orley Munson waited all week for a note to arrive or some person to appear at his desk or for another murder to take place. He was anxious and not eating well. He was short with his employees without meaning to be, he was forgetful with his clients and generally in a bad way. This game of ‘cat and mouse’ was taking a toll on his (already fragile) mental state and Morley Munson knew that he couldn’t last much longer.
Morley Munson continued to eat his meals at the diner where the pretty waitress had worked but now he didn’t dare ask any details about her, even when he saw the local detective eating there as well. He knew better than to create any (undue) suspicions around himself—he hadn’t survived as a murderer for this long without picking up
a tip (or two) on how to live a double life.
Morley Munson always wanted to kill when this kind of anxiety began to build up in him. The release of taking someone’s (or something’s) life was intoxicating enough, but there was nothing like it as a way to help alleviate some of the stress in his own life. Morley Munson desperately wanted to kill again and he knew that soon enough he would not be able to control it.
Morley Munson woke to the ringing of his doorbell. He put his (thick) glasses on the end of his nose and stumbled downstairs, tying the belt to his robe around his waist as he shuffled along. Morley Munson opened the door to find a box on the doorstep. He looked around, then crouched down as he tentatively lifted the top off. Inside was a severed human hand. Scrawled on the underside of the lid (in blood) were the words: “NOW IT’S YOUR TURN.”