Charles Manson had this thing, creepy crawly, or something. His followers said he’d send them on creepy crawly missions where they’d break into people’s houses while they slept and creep about quietly, going through their possessions, taking some cash maybe some jewelry. But generally the whole point would be that the household wouldn’t awaken and yet they’d know, in the morning, or at some point, that someone had been in their home. Opening drawers and closets. Taking their things. Watching them sleep.
That would have given him the heebie jeebies if he’d known someone had done that to him. But as it stood, it had given him a thrill to creepy crawl her house. Run his finger over the framed family photographs; swap them around. Count the coins in the cookie jar on the kitchen counter. He’d even added to the fund with a five dollar bill. He smirked as he imagined her puzzled reaction.
He didn’t take anything except one thing.
He lay on his bed and stared at it, turning it over and over again in his hands. The next time he went on a creepy crawly mission, he would leave her this thing that he had taken. A photograph. Of her. Asleep.