If only someone heard her screams last Halloween, maybe then she’d be alive.
No one heard her. Her cries emptied out into the meadows for hours and still no one heard her. How she arrived at the brick house she didn’t know. It was cold, the windows wide open, like her attacker knew no one would hear her cries for help and wanted to torment her with the knowledge that she was forever doomed. Or maybe he left them open to freeze her blood so that the coroner wouldn’t be able to tell her time of death and therefore may never find her killer. There has to be some justice in this world. It was dark. She heard nothing except her steadily beating heart and her labored breaths. He’d be back any moment, she knew. She needed to find a way out of the brick house. Her wrists were bleeding from the cold metal shackles he strapped on her bare white arms. Was that a piece of bone popping out? She couldn’t care less. Pulling frantically at her restraints managed to just make her bleed more. She needed a miracle. A miracle that would never come.
A few hours later, after fruitless attempts to free herself, she saw his shadowed frame in the door, big and bulky and so so black. His hood was up making it seem as if he had no eyes, no face. A phantom? Maybe. Chills and shivers wracked her body when he came close to her. She was so cold.
A flash of silver and she knew it was over. His knife was sharp and reeked of a thousand kills, probably in this very house. Blood, of what origin she didn’t know, dripped down off the tip of the 9 inch weapon. It was over before it even begun.
Her soul would forever remain apart of the cold brick house. Her killer, there to torment her for the rest of her days, was in fact the reaper of death. Night after night she saw him lure countless woman to the brick house and slay them all the same way. Knife across the throat, through the chest, across the gut. A flash and it was empty again. As if nothing had ever been. The souls of his hundreds of victims strolled the prairie, calling for help which would never come. No one heard their cries when they were alive. Now in death their wails mixed with the wind so that one wouldn’t care enough to turn towards the house. They were trapped forever, slaves to the reaper, in the cold brick house, in the meadow of death.