Raw Bones and Torn Flesh

"Did you hear what happened to poor Alice on Croddy Road?" The older woman squealed, as if it were some exciting thing to happen in their little sleepy town of Faith.

"No, what happened?" The younger woman squealed back, making the otherwise quiet storefront a type of bad opera.

"She was murdered, cold blooded right there in her own home!"

"You don't say??? How did it happen?" The younger woman asked.

"Well, they found her mutilated, bones torn from her skin, bashed in the head with her own lamp is how they said she died." The older woman had finally picked something out, a large candle with hand painted designs, in the shape of flowers. Nonetheless, that didn't stop her from continuing to gossip, even if it wasn't appropriate, and the young lady followed.

"What a shame, what a shame. Do they know who did it?" The younger lady asked once more.

"No, but I bet you it was that old chap down on the outskirts, he really has that ruggish look about him doesn't he? Quiet, and always walking around in old clothes."

Margery rang the old lady up, praying to whatever gods were up there that the old woman would leave, and never, ever, return. The old lady left, continuing her conversation with the younger woman about the newest murder, leaving Margery in the empty store. Thank god for that.

Margery never did like anything to do with blood, or killers. She never felt safe enough at night as it was, she didn't need to hear about poor Alice's bones being torn from her flesh. Margery decided it would be best to lock up for the day, she couldn't take the idea of potential customers coming in and talking about raw bones, and torn flesh. She got up, locking the door, and turning the open sign to closed. She began to scratch at her arms through her dress. She left through the back, first peering around the street corner for the fisherman, still scratching her arms occasionally.

Margery continued to scan the streets, before her feet finally hit the cobblestone. Her eyes continued to dart from person to person. Anyone could be the killer, anyone could. Perhaps that man there, or that lady holding the baby. None of them seemed as familiar as she once knew, even if they were people she had seen every day. Mrs. Cloakston with her newborn, or that regular, Mr. Hewitt, that always bought the hand painted candles in bulk. They were no longer people she once knew, but people who could hurt her. People who wanted to tear her limb from limb just for the fun of it. That didn't sit well with Margery, not at all.

Before she knew it, she had finally made it home, fumbling with the key in the lock. Before she could enter, she felt eyes on her. Somewhere, anywhere.

Where? Margery spun around sharply, her eyes once again scanning the familiar cobblestone streets. She saw nothing, yet she felt two eyes peering at her from each side. They were going to see her unlock the door. They would know where she lived, she thought. Stepping away from the door, she decided to go from the back. Her little cottage had that lovely backyard with a lovely array of organized beauty. Just like her. She slowly stepped to her backyard, listening for footsteps to match the eyes that she could still feel on her back, as if she were a specimen of some sort to a scientist with a skin fetish.

Margery entered the backyard from her gate, finding peace the moment she stepped foot onto her back lawn. The eyes would not follow her here, no. The town's gossip and the idea that Margery was being watched melted away as she smelled the heather, jasmine and roses that she took care of, almost devotedly. She entered the back door, slipping off her shoes, and looking around her quaint little abode. What if those pairs of eyes had watched her from inside the home? No, no. That wouldn't do.

Putting on a brave face, at least, one Margery thought was brave enough, she marched to the windows, looking for signs of an intruder, for her silk curtains touched by rancid hands, rancid hands that were not her own. How could she touch curtains that were touched by someone who did nothing but murder? That would not do. Not do at all. Putting on a brave face, or as brave as she could muster, Margery slowly made her way to the windows, her frail and worn hands trembling, she touched the edges of the curtains, trying hard to leave potential disturbances on her curtains, well, undisturbed.

As Margery continued fiddling with the curtains, footsteps slowly began to descend the stairs. Soft thud by soft thud. How long had this been going on? The rumor of a serial killer had started only two days ago, if she could really remember. How long would they have to have watched her, for them to know she would go for the curtains? How long had this been going on?? The footsteps finally descended to the floor, stopping right where they were. Margery was frozen. Her perspective was barely enough to see the figure out of the corner of her eye...A shadow, almost. A blob, a dark figure standing almost six feet tall.