The Devil Wears Thrift

It was past midnight when I heard the faint creak of a door downstairs. My heart skipped, but I brushed it off as the wind, dragging my blanket closer. The quiet hum of the fridge sounded louder than usual, and the shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls.

I sat up. Something wasn’t right.

A soft rustling echoed through the hallway, followed by heavy steps. My beat quickened. Slowly, I crept out of bed, tiptoeing toward the door. That’s when I saw him — tall, looming, holding a shiny blade in his hand. His eyes locked with mine, cold and depressed.

I screamed, but no one was there to hear me. He lunged. The pain was sharp, diving through my chest, and then — nothing. Silence.

When they found my body the next morning, they noticed a piece of cloth caught in the window frame — a sleeve torn from a shirt. It smelled faintly of old fabric, like something thrifted. A clue that whispered of its owner, a killer who didn’t just take lives but left behind the stench of death in secondhand attire.

The devil wears thrifts. And now, he’s out there looking for more.