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You've just finished an interview with a famous mystery-murder writer, who claims that they developed their writing from "years of close experience". Only this time, the interview is off the record...and so are you.

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by SkullantacySmith

When the interview ends, I am already feeling uneasy. Readjusting myself continually in the seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, I feel my stomach twist and turn. My emotions churn around, my heart pounding in my chest as sweat trickled down my forehead. For something that was off the record, I really wished that I was recording this entire conversation.

Eileen Jones was famous when it came to murder mysteries. Of course, she had taken inspiration from television shows like Murder She Wrote and stories by Agatha Christie. Alas, no one could compare to the magnificent tales she spun by a thread.

Through her round framed glasses, she seemed to study me, my behaviour, my appearance, my mannerisms. I felt as though I were being analysed by Mrs Jones, her thoughtfulness hiding a devious intent unknown to me. I didn't like that.

"So," I began, thumbing through her book that lay on my lap, flicking through the pages filled with words I had read many times. "It was very nice meeting you. Thank you for speaking with me." I held my hand out for her to shake.

Eyeing it sceptically, her cocoa coloured skin pulling at the edges, crinkling at the edges, she flicked her gaze to me again. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Eileen offered a thin smile. "I do not shake hands. In fact, I dislike touching others. Germs," she clarified, her tone dead-pan as she shrugged.

She made no move to leave where she was seated, threading her spider-like fingers in her lap. Her brown eyes followed me closely, carefully. "Years of experience has taught me many signs, Lauren. You are nervous," she stated, raising an eyebrow at me.

Shivers ran down my spine from the cool chill coming through the open window. The ticking grandfather clock seemed to grow louder with each second until it finally chimed, filling the dead silence within the room that lay between me and Eileen Jones. Midnight. With each bong that shook the room, I felt the uneasiness spike once more.

Did she know?

I nod, wiping my clammy hands upon my jeggings. To think it was only a few hours ago that I was preparing myself to come to the established old mansion of Eileen Jones. Now, it felt like years.

Tapping her fingers against the coffee table beside her mug of herbal tea that had grown cold over the duration of our talk, a thin-lipped smile tugged at her lips. "What do you really do for a living, Lauren?" She asked carefully, eyeing me carefully for a moment. "You are not really a journalist, are you?"

I looked out at the window, watching as the shadows danced by. All I needed was to see the one. Smirking, I reached into my jacket's inner pocket, running my fingers along the weapon inside as I stared at Eileen.

I sighed, running my free hand through the wig that hid my identity. "You're about to find out!"