He found his voice.
John Smith was a quiet man. He’d been quiet most of his life, speaking when spoken to and keeping his opinion to himself. He was a teetotaler and a man not given to flights of fancy. I knew him as a good man, and he lived a simple life.
John worked for the town, keeping the streets clean and removing the snow from in front of the train station during the winter months. On any given evening, you could find him in the parlor of the rooming house he lived in, a pipe in his mouth and the Bible on his lap. He could quote any passage he chose, and he could defend it as well, which was more than I could say about those who professed to follow the faith.
He was not a church-going man, preferring to spend his Sunday mornings with a cup of coffee and the aforementioned book. John Smith was a happy, quiet man, and I was always pleased to see him.
Until this morning.
He was found sitting in the center of North Road and Main Street. Around him, placed with their faces turned towards him, were six severed heads, and he was carrying on quite the one-sided conversation. I was coming into town to fetch more coffee when I came upon the scene. Several of the Coffin brothers were gathered ‘round him, keeping a growing crowd of curious boys away.
As I moved forward to speak with him, John saw me and snarled with rage. He sprang forward, knocking aside a pair of the heads, and it took myself and several other men to get a hold of him.
John screamed, informing all who could hear of the obscenities my mother had in store for me. We struggled for nearly five minutes, ending it finally when I managed to punch him hard enough in the temple to render him unconscious.
A short time after he was brought to the town jail, the bodies that the heads belonged to were found. The victims were unknown, their naked, headless bodies propped up in carnal positions upon the stonewall along the Hollow’s edge.
My mother, it appears, is getting creative.
#horror #fear #art