Nicoles Story in chronological order / Nicole’s Story in chronologischer Reihenfolge

15.05.2009 bis 21.03.2010

Nics Story

For all my constant and new readers

Here you can refer to @NicolesStory in chronological order. The Twitter story proceeds since May 15, 2009.

This site will be updated every few weeks, but on @NicolesStory you will continually be able to read the daily plot. Please, read more about me and the origin of the story.

Last: 617 Tweets on Twitter, March 21th 2010

Nicole Rensmann

Still without a title

Raindrops knocking on my window, but there is a strange noise between the ‚knockknockknock‘.

It sounds like metal klicking on glas. I have to write a story for the Fantastic Magazine and the deadline is breathing down my neck like the storm is breathing against the walls.

But …

… Twitter is a terrible diversion. I’m answering here, looking there, tweeting all around. Dammit! Yet, I must write the story.

I listen for the strange noise. The rain is abating, and now I faintly hear glas breaking.

Glass. Broken glass. In my house. The noise has come from the kitchen door below. My study is upstairs in the attic.

I don’t breath, I only listen.Has the storm broken the window of the kitchen door? It’s a door with double glazing. It can’t be the storm, it wasn’t strong enough.Did I just hear a voice? My heart stops beating. For a moment.A burglar. In my house. I don’t have a pistol, only some knives in the kitchen. But how can I get there, if the burglar is downstairs?What does he want? After all, I’m not rich. I have nothing which could be of interest for a burglar. With the exeption of … me?!I can hear the burglar. He tears the drawers open and throws the contents to the floor. With my mental eye I can see broken dishes and cups, buried under forks, spoons and knives. And now I can hear that what I have just “seen” becomes reality.I have to call the police. But I haven´t got a telephone in my study, because it´s ringing always disturbs me too much.Guys? Can you read me here on Twitter? Can you read it? There is a burglar in my house. What can I do? Please help! From @grizzybz: Hmmm. No gun, no phone… assuming u have a computer w/ u, use it 2 IM or Twitter 4 help.. car keys w/ u, set off alarm… To @grizzybz: My car keys are hanging on a key holder below, beside the kitchen, and my car doesn’t have an alarm device anyway.

Of course, I can try to send the police an email, but my house stands on a small patch of forest, far away from any civilization.

The quiet, you know. I love the quiet. The burglar would be here far earlier than the police… Wait a sec.

He’s talking. I can hear him whispering. What does he say? Blood? I haven’t got any blood in my kitchen?! There’s no meat, for I’m a vegetarian. Wait for me. I will go to the door and listen what he is really saying.

I’m back. It isn’t only one burglar! There are two people talking, I heard a deep voice and another, high pitched voice.

They are arguing and commenting on the contents of my cupboards. Then they left the kitchen and entered the living room.

From @grizzybz: if it a vampire… then b thankful as it will bite and U can live 4ever

To @grizzybz Vampires ? You mean It could be vampires ? God, I hope not!

Thanks to all of you following me – it’s good not to be alone.

I will tell you what they say about my living room. Listen:

I heard the high pitched voice say „ugly.“ „Yes, very ugly,“ confirmed the deeper voice.

From @MrsSnaff: that’s what they said? then, perhaps they are indeed vampires.

Ugly? Bullshit. My furnishings coined by my grandma! I love the antique furniture, the smell coming out of the old couch when I throw myself into it. It smells like dust and the past and always tells me a lot of stories. Now it sounds like the’re cutting it open.

To @MrsSnaff Vampires? Yes, you could be right.Then I’m lost. But they haven’t found me yet. I still have a chance.

From @MrsSnaff: but wait, vampires do love old things. maybe they are something else. a reason to be even more afraid?

To @Mrs Snaff: You mean it could be two rampaging elves or troll frogs? Then I really wish they were vampires. I must have an idea. Fast.

From @MrsSnaff: yes and no. it could be anything out of the ordinary. something we are not even familiar yet. no urban legends?

From @MrsSnaff can you think straight… with all that unfamiliar noise that they make, that high pitch voice…?

From @grizzybz I doubt vampires would b cutting open ur couch

From @MrsSnaff …unless… it has something …

To @MrsSnaff @grizzybz You’re really reassuring me

I have to sit down again. My legs have turned to jelly. Now I can hear only whispering, and breaking glass – my showcase with all the rare books! They’re gonna destroy all my valuable old books.

Or steal them. That would at least be better — steal and sell them to collectors. I’m begging you: Please don’t destroy them… But I fear this won’t be my last pleading today…

From @MrsSnaff: Remember you said you didn’t have meat in the kitchen. But does that make your house free of blood?

From @MrsSnaff: book collections are for humans… is that the only thing they’re after in your place? who…. what are they?

From @grizzybz: How could I forget… that Vampires need an invitation in order 2 enter ur home.

(RT@MrsSnaffs thinking about what’s happening inside the house on that small patch of forest far away from any civilization. @NicolesStory)

To @MrsSnaff Okay. I didn’t mention the blood bottles, in the freezer beside the closet in my sleeping room … This was a joke. There IS no blood in my house. Nothing. I know that.

I think it must be ordinary burglars, no trolls, no elves, no vampires. And this belief is horrible. If they found me, they would probably sell me in pieces.

Now they are entering my sleeping room. Are they done in the livingroom yet? I can’t hear any further destruction.

Wait! I will go upstairs. I have to.

I must sneak past the sleeping room and try to get some knives from the kitchen (if I find some) and then … I just have to see.

Please wait for me … if I ever get back.

(@grizzybz With your house in view… my mental mind can work wonders…thanks for the picture)

I’m back.

From @MrsSnaff i wonder what happened while i was gone. did she call for help? did she figure out what/who are those?

I haven’t made it to the kitchen. They are demolishing everything and saying that they’ll kill me when they find me. They haven’t mentioned my name, but as I’m alone around, it should be clear they are talking about me. I am shaking. I’m looking at the window. I know that this would mean my death, but there’s no alternative. Or?

I’m going to barricade the door. But first I have to listen to where they are and what they say now.

This may give me the possibility to find out who they are.

Maybe then I still have the chance to get out of here or fight them.

From @MrsSnaff: but your powers… is it strong as the wind outside?


From @MrsSnaff: now I’m having doubts… do they know you? are you….?

To @MrsSnaff: Please don´t doubt. How can I ever beat them if you don´t have faith in me?

There are only three things I can do: Jumping out of the window, allowing them to kill me — or fighting. What would you do? However, there could be a fourth possibility: Them leaving my home. But do you believe that? Not really. Not really. I mean, I can hear them. They are laughing, even singing now. They must be crazy.

Thank you so much @grizzybz for followfriday. After all, the more people following me, the more likely we’ll find out WHO they are.

From @NilsAJohnsen try to act spooky…!

The rain has stopped a while ago and the calm, which is only been broken by the strangers´ voices, is spooky enough in my opinion.

From @grizzybz: Very spooky indeed! Don’t jump… try to find a safe place to hide and only fight if they find you… what could they want?

From @MrsSnaff: what they want? not the books, not you..? is there something you know? something you did years before? as a kid?

Okay, okay, let me think about this. It’s quite complicated to think when two stories down two strangers are dismembering your furniture and thus seemingly preparing to dismember yourself. To find out what they want, I will have to ask them or wait for things to happen. My History? There is nothing there I would define as mysterious. And the House – why,…

Wait! What are they doing now? It sounds like …

From @grizzybz wake up.. I can’t stand the suspense… hope you didn’t jump. could your house be haunted?

To @grizzybz I´m still here. I will tell you what happened, but let me first get my breath back.

There has been a problem, yes another one, once more. An essential, inevitable problem. I had to go to the bathroom. Badly! And so I went down the small, arduous stairs from the attic. Out of the (still) safe office again. The bathroom is on the first floor, next to the staircase leading upstairs – where THEY are. I crept ahead, tried to avoid any noise, didn’t breath and listened for the strange noises they made which I still couldn’t interpret. My heart was beating fast. Terrible. I could hear them. Their talking and singing. Their voices and noises. Two voices, but so many noises. In the bathroom I discovered my chance. And I could identify the strange noises.

I still don´t know who they are — and I don´t know if the things now lying on my desk really help, but it’s a chance at least. The noises? Bloody hell! They have sex. In my bed! Can you believe that? In my bed! I shudder at the thought. I think I know what you mean. And yes, I have thought about murder. And once more I have thought about calling the police. But there are so many doubts. But … but … but. Of course I can fight, but I guess I can’t be a killer. What the hell?

It seems like they are done. Fine.

“Clean up my bed, bastards! I don’t say please, just do it!“

– Damn, it’s too quiet. Certainly. I´m a faintheart. I’m sitting here, writing to you, and hoping that a hero comes trought the night to rescue me. Or that THEY will go away without finding me. But I guess this won’t happen. They are going upstairs and opening the bathroom door. Now they are exactly beneath my study.

For a moment I feel pure rage. They have destroyed my furniture. They have distracted me from writing my story for the fantastic magazine. AND they have scared me.

I look at my equipment. My really, evil, strange equipment: one box of deodorant spray, a lighter, my razor, a pair of nail scissors, a towel. And a … tooth brush.

So what?

From @MrsSnaff: what equipment is this? why are they destroying the furniture? are they searching for something that might be there?

Do you think there were knives and guns in the bathroom? Not in mine. Well, not yet at least, but should I survive, I’m going to install telephones, alarm devices, and security cameras all over, and I will deposit weapons in each room. Many weapons. Endlessly more weapons. All over my house. You want to know where they are? I can tell you where they are. Soon. They are coming upstairs. Toward me.

From @MrsSnaff: i can´t wait to know who or what these are.

From @MrsSnaff: things are starting to rush in my head. images of what/who these are in your house. gives me goosebumps

You can´t wait? I CAN wait. I´m a faintheart. Have I said that yet? Yes, I think I have. Well, it´s true: I´m a faintheart.

Eighteen steps.

From @MrsSnaff: you did. so please be strong. we need to know them. fight them.

From MrsSnaff: Eighteen steps. 18 steps to where?

From MrsSnaff: Eighteen steps. i hope not to hell.

Eighteen steps toward to me.

From @grizzybz: quick hide… i’m frightened 4 u RT @NicolesStory Eighteen steps.

The eleventh step creaks when you go too far to the left. And yes, they do go too far left.

Fingernails scratch over the raw stone wall which parts me from them. I can hear it. Fingernails — or some other pointed thing. They are coming.

The tenth step

I look at my equipment. And for a moment I have to suppress laughter. Am I going insane?

The ninth step

From @Mrs Snafff: Am I going insane?…. this is bad.

From @MrsSnaff: The ninth step to the ladder of insanity?

No more result since you started searching. Refresh to see them.

Perhaps I could pretend not to see them when they enter my room.

The eighth step

Or I could hide under my desk, armed with a tooth-brush.

The seventh step

At least I’d die with clean teeth that way.

The sixth step

They are climbing one step after the other. Careful, as if fearing the stairs could crack.

The fifth step

Or can they possibly fear me?

The fourth step

Soon they will be here. I think it’s time to say good-bye.

Thirdth step

Tweeting with you was great. Meeting you was fantastic. Thank you for staying here with me.

Second step.

But it won’t safe my live. If …

The last step

… the burglars, whoever they are, are now going to enter my life.

I hear their breathing. I don´t look at them. They are standing in my study which has no door I could have been able to barricade. I look at my keyboard and try to write as long as possible. As long as I’m allowed to. I know you want to know who they are. But I fear to look them in the eyes.

No! Please, don’t write me off yet!

They don’t say anything, but they are coming near me. I can hear their steps. My equipment — Deodorant spray and a lighter? Yes. That could actually work! But I must face them in order to do it. Yes. I’ll have to do it! I want to do it!


A few days later


Is anybody there? It was horrible. And it was strange, stranger than everything that has happened before. I will tell you what happend. But first I have to say: @grizzybz @MrsSnaff @KingdomSearch – you are the best!

I’m living. I’m here! Yes. You haven´t believed in me, right?

I grabbed the spray and lighter, bit down on my lips so that I tasted blood in my mouth, and closed my eyes. My heart pumped painfully against my rips, my blood rushed in my ears – way too loud. I was driven by my own fear – my fear and my will to live. Their presence forced me to jump up from my chair. At the same time I pushed the buttons of both the deodorant spray and the lighter and moved the flame into the sweetly rose-smelling spray jet.I screamed as I sprayed a tongue of fire over my desk. A smell of roses and burning paper hit my nose. I opened my eyes, and my scream ebbed away to a small rasping sound as I saw that I had torched the upper books of my reading stack.

I threw them to the floor and stamped out the flames. Then I looked up and got the feeling of becoming a small bird who got lost in a strange room.

I stood here — here where I sat down to write you. I stood here in my study where I spend a huge amount of my time, and which is only scarcely furnished in order not to distract me from work. The rain resumed and drummed against the window as if to taunt me.

There, where THEY had been standing… was nothing.

From @MrsSnaff: did you see them yet? what do they look like? Where are they? don´t look around …look inside you.

No, I haven´t seen them, so I can´t tell you what they look like. When I looked up there was nobody.

But I can still hear them.

I sat here a long time and thought about all that has happend. They are talking, they are laughing and throwing things to the floor.

And I’m sure that I had heard them, as if they had been standing in front of me, but still — I could not see them. Now I will go upstairs, I will find them, and I will know who they are. And I will ask them why they are putting my home into chaos.

An Exorcist? You think I need an exorcist — or my house? I can´t believe either one, to be honest.

I’m now writing via my iphone. This way I can talk to you when I go upstairs and look for them. They are talking about… the wheather? They are talking about some move. Weird! The Police will need way too long to get here. And meanwhile, I dont believe they could help me anyway … not anymore. Who CAN I call? Ghostbusters? If THEY don’t exist …

I’m here again. I’m okay. I sneak upstairs and listen to their strange

discussion. Writing on this device is complicated. Now they’re again talking

about killing somebody. Talking about „him”. I don’t know if it’s me they’re

thinking of.

But never mind! I must find out what’s really happening here.

Because something IS wrong here! VERY wrong. And I decline to fear mere voices.

I have no fear. No. I have no fear!

Thunder makes the window panes tremble… and so do I. A flash of lightning just illuminated the floor below. But no one is in sight. THEY are still talking. How is it possible that two guys are unswervingly talking about such irrelevant stuff as the weather, moving, clothes and then again and again about how to kill HIM? Whoever HE is anyway. Whoever THEY are, for that matter.

Rain is starting again and this soundscape is swallowing each of THEIR words. I resume walking further. I shudder at every thunderclap and then wait for the following lightning to spy into the next dark corner.

From @KingdomSearch: Hey, when they keep talking about killing HIM, I guess you’re safe at least. Your avatar looks quite feminine, after all.

Damn, I forgot! It’s not that way. This is only a feminine pen name of mine. I never intended to reveal it, but then… I never intended writing to stay alive.

You can me call Nic.

But let’s not talk about me, let’s talk about them. Because right now THEY are in the Kitchen again. And I’m lurking only one step away from the kitchen door.

From @MrsSnaff be very quiet … they might hear your breathing!

From @MrsSnaff they are probably hungry… will they eat regular food or they are looking for something else not food?

To @MrsSnaff My kitchen is a big, warm room with a fireplace.

Sometimes I take my notebook, sit near the fire and write. I doubt if THEY’re eating. And yes, I will be very quiet. Because I intend to give them a surprise. A very big surprise. And my only weapon will be… me.

From @MrsSnaff: but who knows… your only weapon might be

From @NilsAJohnsen: do you have a wooden leg? made of real hard wood? more than enough.

A wooden leg? That wouldn’t be bad. But I now have an idea who THEY could be. And I have a clue that neither of the deodorant spray, the lighter, the razor, the scissors, the towel, and the tooth brush would be of much help. And in that case, a wooden leg wouldn’t work either.

Okay. Its time now to see who – or what – they are. I’m going the last step … Now.

I’m looking into the kitchen, I hear their voices and the sound of cutting a hard crust of bread. I hear their laughing, and the running faucet. I hear that all … but I cannot see anyone!

The thunder is raging like before, but at least the rain has abated.

I’m standing here for a long time, listening to their voices and finally understanding more and more of it.

They are a couple – lovers. But HE, the one they intend to murder, doesn’t know that.

From @morgman88 so u cant see them but u can hear them have u been taking lsd or pcp

Hey, this is not a joke. I’m really standing here, hearing them, not seeing them, and they keep talking about this murder. They desolated my house, and yet I can’t see them. Believe me, it would be better to have any drugs, but I haven’t! They say HE’s on a reading tour. So it has to be a writer?! And a famous one, at that. When HE returns, they want to kill…

They want to kill Nic.


But I’m no famous writer, I’m not famous enough to do reading tours through the US or any other country. Plus, I neither have a wife, nor a girlfriend.

From @MrsSnaff: not famous? are you sure? what about in ‚their world‘ – if ever they have one.

I think you could be right. Because…

The woman is talking about how she never had any fun in bed with me anyway. Great. Do women always have to reduce us to sex? She says she had only been fascinated by the stories. And his eyes — MY eyes! But HIS eyes, the ones of her accomplice, would be so much more beautiful and bla-bla-bla. Have I really been appealed by this once? And — when?

A bolt of lightning lets me freeze. The subsequent thunderclap is terribly loud, but I barely register it. I stare at the two people who are shortly illuminated by that flash of light. They are sitting in my kitchen — in my TIDY kitchen. One second later they are gone again, but in return the chaos they have left in my kitchen is back.

From @grizzybz: ur confusing me now… don’t know how long i can hang on…

To @grizzybz: Please, don’t go. This all is confusing me, too.

A further flash of lightning unveils the two people once more. She is pretty. Black hair.

I’m standing here and waiting for another lightning bolt. I want to see more of them. But the storm seems to be diminishing, and their voices with it. I shudder.

The doorbell is ringing. My heart stopped beating for a moment. Who can that be? Has any of you called for help after all?

While I go to the door to see who this might be so late in this strange night, I’m singing — I can sing quite well — Michael Jackson’s Thriller. It’s a long time since I have listened to that song. How on earth have I thought of this now?

The bell is ringing once more before I can open the door. A woman is standing there. Water is dripping from her clothes.

Her hair — black hair — is hanging around and into her face in wet streaks. Nevertheless it’s obvious she’s pretty.

„Sorry, but my car is just broken down, and my cell phone doesn’t operate out here,“ she says. „Could I please call for help from your phone?“

I know her voice.

It’s her. She, who is planning to kill me. She, who will pitch my house into chaos.

She, who is going to betray me… in the future?! I look into her eyes and realize that I don’t hate her. Yes, she is going to kill me. Perhaps. But after all, she has brought me the idea for a fantastic new story, which I will send to the magazine. And I’m sure they’re going to publish it. A story which I intend to give a completely different ending.

Thanks to all of you that you have stayed with me and backed me up. We will meet each others in the future.

The End – Season One

It ´s time to tell you about my wonderful live with Jean. My murder in the future, you know? … Soon!


Hi. It’s me, Nick. Do you remember?

She came into my life just as I had understood that some time in the future a man and a woman will appear in my house who are going to kill me. First I only heard them, but couldn’t see them. I thought it was some burglar who would first damage my house and then kill me. I was scared. So badly scared.

But then I realized a very strange thing was happening. And I went to look for the invisible burglar. My house was in chaos. I saw this, and I kept hearing the voices, but the couple themselves stayed hidden. Only the blizzard raging in this strange night brought light into the mystery… and I saw them, only for a second or two. The woman was pretty. And then the doorbell was ringing. Jean was finally coming into my life. This has been two years ago. And yes, we fell in love with each other. I have never forgotten what happened in that night, but nevertheless I couldn’t believe that it’s her who is going to kill me some day. I don’t WANT to believe this.

Until this morning…

We had breakfast in bed when the phone was ringing. I spilled my coffee as I took the receiver from the night table. It was Donald Mayborn, my literary agent. He was so excited he couldn’t stop laughing, but finally he managed: “Nick, you are in the business!“

I didn’t understand at first, but then he explained: „Your book hit the publishing world like a bomb! They literally fought for the manuscript, but the biggest publisher finally gave an extra bonus. Nick, you are a rich man! You’re famous!“

I was stunned. I thanked Donald, ended the call and told Jean. And all she said was, „Really?“

Do you still remember that Jean, whom I now know for two years, and that strange guy were talking about a famous writer? At the time I couldn’t believe that Jean was going to kill me someday. Because I have never been a famous writer… not until that phone call with Don.

But now I see the future I have seen in the past actually becoming reality. I felt a lump in my throat. At that moment I hated myself for being so frightened. How could I believe that the woman I have loved for two years would possibly try to kill me in some weeks, months, or maybe years?

How COULD I believe it?

That could not be true.

So I replied, „Yes, really.“

But she just stared at the wall as if she sensed some door into another dimension there, utterly silent and with a hollow look I had never before seen on her face.

Oh dear God, can this really be the beginning of my fame, and at the same time the end of my big love… and of my life?

After breakfast Jean drove off to work. I think I haven’t mentioned that she’s a real-estate agent, and she works in the city, which is maybe 50 minutes ride. I have always told her she can work here in my — our — house, but she said she needs an absolute calm and no distraction. Also, she loves singing while on the ride. Yesm she loves to sing, but her singing voice sounds more like fingers scraping over wood. It’s quite terrible, but nevertheless, I love it.

But now it’s time to reflect. It’s important to find out if she is what I thought she is during the last two years. It’s very important for me and my health.

I keep thinking about hiring some private eye, but it seems wrong to me. But as I have heard what I’ve heard two years ago — and you all have been with me at the time — a little bit of distrust can’t be wrong, can it?

There are many things to find out. I would spy on her myslf, but I have to stay here; here in my house to find out what is really going to happen. And of course I have to concentrate on my work. Don, my agent, predicts golden times ahead. Maybe I can avert it somehow. I’m going to be careful at least.

I cannot tweet every day. Please excuse this, but it is utterly important that Jean doesn’t get suspicious. That she doesn’t know what happened two years ago and that I’m suspecting… something which is unspeakable for me. If she came into my study and saw that I wasn’t writing my novel but tweeting instead, I really don’t know what would happen. If she read these words, she would always be a step ahead of me, and that mustn’t happen!

Can you imagine how it feels like to see your greatest fear draw ever closer day after day? Do you realize that I’m going to wager my biggest love to save my life? But if I’m not attentive, I’m gonna lose not only her, but also my life. But what I keep asking myself is: Is my life really more important than my love? I can barely think of something else.

Yesterday we had a wonderful evening. We laughed, drank red wine by candlelight, and discussed our future. Our FUTURE! She spoke of children and of how much she loved me. And this woman is going to kill me? I pushed the thought aside the whole night. Until the private investigator called in the morning.

He told me that Jean goes for a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice in that little coffe shop next to Starbucks every day. And every day she gets visited there by a „big, Caucasian male“ with grey hair. They talk. Nothing else.

He’s going to send me some photos. I don’t know who he can be. Jean has never talked about him. I mean, if…

Oh damn, Jean is just entering the house. I’ll be back ASAP.

Morning everyone. Jean just left the house to drive to work. Yesterday I have asked her how she passes her lunch breaks and she answered that she’s not having breaks at all. She said she’s got too much work to do cause she finally managed to sell the house on Maple Street. It’s one of these old spooky mansions which has been uninhabited for many years. Was it bought by the stranger maybe? But why would Jean meet him every day at the same time then?

I will wait for the postman who’s going to bring me the photos. I have to know how that guy looks like. The postman hasn’t come yesterday. I hope he will today. I’m waiting. I’m feeling ill and a little bit crazy.

I mean, do you understand the cleavage I’m in? I’m spying on my greatest love, I distrust her. I’m not able to write anything because I always think of all that has happened in these last two years — and of what’s happening at the moment.

But wait!

Could this be the solution? If I’m choosing not to end my current novel, I’ll never be a popular writer; and if I’m never going to be famous, Jean is not going to kill me, is she?

I’m desperate.

The postman didn’t come – not today, not yesterday, and not the day before. I have called the private eye, but he doesn’t answer his phone. I have also sent him a short message and hope that he will call me back soon. What in hell is going on here?

I can not reach anyone over telephone, and no-one has visited me.

Okay, this is nothing special taking into account all the mysterious things that happened before, but now I’m seeing strange things everywhere!

So finally I called my agent and – thank God – he talked to me. I was tried to tell him all that happened, but he was so hilarious about the big publishing deal and had further good news for me: He has sold the first foreign rights to a German publisher. This is everything I ever wanted,
and now I can hardly waste a thought on such things.

Dan is a good guy, I think. We have never seen each other, but this is not necessary. He is my personal phone friend. And yes, I trust him. I trust him more than that private eye I hired.

Yesterday I asked him if we could meet.

From @MrsSnaff: Was it bought by the stranger maybe? But why would Jean meet him every day at the same time then?

To @MrsSnaff: I don’t know, but want to find out.

I have to see other people than Jean. I mean, I still love her, whatever happened and whatever is going to happen. But after everything that happened and after all those years I lived in loneliness I have the strong urge to talk with a human being from face to face.

But Dan had no time for me. No time for his great, famous writer. Ha!

Okay, listen. It is time for me to go out. I know this must sound crazy to you, but I have not left my house for three years. Everything I had to get, I got over the internet. And since Jean moved in with me, she has brought everything I needed. But now I simply must meet my investigator. I can’t call him, he hasn’t got in touch, and the photographs haven’t arrived either. But I get uneasy. I have to take steps.

The way into town wasn’t difficult. I was scared — maybe not as scared as two years ago, but still very anxious. Nothing much has changed around here. A few stores have disappeared, some others are new. But apart from that, everything’s quite like I remember it. The traffic is horrible, and there are too many people. I’m scared of diseases and contagion. Yes, I know I’m a hypochondriac, but I don’t want to bore you with my fears.

It’s time to change my life to be able to live.—

I have a car. Yes, I’ve owned it for eight years or so, and at least I managed not to crash it. I found the address of the private eye easily.

Have I told you what his name is? I don’t think so. His name is Abdilahmah Majanowa Herlinewa…

I have no idea where he comes from, but his English was perfect on the phone.

He wasn’t at his office. His mail piled up in front of his door. I stared at it as if the letters could tell me where AMH has disappeared to. They couldn’t. I took them with me nonetheless. Does that make me a thief?

From @MrsSnaff: „Does that make me a thief? “ Errrr… I think … Yes and no, I’m not really sure.

I’m not going to read it though. I’m only going to take a look at the originators.

Now I’m sitting in the café where Jean uses to meet the stranger.

Wait. The attendance is approaching me. I’m going to show her Jeans photo and ask her if she has seen her.

The attendance – a pretty girl by the way – does remember Jean. And she confirmed that Jean meets some guy here every day. She also mentioned another man having asked for her about five days ago.

This could only be my private eye!

Why doesn’t Jean tell me anything of her meetings with the stranger? Who is he? Is he the guy who’s going to kill me in the future?

Now that I’m here in town, I’m going to stay a while. I will just sit here and wait for Jean to arrive. Do I have any other chance to find out who that guy is and why she conceals it from me?

Maybe I should place myself so that she’s not going to see me right away? I’m not feeling good with this, but I’ll move nevertheless. Wait a sec.

Right. Now I’m sitting in a small niche from where I can see the entrance without being exposed to looks myself. I’ve ordered another coffee and a sandwich and am leafing through Abdilahmah Majanowa Herlinewa’s post. What could have possibly happened to him?

From @MrsSnaff what happened to the mals you got? have you looked into it? any useful things?

I’m not interested in the weapon mag. Next is a letter from the bank. Account statements presumably, or some dunning letter, maybe even a credit payment. Nothing I should be interested in.

The second letter is stamped upside-down. Is this a coincidence? The address is written in squiggly longhand with a blue fountain pen. No sender. I’m sniffing the envelope, like you always see in the movies. But it’s got a neutral smell. It seems also private eyes have secrets. I lay the letter aside and look at the third. Looks like an ad.

The blue letter is from a collection agency. I wonder if he had debts. I make a mental note to ask him when – if – he reappears.

The fifth letter is from…


I throw a quick glance at the remaining five letters, but none of them interests me the way Jean’s does.

I’m turning it around in my hands and put it upside-down on the table before me. But the name of the sender remains the same. Now it’s lying there. I’ve just ordered a can of coffee and a glass of water. After the service has gone, I’m going to rip open the letter.

It’s a one-page letter, computer-printed and signed by Jean.

I’m reading…

Sorry, but I can’t write just now. I’ve had a strong drink, and now my hands are shaking. I will tell you what the letter says… soon. I promise.

In the letter, Jean tells him only to contact her in her office, and never at home. She tells him about a man with black hair and green eyes. He is 6-4 tall and has a birthmark on the right side of his neck. She writes that she can’t give him a photo but that she knows many details of his body — for example that he has a tattoo on his left buttock: a red dragon gripping a black snake in its claws. There are some other details in the letter, but I judge them not relevant at the moment. And his name also doesn’t ring a bell: Steven Malory.

Jean instructs the private eye to find this man – her husband.

From @grizzybz: for example that he has a tattoo on his left buttock: • Kinda intimate 4 a dscription if u’ll ask me. They’re lovers?

She has never talked about a husband during the last two years. She has never talked about anyone from her family. I’m such an idiot! Why have I never asked


I wait for her. And while doing that, I’m putting all my older tweets into chronological order. That makes it easier for me to reread what I have told you – and I simply MUST reread what has happened in all these months, over and over. It’s the only way to prevent me from forgetting… and from going crazy.

From @KingdomSearch: Hey Nick @NicolesStory ! That seems like a good idea! Is there any possibilty for you to let us join this chronological list of your tweets?

Yes, sure. Please, look here: ->

From @BlinxB i cant wait to see what will happen next now that we found out Jean has a husband!

To @BlinxB Believe me, me too. I have never thought that my life will change so rapidly.

The attendance asked me if I wanted another drink. But I declined. I have to clear my head for Jean’s arrival. Which can’t be long now. I would have so much time to think about my new novel while waiting, but my thoughts are only with Jean and all these mysterious happenings.

I have googled the name of Jean’s unknown husband. And of course I have found quite a few Steven Malory’s – one with only one „l“ and several more with two of them. One of those even is a private eye. But Jean would know how to spell the name of her husband, wouldn’t she?

My phone’s ringing. Wait a moment…

It was Jean. She asked me why I wasn’t at home. In the last two years she has never come home early. Not once. Today of all days!

Everything I could say to my defense sounded made up to me. I told her that I wanted to go out after all these years in loneliness.

„But you have me,“ she said.

Yes, indeed I do, and it have been two wonderful years we have spent together, but all they resulted in seem to be lies and questions, mysterious men and never heard-of husbands with scary tattoos.

I don’t know if I really ever knew her at all. But then… what could I expect from someone who I knew would plan to kill me someday?

From @BlinxB Be careful! Now Jean has to suspect that you know something isn’t right!

I don’t know where all this is drifting to. But this I know: There’s no way back. I told Jean that I loved her and that I will be back in a few hours.

Damn! I’m a bloody liar! Of course I love her, but it wasn’t the entire truth after all, was it?

But it was her who made a liar of me… her, her husband, and the man with grey hair…

… who is right now coming into the café.

I know it’s him. I know because he just asked the attendance if Jean has left a message for him.

She answered, „No, she hasn’t come here today, but there is a man over there who inquired about you both.“ She points my way.

From @BlinxB well what does the man say?! remeber to be on your guard! good luck! & i’m sorry Jean is such a liar!

He is turning around to me. I see him, but he can’t glimpse me from this perspective. He has to get closer in order to see me.

And he is just doing so.

From MrsSnaff: I m now actually afraid of the things that Jean can possibly do now that we’ve proven her lies.

Me too @Mrs Snaff, me too.

But Jean is my lesser problem at this moment. He, the unknown man who meets Jean every day, is arriving at my table. Now.

From @MrsSnaff Pls be careful as you don’t know what he knows about you.He might even know your weaknesses&how he can put down your strengths.

Don’t worry, I’m very careful. Thanks for your concern – it feels good to know you all somewhere near me.

Listen. I must write slowly.

His hair is carefully combed, his clothes clean and neat, and he addresses me with an Irish accent:

„You have enquired about me and my wife?“

The muscles of my jaws let go and my mouth drops open, making a smacking sound. Gooseflesh covers my arms, and my heart is beating way too loud. My stomach cramps.

This is Jean’s husband, Steven Malory? That means that my investigator has indeed found him. Shit – I have not looked at the date on Jean’s letter. But wait… she said that her husband had green eyes and black hair.

The guy standing before me has grey hair and blue eyes.

He asks me, „What are you doing there?“

„Writing,“ I say, „it’s my job.“

Are you still with me out there? I’m going to shut my laptop now. It’s too dangerous.

He’s gone. We have talked for two hours, talked about Jean. He’s indeed her husband and has showed me some photos of their marriage, and his ring with an engraving of her name. I’ve asked him why they only meet each other for a few hours every day, and he said, “This is very complicated.” I waited some more, but he wouldn’t explain further. Nothing that I hadn’t known yet, that is.

But at last I asked him since when they have been married, and he said, “For two years, three days, one hour and…” He consulted his watch and went on, “twenty-five minutes.”

I can’t leave the café and drive home yet. My hands and knees are shaking too hard.

I guess you’ll want to know what we have been talking about all this time. I’m going to tell you, but let me think this over a moment first.

I’m back at home. Jean is with me — not here in my study, but down in the kitchen, cooking.

She hasn’t questioned me about my excursion to the city. And I haven’t asked her about her two husbands. If she indeed HAS two husbands. In any case, she must have one of them, I think.

He has left a good impression on me. Mark — that’s his name — worries a lot about Jean. He has known that she has a huge problem since they have been married. For as long as I myself have know it, but I have waited for it to manifest itself. And now it’s here at last.

He told me that as soon as she has married someone, she will promptly distance herself from him again.

He hadn’t known that for sure before, had only guessed it. But he loves her and can’t divorce her cause he knows that she has this huge secret, and of course …

… he also knows that he’s not the only man in her life. At the moment he’s glad that she will meet him at all, so that he can take a little influence on her. And thus, he waits.

She has never told him about me, but he’s glad that he has met me. We’ll stay in touch and together will disclose Jean’s secret. But until then, I have to be very careful, don’t you think?

I’m not afraid of Jean.


Her strange and schizophrenic behaviour merely has an attracting effect on me and awakens my protective instinct. But very likely that is exactly what she wants to acchieve in men in the first place.

I have to be careful. Very careful. Stay tuned!

From @MrsSnaff: Awww, you love her, don’t you?

To @Mrs Snaff Yes sure. You can’t cancel love like a pizza order.

I have worked on my novel for the last few days, so I couldn’t tell you more about what happened around here. But an hour ago, Jean suddenly came to me and asked me if I wanted to marry her.

Yes, you have read correctly.

I love her, yes, but I think it’s time to leave her, or would you suggest otherwise?

I mean, she has two husbands, she is very likely going to kill me someday, and now she wants to make me her third husband. The investigator I hired has disappeared, and when I searched for him I discovered that Jean had hired him as well.

That’s all more than crazy, it’s my own little horror show. And I can take it no more!

We have argued the whole night long. She simply can’t understand why I don’t want to marry her. We have talked and cried, shouted at one another and then again kept silent for a long time. In her rage she even hurtled some cups and dishes at the walls.

She’s so sexy when in rage!

But when she said — under so very real tears! — that she wanted to stay with me forever and that she loved me so much, I finally told her everything I know about her. Everything! Do you get what I’m saying?

Oh dear God! How on earth could I do that

Yes, I have done it. She had nothing to say in response. Her mouth simply opened and then shut again, her eyes stared wildly at me. Then she looked around the kitchen as if searching for an escape. I remember my heart breaking at that very moment as I realized that everything I had found out was true. Everything, apart from her love. No, not her love. Only mine.

I told her it would be better to leave me right then. And she went — but only into the kitchen, making herself a sandwich and a Coke. When she had finished both, she went to bed. She said nothing else. Now she’s lying in our bed, and I’m sitting here writing, my mind in chaos.

From @BlinxB: She’s probaly just buying some time so she can make up some sob story! Watch your back, the time could be close now!

To @BlinxB: Yes, I think you’re right, but this doesn’t make me feel better. Not in the least.

I’m gonna call Mark — do you remember? Her husband from the cafe. He has to come and help me now.

RT @BlinxB Does Mark look like the man you saw the night you saw Jean? //RT @MrsSnaff How sure are you Mark will help?

Yes, I’m sure he’ll help me. He’s already on his way.

I hadn’t seen the stranger in that ominous night two years ago, only his silhouette. And although I had heard his voice, I couldn’t say for the life of me if it could have been Mark’s voice. That’s all too far in the past, and so much has happened since.

From @MrsSnaff: People change… So, still, be careful… Be very careful.

Yes, I’m going to be careful.

I have taken preparations. This time, I don’t want to defend myself with a toothbrush, and so I have obtained a gun. It lies in my desk drawer. Somehow, it’s a comforting feeling. Until now, I have never really felt that Jean could be my murderer. I’ve always thought that it was some deception of my brain. But it was real after all, and now the time could actually be here at last.

Oh… the doorbell is ringing. This must be Mark. I’m gonna observe if Jean will open the door and wait for her reaction.

Wait a moment, please!

The first storm of the year is knocking at the windows and makes the woodwork of my house creak.But I don’t let him in. I think I have made a mistake. I should have let in the wind instead of Mark. It’s difficult to understand their whispered voices – Jean’s and Mark’s. But everything I can understand is exactly the same as two years ago. My gun is lying on my knees, and I wonder if I’d be able to shoot at somebody if one of them is my love?

Now it’s beginning to rain.

From @BlinxB: Just do what you have to do to survive!

I look at my calendar. It’s not the same date as when Jean came into my life. Perhaps this is my chance? A new chance to live? I will go into the kitchen and talk to them. Right now. I have to know more about her other husband… and about the fate of Jean’s and my investigator.

I’m completely exhausted. I ran up the stairs, the weapon twitching at my hip. I’m trying to calm down, but my hands are shaking hard.

We didn’t talk for long, didn’t beat around the bush. She knew that I know. He – Mark – knew that I know.

I asked about my investigator. But she didn’t seem surprised in the least when I enquired about his disappearance. Mark was nodding his head as if he also knew exactly what this was all about.

I took them to task. I pressed them… at the point of my pistol.

I didn’t shoot. Have no fear! But at least now I know quite a bit more about Jean and her strange life.

And after she had told me everything about all of her husbands — no, not two, but four of them all in all — she asked me — me of all people! — if I could kill them.

I think I’m on the verge of going insane.

From @MrsSnaff: There is more to know. Not only about Jean… Mark, too…

To @MrsSnaff Wait. Wait. Wait. I will tell you more about Mark … soon. He is not as strange as Jean. Really not.

Mark loves Jean the same as I do. And this is the most normal thing in all of it.

With the difference that he loves her so much that he would do everything for her — and has done everything for her until the very moment he met me in that café.

Yes. He has indeed killed her first two husbands. Her third husband has suddenly vanished, and that’s why she ordered the investigator. But the guy has never answered her letter, she said. And because he also hasn’t reported to me, it seems that he has also disappeared.

2 dead, 2 lost.

Jean, Mark and myself remain, but who is on whose side? I look at my gun. I think I will still need it.

I want to run, but where should I hide? I have to find out what happened to Abdilahmah Majanowa Herlinewa (strange that I should remember THAT name without looking it up), and where Steven Malory lives. And I must help Mark — yes, that is my damned duty, for even when I can save myself from Jean’s delusion, he doesn’t seem able to do so. But CAN I save myself? From Jean?

Life writes the best — and often the maddest — stories.

I must be careful. They come up the stairs!

Quickly something more: If you don’t hear from me again soon, then… yes, I think then I’ll be dead.

Do I know that Mark’s love for Jean is even deeper than my own love for her? Deep enough so that he’d kill again to get rid of a problem? To get rid of a confidant? An enemy? Me?

But I do hope that I can find out why Jean had all her husbands murdered. And I hope I will be able to tell you about this. Soon. But for now, just let me say this: Thank you for being there… and for listening to me!

One day I’m going to write a novel about all this. And then, one day I hope that I will forget all of this. One day it’s gonna be time to start over. But today there is nothing left I can do… for me.

I have called the police. They will arrive in half an hour or so — the way is quite long, but it isn’t so urgent. I am tired. But I’m alive. Yes.

But what is life gonna be in contemplation of being murdered some day?

What is life gonna be, knowing that everything could have gone completely different — if I hadn’t opened the door two years ago and thus never would have got to know Jean. My life would be many happy days worse off, surely. But what now? What is life gonna be, in the knowledge of having murdered someone?

I’m hearing the sirens. The police will be here soon. I have to say good-bye. I’m sure you will have many further unanswered questions. I know. There is still the issue of the missing investigator and Steve Malory — Jean’s seemingly still alive husband. And there’s me.

But now there’s no more time. Please wait for me to return, in order to clear up this whole case. Together.

The End – Season Two

This is just a fast update in-between while I’m sitting here and waiting for my disciplinary hearing. Days have passed since I called the police, and since I last wrote to you all.

I asked my lawyer’s permission to write these lines from his notebook. But I don’t have enough time to tell you what happened, although I hope that time will come… soon.

Meantime, don’t forget me, okay?

My lawyer was allowed to bring me my notebook so I could continue writing my novel. Ordinarily I’m not allowed to connect with the outside world, but I managed connecting to the Wifi net of the prison secretary.

When you’re under criminals, you get criminal yourself… and inventive.

I hope you’re all well out there. But I know you want to know how I am and what has happened. I know.

I have wondered if I should at all finish my novel which will make my agent rich – and maybe myself, if I should ever get out of here. Or if I should rather write down my own story that you have all witnessed and that is getting stranger and stranger instead of bringing any clarification.

Sorry, but I can’t write every day now. It’s too dangerous. If the guards catch me red-handed, my punishment will be even crueller when they take away my notebook.

Would you kill for love?

Could you kill for love?

There was no time to ask these questions.

I shot both of them.

Yes, it’s true!

Is the reason of importance? Not for me anyway. But I want to tell you. That’s my legacy.

I had to tell it again and again. I kept answering the same questions over and over, but the police didn’t answer my own question: What Jean is really like… or rather, what she WAS like.

But they – the police – gave me no answer. They want to know why I shot them, but that was too difficult to tell. Also too difficult to understand – for me as well.

Cause I realized that Jean and Mark didn’t want to murder me.

They wanted ME to murder them both.

Christmas is coming soon, and I’m sitting here alone. It is so bloody difficult to go online. But for the moment my connection holds. I googled me, read all the newspapers, but it seems no-one has written about the double murder. Have you read about it somewhere? It’s strange. Yes, very strange indeed.

Plus, I’m so tired. It’s terrible in here. I have been thinking about all this, up and down, from left to right, and my head aches from brooding. Answers I found none.

But I guess you want to know why I shot them. Yes, I can understand that. I lost all the words to talk about this special day.

They wanted me to do this, but that was not the reason I murdered them. I only know I did murder them, but I don’t recall how it came to it. I simply can’t remember.

This is all so crazy. Am I crazy?

I tried to go online for days, and now it finally worked. My hearing’s going to be next week, but it doesn’t look too good. My lawyer has found out that my private investigator — you do remember him, right? — is dead. The evidence speaks against me, but I’m sure… no, I know that I haven’t killed him as well. I’m no killer!

The first day of my hearing was terrible, but not more terrible than the time here in jail. They want to foist still more on me… Jean’s ex husbands are all dead. I don’t even know them. But I am supposed to have killed them all. I can’t believe it. This all can’t be true.

Yes, I did kill Jean and Mark, for I had no other choice — I’d be dead myself now. In order to help me, my lawyer tries to find out further information about Jean. But the chances are bad.

I already see myself getting the lethal injection, but until then I want to finish my novel, so that the world may think of me after I’m dead. After all, which writer ever became the protagonist of his own story?

No chance to get out, no chance to find out what really happened. Convicted!

What frustrating end of this — my — story!

It was good to know you have been out there all the time.

God bless!

Nick died on March 19th by a lethal injection. His innocence was never proved.


Voices about the story:

@carocade, 22.07.09 Great story! Can’t wait for the rest of it :) I checked out your website, any plans of translating it to english?

@grizzybz, 23.07.09 Love your story Nicole…always anxious to read every day…thank you!

@MrsSnaff, 23.07.09 thanks!!! the story also triggered some imaginations. i kinda think about what could it come to be after every tweet

@BlinxB, 24.07.09 i luv what u r doing! i luv to read & so far im interested in the story! what a cool idea! :)

@BlinxB, 25.08.09 i really can’t wait to hear what the letter says!

@BlinxB, 27.08.09 i think ur doing a great job! i look forward 2 reading ur tweets each day!

@BlinxB, 27.08.09 i bet! i love to read & was so happy to fine u on here. Its such a unique idea! & very entertaining for us!

@BlinxB, 27.08.09 If u like to read u should #follow @NicolesStory for #FollowFriday im hooked on it

@BlinxB, 27.08.09 @niafabo yeah i really like @NicolesStory, its fun 2 follow.

@BlinxB, 22.09.2009 Oh, i’m so sorry! i know you love her, & i’m sure some part of her loves you too! As much as she is able to that is.

@BlinxB, 22.09.09 Wow! I cant believe you told her everything! I hope ur being careful! Are you ok? Haven’t heard from you in a few days?

@Grizzabela, 22.09.09 Oh No.

@BlinxB Wow! It gets more interesting by the day! I know you love her, but please be careful! There is something „off“ with her!

Read as well: Warum ich diese Geschichte in Englisch schreibe. /Why I’m writing this story in English.


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