You know she killed them.

She killed them all.

Yet, she denied it — and you were the one who was deemed wrong and eventually slammed into a mental institute, Wenda claiming that she “didn’t know what you were on about at all”.

You saw it, though. You saw how she hung, stabbed, shot and slaughtered all of them, with you managing to get away in time.

You never thought you’d see her again until the officer on patrol came into your room and told you you had a visitor; someone you’d know very well.

It was Wenda.

Soon enough, you had been taken into a different room reserved for members of the institute to talk with their guests, a bleak, white room with a one-way glass window installed on one wall where workers supervised the conversation, furnished with two chairs and a table in the middle of it; Wenda was sitting on a chair across from you on this table, grinning her awful, malicious grin.

She didn’t talk yet — seeming content with simply staring at you for the time being.