understand.

Jason—face-down, blood pooled beneath him, his jaw broken like he’d died mid-scream.

Ethan—rage frozen on his face, the mirror shards still embedded in his throat.

I flinched.

Not from the images.

From the silence.

No one gasped.

No one cried.

They just stared at me.

Like I had done it.

Like I had wanted it.

I stood up—screamed over the silence.

> “It wasn’t me! It was the house! It made us play!”

But they only leaned back further.

I could feel them recoiling.

The jury—like I had spat blood at their feet.

> “The hallway moved! The messages—on mirrors, on walls—Claire was punished! Jason—he died because of GREED! Ethan—he tried to kill me!”

My voice cracked.

My lips bled from how hard I bit them.

My hands trembled, bound by cold cuffs.

> “Lillian made the game! The HOUSE made the rules! It chose us! I didn’t want to play—”

I choked.

No one believed me.

The prosecutor leaned in.

> “She claims the house chose them. That the building had consciousness. That it made them commit murder. There is no proof. There is no Lillian. There is only her.”

They said I showed no remorse.

That I cried at the wrong times.

That I smiled once—briefly—when the fire alarm rang and reminded me of the chalkboard bell.

They said I was erratic.

That my stories changed too often.

That grief had twisted into guilt.

That guilt had festered into delusion.

Verdict: Guilty.

Murder in the first degree.

Three counts.

No possibility of parole.

They didn’t sentence me to death.

Not yet.

But the world outside already had.

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Transport Van – Two Days Later

Strangers lined the street as the van passed through.

Some threw garbage.

Others shouted through megaphones and cursed my name.

One held a sign in dripping red paint:

> “HANG HER LIKE SHE HUNG HER FRIENDS.”

Online, I was a legend.

A cautionary tale.

A monster wrapped in teen skin.

The Hanging Game Killer.

They called me clever.

They called me cruel.

They made memes with my mugshot and chalkboard quotes.

And when I closed my eyes at night…

I could still hear the attic.

The swaying ropes.

The whispers behind the walls.

Claire.

Jason.

Ethan.

Calling my name.

> “You survived. But not for long.”

# To be continued

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