A Murder

c.w: gory scenes, disturbing

Authors Note: I tried something new. It's different from what I usually write. I meant for this to be a very short passage. Enjoy. :)

The roads were soaked, with soggy puddles and the blades of thin grass were drenched in water. It was still pouring, however, from noon, and dusk had forged already.

Thunder clapped around the Bringston Village and stringy, thin streaks of lightning whipped the skies. Everyone stayed in, sipping hot cups of cocoa, and staring at the sky, minding their own business.

He'd turned up at dusk, thick-lipped, skinny, with gnarled fingers, an angled chin, but seemingly scathing eyes.

He had balled his fists when the rain had begun to gush again. His pin-striped suit was soaked in water and his leather boots, lined in gloops of mud.

The man removed his bowler hat, eased it within the hems of his coat, and without haste, knocked on a door.

A woman, about in her mid-forties answered it. Her brown hair coiled neatly in curls. She stared haughtily at the stranger before her face channeled in shock and horror. "Uh, hello...? What do you want?"

"What do I want? I want a place to stay." the figure responded, with somewhat an eerie nature.

"Uh, uh. The thing is - we don't have a place for another person to stay - mister. You'll have to go somewhere else." the lady stammered anxiously.

The man glared at her with sharp, gleaming eyes. "One night wouldn't matter, eh?"

The lady shivered in her jumpsuit, and her teeth rattled nervously. "Of course - of course, mister. In you go." she stammered, closing the door behind her.

He sneered and stepped into the house, his lean, shadowed figure disappearing into the sunset.

The two sat in silence, the lady staring at her feet, quivering, and taking quick glances at the stranger in fear.

Finally, he spoke. "Won't you offer me anything?" he demanded, tapping his cane impatiently on the wooden floor.

The woman jumped about a mile high. "Uh, I'm sorry sir - but I'm not allowed - to - to offer anyone - anything, without my husband's permission." she faltered, looking pale and anxious.

The man raised with his cane and thundered it down. "That won't matter anymore, Mrs. Dahlia," he spoke coldly, with an air of mystery.

Ms. Dahlia paled in fright. "How do you - know my - my name?"

The stranger chose to ignore her cry. He stared at the metal-lined window. "I just feel a twinge of pity, Dahlia," he scorned.

"W-why? What's happening? L-listen, mister, I - think you'd better leave. My husband is not home and I-"

Shrill screams echoed through the town, with a forceful cry.

Mrs. Dahlia lay on the wooden floor, near a pool of dark red blood, as it seeped from her chest, into the floor.

The stranger dusted his hands, looked upon her figure, once again, and with a satisfied smile, stalked into the moonlit sky, never to be seen again.