Outside the small city of Springfield, Ohio, Ed Stevenson brooded over his old, 1980’s radio set.

The radio blared out a high-pitched, ominous tone. “LOCAL CLARK COUNTY LAW ENFORCEMENT HAS ISSUED A…” , Ed glanced at the crumbling radio set, his eyes shifting across the room. “AN INMATE AT CLARK COUNTY JAIL HAS ESCAPED. CITIZENS ARE WARNED NOT TO INVITE IN VISITORS AND LOCK DOORS. PLEASE NOTIFY POLICE OF ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY.” The monotonous voiced ceased, followed by another few seconds of blaring, which signaled this was an “alert”.

Ed paced the room, burrowing his head in his hands as if in utter disbelief. The prisoner, he thought. He wants me. The old, sagging floor creaked as Ed’s movements quickened, his heart pumping, faster, faster. Now jogging across the bare living space, he moved aside a flowing curtain, translucent against the broken window. The sun neared the horizon, casting a fiery glow over the flat landscape. With nothing but cornfields and a lone broken streetlamp, he could see for miles. Somewhere, out there.

Stepping back now, Ed stood idle in the center of the space, with an expression as vacant as the crumbling room. He’s gone after my family, and now he wants me. His mind shifted uneasily, deciding his next move. His eyes seemed to twitch as he scanned the various assortment of disheveled furniture, scattered across the room. Some chairs and tables, broken cabinets, floorboards that had long since lost their shape, warped out of proportion. His breathing grew heavy, producing small clouds of steam that swirled against the dead air. I haven’t got much time.
Ed moved briskly toward the kitchen, his face dead set on a small cabinet, directly underneath the sink. Moving closer, almost aggressively, he flung open the door, a wobbly hinge clanging to the dusty ground. As the door shifted from side to side, Ed inspected the contents, an intent gaze in his eyes as if he were opening a lost tomb. Grasping the toolbox, he glanced around its contents with intense ferocity. A rusty, yet workable large hammer, and a small collection of nails from machines that had since fallen into disrepair. Quickly, he thought.
The room became a workstation of sorts, as Ed broke and ripped apart the various pieces of furniture. Everything was taken apart, strewn across the floor as if it were a scrapyard. Methodically, Ed started to work, one nail at time, hammering the littered contents of the room onto the broken windows. The room grew dark, with hundreds of scattered rays of light piercing through the musty air. Moving the broken furniture, Ed barricaded the doors, preventing any kind of entrance.
After some time, the supply of nails ceased. His arm fatigued, Ed released the hammer from his tight control, a wave of relief across his body as it crashed onto the ruined floor, bouncing a few times before the room faded into quiet again. A lone chair sat solidly in the space, almost imposingly against the crumbling background. Ed collapsed against the back of it, the floor shrieking as the entire home shifted to one side. A lone ray of light shined through one of the windows, looking directly across the vast plains. The light cut across his face, the small slit only big enough for one eye to fit through, invisible to the outside world. Standing up now, Ed moved, as if in a trance, to the narrow luminescence, his only view of the killer whom awaited him. Nothing, he thought. Why hasn’t he come yet?
As the sun faded into a distant memory, Ed stood solemnly next to the visible frame, waiting. Staring now back across the room, he noticed a glint of reflection on the far wall, unusual against the peeling wallpaper. Moving closer now, a portrait appeared. Ed glanced intently, moving his eyes across the line of broken glass. A woman, two kids, and himself, were blankly staring back at him. It all seemed so long ago. He remembered the warm house, which was once full of joy and happiness. The dream, which had been shattered so long ago by the man after him today. His eyes turned glassy with emotion, a lone tear trailing down his face. Uneasy, Ed collapsed back into the chair, trying to forget the time when his whole life seemed to break apart. Waiting, the room grew colder, the faint ray of light turning into nothingness. Ed sat patiently, listening to the wind, which wafted through the shack of a home. What is taking him so long?
Through the darkness that towered over Ed’s small, shaking body, he could see a pale twinkle of light opposite him, in the thin opening behind the broken window. He cowered, a flood of memories rushing back into him. The picture, the trials, the grief. All of the headlines, the sleepless nights, the confusion, and the protests that tore the town apart. It all seemed a world away, and yet for Ed, was so close and familiar all at once. The sirens blared, a red and blue fireworks show Ed had seen before. Closer, closer.
         His red-stained hands dripped with warm, new blood. The sun cast shining reflections   across the three innocent bodies that lay before him, the reddish liquid still trickling from   their corpses. His hand clenched the new hammer, it’s reflective steel turned to a dark,   deathly hue. In the distance, Ed looked on, a dozen or so police cars whipped through the   asphalt ribbons that cut across the desolate fields. It wasn’t me.
         The sirens roared around the corner, their blue and red flashing lights casting a light show  over the massacre. Their tires still screeching to a halt, an older police officer rushed out of  his car. “My Go---,” the words barely managed to leave his mouth. His skin turned a   whitish-green, pausing for breath against the railing as   he clenched his shirt over his   mouth. “Hands u--!” He demanded in an unintimidating way, his face turning squeamish.
         Ed still held on to the hammer, his face staring somewhere, off in the distance.
         “Hands up!” He yelled again, as a dozen policemen surrounded the bloodied porch,   looking down at their feet. The officer scampered up the steps, his feet dancing as he   moved  around the gruesome scene. “I said, hands up!”
         The hammer bound tightly in Ed’s white knuckles, his body unwilling to react. “It  wasn’t   me,” Ed said plainly. The officer grabbed Ed’s hands, still wet with new blood, forcing   them into the air. The hammer danced above his head, it’s red steel like a prize just waiting   to be grasped.
         “Drop it! Now!” The officer demanded as he looked at Ed, who stood stoically.
         “It wasn’t me,” he moaned, the hammer bouncing in the tense air as his legs weakened, his   knees seeming to buckle under his own guilt. The officer reached for the killing device, his   brow wrinkled with fury. “Please!” He begged. The officer struggled, tearing the hammer   out of Ed’s fleeting grip. “Please, it wasn’t me!” Ed gasped, his lungs failing to fill up with   the oxygen he needed so badly.   
         The hammer danced in the air as it fell, thudding against the cold, still ground. The victims   eyes peering into it as if they were still there.
In a piercing second the lights faded, the sirens seeming to trail off faster than they came. The decrepit shell of a room turned dark once again.
In the small town of Springfield, Ohio, a band of police cars sprinted through the vast plainness that surrounded the town. Their lights cut through the restless night, as their eyes gazed on, following a call from someone a few miles away. Passing by the old Stevenson house, the few who knew the old story shivered at the sight of it. The home had been abandoned for years, but many still knew the timeworn account. The brutal murders, the constant news, the marches and misery that shook the very foundations of the city. The killer was still large at hand.
Ed Stevenson still sat in the dilapidated construct he called home.
         Hiding, he thought. Just hiding.