 My mouth was covered by my older brother's hand, shallow, panicked breaths escaping between the sweat between the cracks of his fingers. Both of us whimpering underneath our house in the crawl space. Our sweat glands and fan-shot t-shirts covered in spiderwebs, dirt, and blood. I'm crying underneath his hand. I know I'm crying inside the cusp of his grip as he holds me close. The sound of his footsteps grow louder above us. He's inside. He's right above us. I think to myself, squeezing hold of my brother's arm with my bloodied hands. I look to him, in the darkness all I can see is the green in his eye when the moonlight skims past between dark clouds creeping through the cracks of the grating and reflecting off his iris. My heart sank into my stomach when the sounds of tapping happened directly above us. We could hear his soft snicker like some sort of personal, deranged victory. I wake up, clammy hands in a heartbeat racing as if to escape a now fading memory as I sit upright in this bed. I feel cold, alone. I'm still there. I'm stuck in that moment. When the officers found the scene of the crime, they asked me how it all happened. In truth, I barely remember them arriving. Between the shock and the blood loss, the memory comes faded, the word said inaudible. It was nearly seven months ago I had that encounter with the serial killer, which has since put me in protective custody and moved me far from my home of London, Ontario. Each day, I wake up at nearly five in the afternoon since now I won't sleep till my eyes cave from exhaustion around eight in the morning. What the documentaries rarely tell you, what survivors seem to never say, is that when you live through the horror, the hell of the encounter with the serial killer, they never tell you how regardless of whether you live or die, you still become theirs. They still own your thoughts, even just for a fleeting moment or throughout the night, such as myself. The perversion on some is the belief of collection of their victims to own them, control them, to have them, a sycophant to their own murderous self-believed desire and impulse. This is my story of what happened on July 15, 2015. It was no secret that a serial killer called the Dollhouse Murderer had been active in the news. He traveled between London and Strathroy, murdering random victims, never an age, gender, place of employment, hair color that he sought after in his trail of slangs. The only factor was the area, Middlesex County to Strathroy, but that is far from an easy net to cover. His only pattern, his gruesome pattern that he would leave behind, was a Dollhouse. He would take a body part or hair, fingernails, eyelashes, some gruesome piece of a person he would collect, and when you open the Dollhouse, you'd find a porcelain copy of whatever he took. That was his calling card. When my mom heard the news, she took us out of London into our cottage in Hanover, a slowly growing town with a beautiful landscape and a river that ran up to our little run down cottage house. That was our true home. It wasn't a rich person cottage with lighting, electricity, and fresh paint. It was a simple woodhouse, cedar wood finish that was slowly wearing off. Still, it was our home, our escape. Our father was still in London, he unfortunately did not receive his vacation time from his job at the Honda plant. So mom, my brother Andy and I and Sarah made our way to the cottage. The day was beautiful, a hot sunny day. Mom was out for a stroll, soaking her feet in the river, basking in the sun, while Andy and I were already at war with each other on who got the unicorn floaty. I did, by the way. Andy was just starting his apprenticeship in plumbing, I was just entering my first year of high school. As a gift for me, Andy bought me some of his colleges sweatpants and shirts which were roughly three sizes too big, but they were perfect pajamas. Mom just loved that her two babies were wearing matching clothes. She constantly teased us about it. We started a fire when the cold air began to come through and the sun began to fade down. Mom fired up the barbecue and made us some amazing ribs in a honey barbecue sauce, along with fried taters and an absurd and frankly unnecessary amount of onions. I love her so much. We sat at the fire, naturally making fun of dad. The smell of the wood burning, mom and Andy drinking moose head, one tall boy after another, the crackling and hissing the firewood bellow. Then we threw pine needles into the flame because mom wanted natures for breeze. When the moon began to settle in and the sky beamed with stars, we watched the fireflies flicker and do their illuminated dance in the starry night. I love this place so much, the koi wolves howling in the distance and the wind wrestling between the trees in the twilight of this natural harmony. We stayed by the fire for another hour before we heard the sound of a yelp from the distance. The koi wolves were done singing, now the harmony had stopped and what was likely a fight over their dinner had started. I quickly dozed off on the couch while my mom and Andy took to their own rooms after a heated game of exploding kittens. I remember sleeping so peacefully until I heard what would change me for the rest of my life. No, no, no, no. My mom shrieked from the door window locking it quickly. Mom? Andy asked, scratching his tiresome eyes. What's wrong? Mom was shaking so bad I'd never seen her scared before. Now I was nearly crying as I watched the tears forming in her eyes. I could see her chest moving in and out. She was trying to control her breathing. I looked up from the couch and I could barely make out the fireplace, a few embers still clinging to life. The wind would catch the embers. The flame would give off a bright enough glow for a fleeting moment that I could see it. An unopened dollhouse sat outside. A knock came from the sliding door behind us. His face pale, clear blue eyes that were wide open, pupils wide and dilated. He had this unwelcoming horrid smile. He was wearing a black hoodie and a camo to along with faded dirt covered blue jeans with blood. His face pressed against the window, his smile gazing over us in a putrid perverse manner. He jammed his finger on the glass, pointing at my brother. Then slid his dirty, bloody finger across it, causing it to screech till the tip of his finger was pointed at me. I'm going to collect you, I'm going to collect you, I'm going to collect you. He said so loudly, the glass shook. We all jumped back terrified. He kept muttering that as he walked around the cottage home. First it would be silent, then loud as he would bang his head against the window. Each time he would walk around the house, he became more and more aggressive in his tone. My mom would follow him to each window, never getting too close but her eyes always watching him. Andy and I sat on the couch, shaking out of fear until my mom spoke up. He went back into the bushes. She whispered. She ran to the sliding door, making sure it was locked. She covered the windows with a quilt and then grabbed the both of us and pulled us into her bedroom. Kids, I love you, but this is real, this is happening. We have to stay together and stay alive. Do you understand me? You do whatever I say. Do you understand me? Her voice was shaky, her hands quivered as she held us. We both nodded our heads, softly crying into her arms. Please protect us, please God, I don't want to die. I'm so scared. I said to her, no baby, you aren't going to die. I promise, you're okay, but you need to breathe and be strong. We won't be his statistic, okay? She said to me, kids, lean in close, I need to tell you something. Andy and I huddled around our mom. If he comes in, I need the both of you to get to the crawl space. Your father and I made a trap door in the closet in case we ever got locked out and needed a way in. You stay in the crawl space and leave only when I tell you to. A loud bang came from the sliding door and we all rushed out of mom and dad's room listening to him smash himself against it. Quietly, I tiptoed to the other window. Outside, he had a fire axe buried in the dirt along with a blood soaked rolled up carpet. I put my hands to my mouth. There was no doubt in my mind it was a dead body. It had to be mom. There's an axe in a body. Mom what do we do? I remember whimpering to her mom what do we do what do we do mom. He said mocking me. Just shut up. Andy cried out at him. The sound of footsteps went around the house till a sudden smash came against the old wooden door. The hinge on the inside began to give in. I'm going to collect them Tara. He said he knew my mom's name. Tara, I'll let you live. You can live. Just let me collect them. Sarah, Andy, you don't want your mom to die, do you? Don't you love her? Don't you love her? You know what I'll do? His hand kept smashing against the door. His voice was a calm, disgusting attempt to be soothing, convincing. You can all live. Just need the rest. I just need the rest. I'm so close. I'm so close. You really want to die, Sarah. You want to never see me again. Breathe. See anyone? Anything? Really, Sarah? Are you that greedy, Sarah? You want mom to die, Sarah? Andy pushed himself in front of us. Your piece of shit. You'll kill all of us. You're just a twisted, broken little boy. Did mom and dad not give you a hug, so now you have to kill? Andy was red in the face, screaming at the door. Another loud crash against the door. The wood began to split. All of us were silent. The door was old, wearing down. Hinges rusted and the wood had seen too many winters. The dollhouse murderer made his way back towards the sliding door. Andy walked over to the window I'd been looking out. Glass shattered. The sharp silver of the axe collided onto the right side of Andy's face when he turned back around. He fell to the ground, writhing and screaming in agony, mom. He screamed out to which the killer shouted back, laughing. My mom looked horrified at her baby boy that she'd carried for nine months in her body, raised with his adorable smile, held him when he first scraped a knee and cheered for him when he graduated high school. Her boy that she scolded when he came home high or tried to sneak a girl into his room without proper introduction, Sarah could see in her mom's eyes the heartbreak that her baby boy, my brother now laid in his own blood, rolling around in agony. His right eye gone and his face disfigured. She helped Andy into her room, dousing his wounds with alcohol and bandaging it as best she could. I'll never forget the look on her face, that look of enough. She pointed at the trapdoor to both of us. He's going to come in when I leave you get your butts down there. Sarah, when you see an opportunity, you take my keys and you run to the car and you get out of here as fast as you can. I love you. I love you both. That was the last time I would ever see my mom. She grabbed a knife from the pantry and waited near the door for him to come in. The crawlspace on any normal day would be uncomfortable, spiders, snakes, mice scurrying around. Yet in that moment with my brother, it was our last resort of feeling some form of safe. There was a crash, a scream, and then silence, an unpleasant, harrowing silence. I needed to hear mom's voice, her tapping on the crawlspace door to let us know it's okay. All I could hear was him. You killed her. You killed her, Andy. You killed her, Sarah. I began to sob. He put his hand around my mouth. You know what happens next. The same thing I told you from the start. I cry underneath my brother's hand. Then we hear tapping from above us, then laughter. What I forgot to mention before, my brother's hand was getting colder. His head nodding off. I try to shove him, but he slumps over. The blood on my hands. It was Andy's. The dollhouse killer was back outside. I could hear him grunt and mumble to himself as he stumbled his way up the steps and inside the cottage home, our home. Another tap from above. And then something that leaves goosebumps with me to this day, look behind you, Sarah. He whispered through the cracks of the trap door. I will bury you here, written in dried blood behind me. How could he have had time to do this? How long had he been waiting for? I could feel my heart pounding. Shortness of breath, my chest was heavy. I shook Andy, pleading with him to wake up, begging. But all there was was laughter from above. The crawl space door snapped open, and I left my brother behind as I began crawling to the nearest grate. I looked behind for my brother, but within seconds, the dollhouse murderer was there crawling after me, that grin on his face laughing as he squirmed towards me. I felt him grab my ankle. I kicked as hard as I could. He just laughed and continued after me. I continued to kick and fight him until I was finally free from his grasp. I ripped open the grate. It was already loose, likely where he had snuck in. A blue beam of light came streaking across the midnight sky, sounds of sirens and officers storming out of their cars, pulling me into their vehicle. One ordered another officer to drive, followed by laughter, then the sound of gunshots. The dollhouse murderer was a 50 year old chef at an Italian restaurant. He was a man of zero significance, a man who was despised by his peers at work, verbally violent and unhinged, who would often take days off and extensive holidays to commit his violent acts. The once summer home that my family and I cherished was tainted ground. The detectives were appalled when they arrived on scene to see what the dollhouse murderer was making. Each murder, he took a different trophy, an arm, a leg, a hand. It was always a piece of the human body. He stitched it all together. All he was missing was another green eye and a left leg. He made a dress and turned a pile of victims into a putrid doll. His only reason for stalking each victim was because he was so attracted to certain parts of their bodies that he would hunt them down and kill them to begin his sick creation. Him and I never met. He found my family on social media and stalked us relentlessly. The only reason he followed us so far was to finish his doll. His human victim doll.