The chances of Ms. Sillow’s dupery ever being brought to light were slim to none. Her daughter continued making her routine calls to the cottage month after month and had even mailed an “I Love You” letter to the post office for Presley one day after she just couldn’t get him out of her head. The calls were reluctantly received, and the letter was promptly thrown into the trash. Ms. Sillow was making a mockery of her daughter, whom she had absolutely no regard for; but, the remains of her daughter’s offspring were sacred to her.
Today was a Sunday. Sundays were always the day that Ms. Sillow would pray over Presley’s bones and sprinkle them with incense. Then, she would rearrange the order of his skeleton - switching around his skull with his metatarsals and phalanges, his femurs with his clavicles, and so forth - before placing them back in their respective positions. Her rituals were ones that would be considered taboo in the eyes of a normal individual, but to the delusional self-believing prophetess, they were of great significance. “Under your own guidance and direction you were a confused and lost soul,” Ms. Sillow lamented as she mixed and matched the bones. As she placed them back in order: “With my help, I have allowed you to find your way, placing you on a straight and narrow path.”
Many more months rolled on by, and before long, the eighth anniversary of Presley’s death was just one month away. With so much time having gone by since his death, it appeared as though Ms. Sillow had gotten away scot-free with murder.