Mary Had A Little Lamb
The air in the ballroom was thick, not with the scent of expensive perfume, but with the heavy, metallic steam of fresh blood. It pooled across the white marble, turning the floor into a dark, crimson mirror, the silence was absolute, broken only by the wet, rhythmic slap-thud of a body being dragged across the marble.
She walked through the carnage with the grace of a ballerina. Her silk gown trailed behind her, soaking up the red waste of a dozen lives, yet she didn’t seem to notice. A face that looked divine, her chestnut hair fell in soft, perfect waves over her shoulders, framing a face that belonged on a stained-glass window. Her brown eyes weren’t dark with rage; they were bright, clear, and shimmering with a terrifying, innocent joy. She looked like a girl in love, but the “love” was clotted under her fingernails and soaked into the hem of her gown.
In one hand, she held a long, slender blade—a piece of surgical steel that had already tasted the carotid arteries of twenty men. In her other hand, she gripped the hair of a dying guard, his scalp tearing as she hauled his dead weight over the piles of his friends. As she stepped over a pile of bodies near the grand piano, Their throats had been opened with such surgical precision that they looked like they were wearing jagged red necklaces. No struggle, no mess—just the work of a killing machine that understood exactly where the life lived in a human neck.
She was an angel dropped into a slaughterhouse
As she moved, she began to sing, her voice was a crystalline soprano, high and sweet, vibrating through the hollow ribs of the dead.
“Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow. She caught it by its golden throat, And wouldn’t let it go.”
She stopped near the buffet table, where a man was huddled underneath, his sobbing breaths sounding like a broken bellows. She smiled, her dimples deepening. She reached down, not for him, but for a fallen glass of champagne. She took a dainty sip, her eyes never leaving the tablecloth where the man hid.
“It followed her to school one day, To see what it could find. She ripped the tongue from out its head, And left the rest behind.”
She suddenly drove the knife through the tabletop. There was a sickening thunk as the blade buried itself in wood and then soft, yielding flesh. A muffled shriek erupted from below. She twisted the handle with the casual grace of someone stirring tea, listening to the wet grinding of bone.
She pulled the blade out, wiped it on her silk skirt, and continued her walk, her heels clicking in time with the song.
“It made the children scream and cry, To see the lamb so red. For Mary didn’t want a pet, She wanted something dead.”
She reached the grand staircase, she stopped on her tracks head tilted, catching a sound from behind
The final survivor was crawling toward the exit, his legs were useless. She watched him for a moment, her expression one of pure, motherly pity.
“Oh, look at you,” she cooed, her voice like honeyed poison. “You’re leaking, little lamb.”
She ascended the stairs with terrifying speed—a blur of silk and steel. She didn’t just kill him; she disassembled him. With the precision of a master butcher, she opened his throat, her eyes wide and unblinking as the spray painted her face in a mask of crimson freckles. She leaned down, inhaling the iron-scent of his final breath as if it were a rare perfume.
“Why does the lamb love Mary so? The terrified children cry. Because she’ll open up your heart... And watch the fountain fly.”
She stood over the carnage, the song fading into a low, guttural hum. She reached up, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a blood-slicked hand, and looked into a nearby mirror.
She didn’t see a monster. She saw a masterpiece with a smiled, the dimples in her cheeks made her look breathtakingly beautiful.
The sweetness of her humming was cut short by a heavy, metallic boom—the sound of the mansion’s reinforced perimeter doors being breached by a tactical ram.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
These weren’t police sirens and standard procedures. These were heavy, rhythmic combat boots. Private security—or perhaps something darker—armed with suppressed rifles and tactical gear, moving in a tight, professional formation. The beams of their weapon-mounted lights cut through the darkness like laser scalpels, searching for the ghost in the silk dress.
She didn’t panic. Her big, soulful brown eyes widened with a thrill that was almost electric. She didn’t look like a woman fleeing for her life; she looked like a child playing hide-and-seek.
“The wolves are here,” she whispered to the corpses at her feet, her voice a honeyed rasp. “But they don’t know the lamb has teeth.”
She turned, her blood-soaked gown snapping like a whip. She didn’t just run; she moved with a predatory fluidity that defied the heavy silk. She navigated the maze of the mansion with speed, her bare feet silent as they slapped against the gore-streaked floors.
Behind her, the radio chatter of the mercenaries hissed through the halls.
”Target moving toward the East wing! Open fire!”
Bullets tore into the walls right behind her head but she didn’t cry out. She laughed, It was a high sweet sound that made the men freeze for a second. It sounded like a child playing, not a woman who had just ended twenty lives.
She reached the back door and burst out into the cold night air as she turned back once to look at the mansion, her face a mask of porcelain perfection splattered with the lifeblood of her victims. A looked of a breathtaking, like a dark goddess of the hunt, silhouetted against the tactical lights of the men closing in.
The smell of rain and blood followed her. She ran toward the dark road at the edge of the woods, her heart beating fast with excitement. She was almost free. She could see the trees. She could taste the wind.
She stepped out onto the asphalt, her face turned toward the moon, a beautiful smile on her lips. She didn’t even look left or right.
SCREEECCCHHH!!!!
CRASH!!!!
The sound was deafening. The scream of tires was followed by a heavy, violent impact of metal and glass Then, the singing stopped as the woods went quiet.
The only sound left was the rain hitting the road.
