[ WP ] Back in 4th grade you wrote a short story and as a joke you posted it online . Years go by and when you go to check on your old posting you see that it has started it 's own cult ... .

`` Police discovered the body of one Eleanor Woods outside of her apartment on Fifth early this morning. Although they have declined to make a statement, some sources say the victim suffered multiple wounds to her chest and back. No suspects have been reported, but some are theorizing that this is the work of- 
 
 `` Head on down to Richie's Chevrolet, where we have the best deals on your new wheels- 
 
 `` Snow is blanketing the northeast as we speak. Around 9:30 we're going to be seeing an increase in precipitation, about 3 inches or so-'' 
 
 I sighed, turning off the T.V. The room grew quiet, only the sound of my computer humming in the corner. Outside, snow fell at an alarming rate, threatening to block me into my home for the foreseeable future. Fine by me, really, although I hoped I could find something to entertain myself with soon. 
 
 I got up and moved over to my computer, plopping down in the chair. A dozen tabs sat open, various news and stories open. I closed the news tabs; nothing was going on in this weather. With a yawn, I opened up the first story, quickly scanning the latest chapter. A dozen different identities resided in the character's mind, one sitting in the hotseat at all times. Really good stuff. 
 
 I opened up the next tab, scanning the page. Space cannibals always made for riveting reads, even if no one else believed me when I said so. I finished that tab, moving on to the next, and the next, until I had run out of things to read. Checking the clock, I noticed only an hour or so had passed. I scowled, hitting refresh on the other tabs. Surely these writer's could find time to write if they were snowed in! 
 
 A thought popped into my head, born from my empathetic sensibilities. Instead of forcing them to write for me, I thought about trying to write for them. It's not like I did n't have practice doing it. Well, practice might've been a stretch, since the last time I wrote was practically in grade school. Last time I posted anything online, either. 
 
 I reached into my mind, pulling up the address to the story. Loading the page, I groaned. God, that website design was awful. Green text on a black background, how edgy. I chuckled to myself a bit, realizing my younger version would have probably preferred the term `` sweet''. 
 
 As I read, I walked down memory lane. Frosty the Snowman, turned psycho by all those Christmas jingles. I remembered sitting at the end of my dining room table, my mom proofreading the story. An assignment by my teacher, who saw potential in my writing. Scrolling past the story, I saw a few comments at the bottom. I did n't think this page had a comments section. I was honestly surprised it was still being hosted, really. 
 
 `` Fuck all the commercialism, man. You really get me'' 
 
 `` Everytime I read this, I know that someone else in the world feels the same way'' 
 
 `` Yo, we should meet up'' 
 
 `` Hey, are you gon na ever respond'' 
 
 `` Come on man, I need to see you'' 
 
 `` Hello'' 
 
 `` Hello'' 
 
 `` helllo'' 
 
 The comments devolved into that one word, repeated over and over and over, hundreds of times. I checked the dates. This had been going on for the past decade, only a few months after I first posted the story. All anonymous. The last post, dated back a week ago, only read ``... F'' 
 
 Clearly, this guy had some issues. It was just a dumb story, not a manifesto. If he wanted help, he should have went to a professional, not me. I started to reply, shaping it to be from an outside perspective, when I heard the door open. A chill breeze swept through the room, the papers on my desk fluttering slightly. 
 
 I looked to the door. A man stood on the stoop outside, watching me. His hands were hidden behind his back, but his jacket was clearly coated with dirt and blood. Slowly, as not to provoke him, I slid my hand into my pocket, unlocking my phone. 
 
 `` Who are you?'' I asked. He took a step forward, a wet boot thudding onto my living room floor. With his other foot, he nudged the door shut behind him, his hands slowly coming into a view. A blade, dull and stained. 
 
 `` Frosty,'' was his only reply. 
 
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