When I was in High School I walked by an abandoned playground everyday on the way home. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, but later I found online pictures of the disheveled area in its prime. It had a 40’s science fiction feel to it, its statement piece being a large retro rocket ship, which children used to climb on. I remember thinking how it looked like a real spacecraft had crash landed and was neglected by time. The red chipped paint looked vibrant under the mass of vines that smothered it. The strong rivets that held it to the ground came undone over the years, causing the whole structure to lean at an angle, as if it was going to take off at any second.               

     The ship was surrounded by remnants from an innocent time. A weed infested sandbox, rusted chains hanging from what used to be a swing set, A plastic horse without it’s spring, etcetera.

     None of this is important though. The true focus of this tale is the crumbling brick wall right next to the playground, although I didn’t know it for a while.

     One day I was walking home like usual when something caught my eye. A small piece of bone write paper was sticking out between two lopsided bricks. Curious, I gently pulled out the scrap and unfolded it. Inside lay one word written in lightly smudged pencil led.

"Hi"

     The small message made a smile grow across may face, I wondered who decided to do something so frivolous. Whoever they were, I hoped they put more messages around the neighborhood. I always longed for a mystery to appear into my life, no matter how small. I dug out a red pen from my backpack and replied on the same sheet.

"HI" 

     I then put the paper back in its spot, silently wishing for a pen pal like exchange.
     The next day there was a different paper wedged into the crack. To my surprise there was not only another reply, but a fairly lengthy one at that.

"Question Time!!!!!!!!
Favorite Animal?
Favorite color?
Favorite location in the city?
Your name?"

     I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the notes at this point. The questions were so childish, something kindergarten students would ask each other on the first day of school, yet the hand writing was very neat, and obviously done by someone much older. The writer was probably a somewhat immature high school or middle school student, possibly by someone from my school. I answered the questions, "platypus, dark blue, and this abandoned playground", respectably. My pen wavered over the last question. Was I really so comfortable in telling a complete stranger my real name? Sure, these notes seem innocent enough, but I wasn’t going to spill all my guts yet. I put my name down as Rose, it was a lie.
     The next note gave me a chill all throughout my body as I opened it the next day.

"You know I’m quite hurt by your untrusting nature. Why in the world would you lie to me. Rose? Don’t make me laugh. Only old ladies and British snobs are named that. I’ll call you Red, after the color you write in, and by the same logic you can call me Grey.Red… are you afraid? Because I assure you, if you ever lie to me again… you will be."

     What I should have done was end the conversation there. My correspondent, whoever they were just right out threatened me. Even if there was no real intent behind the words, to indulge the letter writer any further would be too risky for most. Too bad I wasn’t like most people. My Achilles heel is taking risks, the rush of adrenaline I get when knowing something could go incredibly right… or dangerously wrong. What better way to test fate then an intriguing conversation with a mysterious individual via a dead letter drop? I replied

"So Red it is then."

     As I slipped the paper between the bricks, my hands trembling only slightly.
     This daily correspondence continued throughout the year as I tried to figure out who this person I only knew as Grey was. Whenever I tried to ask for Gery’s name, age, or even gender, they would always find a way to slip away from the inquiries, often saying that such things were trivial to our “specific brand of friendship.” Even stranger was how Grey could ask me the same questions, and I would find myself writing down the answers before I even knew it. The discoveries I did make about Grey only drew up more questions. For example, they would jump from being very childish to highly serious and mature throughout the letters. At first I thought I was dealing with two different people, but the hand writing always stayed the same, so multiple personalities then?
     I compiled a list of things I found out about Grey below.

     They had a strong dislike for the American justice system, or at least the police. When I told them that my uncle was a police officer, I received a letter with nothing but outlandish swear words followed by days of silence.

     They have a soft spot for animals. When I offhandedly mentioned my dog one time, Grey enthusiastically asked for a picture, they never made a request for visual contact before or since.

     Grey has an impressive knowledge of mystery Novels, one that even surpasses main. After this came to light, most of our conversations revolved around arguments and discussions about the genre and our favorite stories
         

     After one of these lengthy discussions, I received this note.

"You know Red, if a murder happened in this neighborhood of ours, I’d think you would be the first the crack the case. The idea has been swimming around in my head as of late, so much so that I decided to put my it into motion.
By the way, do you smell that?"

     I took in a small breath of surprise as I did smell something a bit odd. I remembered a trip my family took to Seattle, and the huge fish market they had there. I was only a small girl at the time, but I still recall a large barrel of fish guts, and how terrible it smelled. This smell was a bit like that, but something was different, it was more gamey perhaps? A great wave of fear washed over me as my mind slowly put the pieces together. I followed the dreadful odder into the abandoned playground. I caught sight of the human shaped lump in a pile of dead leaves right under the childish rocket ship. I tried not to cry or gag as I called the police. I failed on both accounts.

     20 minutes later and the playground was roped off with crime scene tape, and I was in the police office’s questioning room with a Styrofoam cup to too-cold too-weak coffee in my hands. The victim’s name was Margret Wheeler, a 16 year old girl from my high school. I didn’t know much about her. She was in my math class, and had a really nice smile and lots of friends. I knew she would be sorely missed.

     Being the one who found her, they questioned me. I said I was walking home and I noticed a really weird smell, so I looked around. That was it. I didn’t say anything about Grey or the letters. I was afraid what they would do to me if I told. Instead of boldly leading the investigation like Grey wanted me to, I went home and lay in bed. It wasn’t even dark yet. This wasn’t what I wanted. Not like this.

Not like this.