It was a random Saturday morning in Spring Falls of North Carolina. Nothing special was happening in my apartment, except for today being the day of the week where reruns of CSI would play all day. Little to say I am really excited. I love CSI, and rewatching my favorite show sounds like the best thing I can do to begin my day of relaxation. Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day, I prepare a bowl of cereal and bring it with me to the couch, binging the show right when I sit down.
           The more episodes I watch, the more into it I get, so my mind is full of possible plot theories of the show with my senses focusing entirely on the screen. As I am thinking about who could’ve been the one to set off the explosion in the CSI lab, faint noises that sound clearer than television audio fill my eardrums. My first instinct is to hit pause on my show so I can hear the sounds better. After a while though, I do not hear any kind of noise again. Shaking my head and believing the sounds were probably in my head or from my neighbors, I press play and continue watching the show.
            “Could it have been someone from the lab they knew personally, or maybe the guy who murdered the woman set the explosion off?” I gasp as I come to a realization that the suspect could be anyone, stopping the episode to collect my mental notes and theories. My thoughts halt once more though as I hear the noises from earlier come back.
             “Is that—“ I strain my ears to hear better, “scratching?”
               I try to follow the noise with my ears, turning my hearing aids up a bit, and my hearing eventually leads me to my front door. Curiosity takes over before logic does, and I swing the door open purely on instinct.
               “Hello?” I call out when I see no one on the other side of the door. What made that sound then?
                I take a glance down and realize there’s a tiny dog sitting at my feet, resembling a Pomeranian but also the characteristics of a Chihuahua. The dog must be mixed; I think people combine the breed names to give them nicknames like  “Pomchi” or “Chimeranian”. Anyway, the dog is incredibly cute but abnormally minuscule, barely reaching my shin. They’re probably all small like that, so I don’t think much of it.
                “You look lost, little one. Any way I can help?” I bend down to check the dog’s tag after I take a quick glance around the hallway to see if anyone is coming. I furrow my eyebrows as I read the tag on the dog’s collar. Luckily, it has a phone number I could reach, but why does it read, “If you find this cat, call this number immediately”? I am confident this animal is a dog, but I can’t help but to check for any catlike features.
                 Chalking it up to a typo on the collar, I decide to usher the dog inside and dial the number that was on the collar. This all brings a bad feeling to my stomach, but I can’t keep this dog. The sudden nausea I felt is probably just regular nerves regarding this whole situation, nothing to really worry about. There’s no way I can keep this dog.
                 Ringing is the only thing I hear for the next couple minutes. I continuously get no answer as I look down to the dog still sitting obediently by the door, staring at me weirdly. The Pomchi never left the spot. Sighing, I fall down on my couch in defeat as the channel changes to the news talking about a mass murderer on the loose. I disregard it since my attention is more so on my current predicament. This is how I’ll be spending my day I guess. Goodbye to relaxation.
                  Several minutes later, I receive a call back from an unknown number. It must finally be the owners! I pick up instantly, without a second thought to how odd this entire ordeal is.
                  “Come to 40 Merrycane Lane.” That’s all I hear before I am met with the tone of the call ending and then silence. What was that? I never heard of a street name like that nor did I ever receive such instructions from a stranger. More importantly though, I have to get this dog out of my apartment; my landlord already scolded me for having a cat once. Pets are not exactly allowed in the building; some people must have special privileges though, considering now. Mulling it over, I don’t know exactly what to do, but I guess there’s only one thing to do. With that in mind, I head towards the door with my car keys and jacket in hand, the dog already sensing we were leaving and waiting for the door to open. I sneak us out as carefully as possible to my car in the parking lot and then drive towards the address (Thank you, GPS).
                   Once I reached the destination, I realize how strange it was that the house seems to be secluded in the country at first but then all of a sudden woods surround the house. Creepy vibe is definitely checked off the “Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Be Doing This” list. I park right in front of a long, brick sidewalk that leads the dog and I to the porch of the house, my foot brushing over a wanted poster of a mass murderer. All I can think about is how weirdly obedient the dog is, but I am glad I would not have a hard time getting the dog to follow and listen. The house is three-stories huge and shaded a pale blue with only two big windows, one upstairs and one downstairs with a tiny window for what I believe is an attic. I try to peak inside nonchalantly once I reach the house, but before I could even move to do so, the door of the house creaks open. This moment is one-hundred percent being added to the list.
                   I go to push the door open and try to call for anyone, but before I could do that too, the door is abruptly swung open. I jump back with a hand on my chest, frightened.
                   “Hi, how are you? I’m so glad you made it!” A middle-aged lady greets me with a way too big smile, staring at me for several seconds before her eyes glaze over to the dog who’s posture changed to a stiffer one. “Oh my goodness, Poochi! I’m so glad to see you again! My baby boy, where have you been?”
                   I am so confused and surprised that I stay frozen in place for a couple seconds before taking a deep breathe to relax the tenseness in my body. Then, yet again, the door is swinging open even wider with another shout of greeting. I jump again, and the rigid feeling my body felt before comes back full speed.
                  “Hi, nice to meet you! I’m Jackle, and this is Puppa!” The middle-aged man shouts with a smile as equally big as the one the woman was wearing. I tilt my head in confusion, still wearing the bewildered expression on my face from the numerous times I was scared today. What kind of names are those? He must have sensed I was pondering about that because then he explains it’s just silly nicknames they were given as kids, and they seemed to stick.
                  “Like the dog’s breed and what the name tag says? Another silly joke?” I question unintentionally hostile. I can’t help but be a bit upset with going through all this trouble. I don’t know why, but I felt like I already had the right to be upset at him in general. “How did your dog even find it’s way to my apartment building? To my apartment?” I put emphasis on apartment because how would the dog make it to the fifth floor and to my hall all on his own, without being caught too?
                   The pair both give me blank stares before bursting into complete, full-bellied  laughter. My guard goes up even higher. What is going on? “Oh that? Just all silly jokes. Poochi’s also a huge wanderer. He’s an outside cat.” They both wink at me, and I’m unsure on whether to spare a fake laugh for my own sake or to brush past the comment. Before I can decide, I am being rushed inside by the man and woman.
                   “Come in, come in! It’s not safe, and we have to thank you for bringing our dog all this way! Thank you so much! I’ll make some tea and maybe some more cookies and—“ I cut the lady off with reassurances, but both of them are so persistent that I let them lead me inside. I totally did not go inside because of the delicious aroma of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies invading my nostrils. Not at all.
                   Two hours later, things were going surprisingly good before they became intensely bad. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know what to do or even how to fix this mess. I shouldn’t have stayed this long. Why did I not decline the offer and leave? I glance to the floor of the basement and quickly look away, on the verge of throwing up my insides and everything I ate. This is not how my Saturday was supposed to go. It was not supposed to end with two bodies laying dead and bloodied on the floor. These people must be murderers. How do I get out of this situation?
                    I back up into the wall and slide down, scurrying away from the dead bodies as far as I can. Tears roll down my face from fear that I might be next and the fact that I’m staring straight into two pairs of dead eyes. The lady fed me cookies and made me some nice peppermint tea, and the man turned out to be quite interesting, telling me about his exciting job as a veterinarian at an animal clinic and their wedding in Hawaii. How could they be murderers? They seemed so nice and charming; now I realize people aren’t always who they seem to be. I keep my breath steady and quiet as I shakily yank my phone out of my coat pocket and dial the emergency number for the police.
                   The police soon come, and I rush up the basement stairs to run out of here as quickly as I can. “Leave!” My brain repeatedly screams at me. I slowly peek my eyes through the cracked open door. Luckily enough, the couple aren’t around, so I take my chance and sprint out the door, towards the officers outside.
                   “Thank goodness you made it! I was—“ I stop at the sight of firearms immediately being pointed at me and shouts telling me to put my hands up. I instinctively raise my hands with widened eyes, and my body freezes once again. I stutter out, “You’ve got the wrong person; the couple that murdered the two people are in there!”
                    “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jacklin and Penny Fackle, along with the ten other people you killed. Put the weapon down, or we will be forced to shoot.” Weapon? I look  down and see a huge, bloodied knife snug in my left hand. Blood drips down my hands and coats my clothes like a second layer. What happened? What did I do? Everything is wrong, so wrong. The officers take my cloudiness and confusion to their advantage and tackle me to the ground..
                     Déjà vu hits me hard as the side of my head makes contact with the earth, and the man handcuffs and reads me my Miranda rights. I cannot believe everything that comes rushing to my mind. It’s like an episode of CSI. Here’s the facts: the dog never existed; I did have a cat when I was younger. Jacklin was my cat’s veterinarian who put my Poochi down. I never had hearing aids; I distinctly remember Penny had a hearing aid though. I hallucinated myself being the victim when I was the murderer. I kidnapped their dog and pretended he came to me as a part of my plan. Everything being strange was my fault. It was all in my head. I made all of this up. All of it. I am the mass murderer who killed the couple and the ten other souls I ripped away from life. I’ll probably do it again once I find a way out of jail. So many people still have to pay for what they did to me, like the Fackles had to. (Not everyone is what they seem.)