The Sins We Carry

The Sins We Carry

The air in the hospital room smelled of carbolic acid and menthol, the kind of scent that clings to the walls and seeps into your skin. I sat in the hard wooden chair beside his bed, the legs uneven on the scuffed floorboards. The faint hum of distant voices echoed from the corridor, nurses in starched uniforms bustling about, their shoes tapping like the second hand on a clock. A single kerosene lamp burned low in the corner, casting flickering shadows that danced along the cracked plaster walls.

I glanced at Clinton, my best friend—if I could still call him that. His face was pale, slick with sweat. The deep shadows under his eyes and the thin, papery skin on his cheeks told me his time was running out. The metal rails of the bed creaked slightly as he shifted. There were no heart monitors, no machines to track his breathing. Just the rasp of his tuberculosis infected lungs and the faint ticking of a pocket watch on the bedside table.

“Estella, I can’t take it with me,” Clinton whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the rattle in his chest.

“Take what?” I asked, leaning in, the old wooden chair leaning with me as the floorboards creak.

Clinton’s eyes locked on mine, hollow but fierce, and in that moment, I knew he was about to tell me something that would change everything.

“I killed them,” he said, his voice cracking. “I killed the Moore family… and the Stillinger girls.”

The words didn’t register at first. I stared at him, waiting for some explanation, some punchline. But there was none. Only the sound of the lamp hissing softly in the corner.

“I don’t…” I began, but he cut me off.

“You need to know,” he said, his voice gaining a sudden clarity, as though the confession itself was giving him strength. His eyes burned into mine. “It was June 9th, 1912. I was

seventeen.”

I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. We all knew about The Axe Murders of Villisca, what happened here in Iowa six years ago. The infamous unsolved case. The crisis that drove everyone crazy with apprehension.

“I knew they’d be at the church that night,” he says, his voice cracking but steady enough to pull me into the scene like I’m standing there with him.

The night is still, a faint summer breeze carrying the distant sound of the Presbyterian church bell chiming ten. The Moore family arrives home, their silhouettes flickering in the soft yellow glow of their lamps as they move about the house. Josiah’s deep voice rumbles through the open windows, laughter rising now and again. Sarah hums a lullaby as she ushers the children toward bed—Herman, Katherine, Boyd, and little Paul. Their happiness fills the space like light, spilling over and seeping into the night.

They are a perfect family.

He waits in the shed, crouched low behind the wooden slats. The smell of damp earth clings to him as he grips the axe he found leaning against the wall, its blade rusted and uneven, its wooden handle slick with sweat from his hands.

Their laughter fades, replaced by the quiet sounds of a house settling into slumber. He waits. Every tick of the clock inside feels like a drumbeat in his chest. Midnight passes. Then One.

The yard is silent as he creeps toward the house. The back door is unlocked—it always is. Everyone in town trusts their neighbours. Clinton slips inside, the cool air of the home prickling his skin like needles. Shadows swallow him whole as his steps fall soundlessly on the old wooden floor.

The ticking of the mantel clock grows louder, a relentless pendulum counting down.

He climbs the narrow staircase, each step deliberate, each movement controlled. The door to Josiah and Sarah’s room is slightly ajar. He pushes it open without a sound.

They lie together, peaceful in the lamplight. The axe feels heavy in his hands as he raises it high above Josiah’s head.

The first blow splits the air, a sickening crack that reverberates in his skull. Blood sprays warm and wet, staining the bedsheets, his face and his hands. Sarah’s eyes snap open, confusion morphing into terror.

But she doesn’t scream.

Clinton presses the sheets against her face, muffling her cries before the axe comes down again.

The room is quiet once more

Clinton proceeds to the children’s room.

Herman is first. The boy’s chest rises and falls steadily, unaware of the shadow looming over him. The blade descends with precision, cutting off his breath forever. His warm, thick blood splashes everywhere.

Katherine stirs, but not enough to wake. Boyd and Paul don’t even have the chance to dream again.

Each blow is deliberate. Each breath snuffed out without a sound.

The silence is absolute, pressing against the house like an invisible membrane, heavy and unyielding.

The guest room is last.

Lena and Ina Stillinger lie tangled in their blankets, two children brought here by innocence and chance. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at Lena, her face illuminated by a sliver of moonlight through the window.

But she wakes.

Her eyes meet his, wide and glassy with fear. She opens her mouth to scream, but his hand is faster, clamping her mouth shut. She kicks and struggles, her small hands clawing at his arm, but it’s no use.

The axe rises.

The fight drains from her body as quickly as her blood spills onto the mattress.

Ina Stillinger never gets a chance to stir, her fate tracing the same cruel line as her sister.

The house is still.

Clinton wanders back through the house, the adrenaline fading, leaving only emptiness. The mirrors catch his eye as he passes them; the glass reflecting not just his face, but something else. A bloodied monster. A murderer.

He can’t bear to see it. He grabs a scarf from the dresser drawer and drapes it over the mirror, then another for the glass in the door. The reflections disappear, but the burdensome weight on his chest doesn’t lift.

In the dim kitchen, Clinton’s stomach churned, an insatiable hunger clawing its way to the surface. He tore through the pantry, his hands landing on a four-pound slab of bacon. Leaning heavily against the cold wall, he stared at it, pain in his eyes.

“Maybe this is my purpose,” he muttered, his voice low and distant. “Aimless, like this bacon—just here for no reason at all.”

He sits at the table, his bloodied hands staining the dry crust of the bread as he takes a bite. The taste curdles on his tongue, bitter and wrong, and bile claws its way up his throat. Grimacing, he shoves the plate aside, the half-eaten meal abandoned.

The water basin beckons. Clinton carries it to the counter, watching the crimson swirls spread through the clear liquid as he washes his hands.

When he leaves, the basin remains—a silent witness to what cannot be undone.

Stepping into the cool night air, he feels the absence of the axe in his hands, though its weight lingers in his mind. Above, the sky begins to soften, the faint blush of dawn creeping over the horizon.

The memory shatters, and I’m left staring, my face a mask of shock and fear.

Reality takes over as the overpowering, chemical tang of iodine seeps into my nose, bringing with it the sterile chill of the hospital.

“I watched them bury the Moores,” Clinton says, his voice barely above a whisper now. “And the Stillinger girls. I watched the town mourn, watched them tear themselves apart looking for a culprit. Watched them point fingers, destroy lives.”

His gaze is distant, hollow. “And I just… stayed silent.”

Clinton looks at me now, his eyes glassy and pale, his face thin and gaunt from years of hiding the truth. “For six years, I let them believe it was someone else. But it was me. It was always me.”

The weight of his words fills the room, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.

“But why?” I whisper, the question trembling from my lips.

He gives a weak, bitter laugh. “I still don't know—just like I don't know why I left the bacon there, untouched and innocent.”

Silence falls again, heavier this time. Clinton closes his eyes, his breath rattling in his chest like the ticking of a clock winding down.

And just like that, Clinton breathes his final breath.

I’m still sitting there, staring at the man I thought I knew, the man who is now a stranger—and a monster. The Axe Murderer of Villisca.

-Alyssa Connellan (13 years of age)

-Word Count: (including title) 1435