What?

The knife, being pulled back. The blood, splattering onto the cream carpet. And that damn cat, slinking away into the night…

I blinked several times, as the camera shutters would soon be doing when the investigators came. The scene in front of me was the fourth in a series I, the county sheriff, had seen strung up all over the office. This was the sight of a terrible serial killing. I look down at the mutilated body of a young girl. I squat down, trying to make out identifiable features on her face to tell who she is. The blond hair was anyone’s. The green eyes were not distinguishable. She was pretty, but the kind of pretty anyone can find in Dayton County, Florida. She was just another spray-tan blonde to me. 

However, there was something recognizable about her, and I couldn’t quite place it. Her face was streaked in blood, her white tank top pierced by stab wounds. And yet she was recognizable. Why? Then it clicked, a sound camera shutters would soon be making whenever that forensics team decided to show up. Her necklace. I had seen it in Facebook pictures, and now I remembered. This is the mayor’s daughter. Lorelai, if my memory serves me. 

Oh, God, I think sadly, standing from my crouch to look down on her body. The mayor will be crushed. I look up, glancing around the nicely furnished house that should have been immediately recognizable, for my wife and I had come here several times for dinner. The mayor and his wife aren’t here. Then I notice the drops of blood. A chill dances up my spine. 

Something else is wrong with this scene. I slowly walk out of the cream white living room and pass the wide staircase to cautiously step into the dining room. It’s darker than I remember. I come to the realization that none of the house is lit; there could have been a power surge, as is customary out in the shticks-even the nice ones. 

The dining room is dark, but I can see the familiar figures of Donovan and Beth Crawford, the respectable mayor and mayor’s wife, seated at the table. Dread fills me as I realize I must tell them what I have just walked in to find. I know they will be crushed. I test the light switch and, to my surprise, it works. The dusty crystal chandelier of the dining room is illuminated, and then I cry out in fear. Mayor Donovan and his wife are dead. Very, very dead. 

I feel something sticky and look down at the floor. Blood. The smell should have hit me the second I walked in, but I guess I was too caught up in the suspense of it all. I can barely bring myself to take a step forward, but I must since I am the sheriff of Dayton County. Upon further examination, I see the same pattern of blood painted on Donovan and Beth, indicating that the killer has a pattern. The head, the heart, and the stomach. God, people are sick. 

Horrified, I feel the smell hitting my nose for the first time and begin to see the bodies as fleshy meat. I must leave now. I rush out of the dining room and find the smell has not left my nose. I see the dead girl’s body and back away. I know I can find refuge upstairs. There is no one left here to have been killed, so I can at least escape the staleness of the dead family.

Where is my team? Where is Craig, the deputy sheriff? Floyd, the chief forensics investigator? Tara, Scott, Kylie, any of the detectives? My God, the forensics team? Have they all left me here to take in this horrific portrait of a family by myself? 

Panicked, I want to step outside. However, the sickening feeling that there is a deranged serial killer lurking in these woods terrifies me. I begin to climb the stairs, noting the traces of the family as I ascend. The chip in the wood where their daughter fell and cracked a tooth. The faded shade of pink from when their daughter colored the wall. The well-worn spots in the staircase where Beth’s heels drove into the wooden steps.

I am crushed by this sad scene, but I must trudge on. It’s my job. I make it halfway up when the patter of footsteps freezes my blood. Oh my God. There’s someone else here, I think. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. That’s my heart. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. That’s the rain, I think. Pad-pad. Pad-pad. And that’s the killer. 

Paralyzed, I wait on the stairs when a small black figure flashes across from me. My heart begins to slow; the chills dancing up my spine pirouette and stay still. The silhouette of the Crawfords’ black cat comes into view, even from down here.

“Sabrina,” I say breathlessly. That damn cat is always scaring me.

Feeling apprehensive about the thought of being upstairs all alone, I back down the stairs and feel that odor of meat floating across the room. Anywhere I go down here, the blood will follow.

Where is my team? They should be here by now. I hold myself together and shake away thoughts of a serial killer lurking outside. The woods are thick here, and every neighbor is several acres away. It’s that kind of town that’s the ideal setting for a serial killer. Lucky me, being the Dayton County sheriff and all. 

Gathering courage I don’t possess at the moment, I turn the knob and…it was all a dream! Unfortunately not. It’s raining outside, but the sheets of rain have nothing to hide that the night already doesn’t. Evergreen trees. Lots of them, everywhere. I step out, feeling the cold winter air penetrate my bones. My team is nowhere in sight.

“Craig?” I call out. The rain drowns out any noise.

“Floyd?” I try again. The rain further drowns me out. I am alone, in a house full of dead people. Great.

I step back inside, feeling wet and miserable. My pale face is streaked with misery like the bloodied victims here.

I walk back over to Loralie’s dead body. She was sixteen and somewhat of a slut, as many of the self-obsessed young girls are in this county (hell, this country), but she was young. She would have made a nice trophy wife to one of the trust fund boys over in Highland. But the world will keep churning, like my stomach now with the smell of this blood.

I have to call someone to come secure this scene. I look down and then freeze. There is blood streaked over my khaki brown sherrif’s uniform. Wait. No, I’m wearing a gray shirt and black pants. That’s weird. 

Thud-thud. 

The blood streaked on me is too plentiful. Bending down to examine Lorelai would have possibly dotted my shirt with blood, but this is excess. It is smeared on me, as if dragged down my shirt. 

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

I smell the blood in the air, but then I realize that it’s fresh. It is not as stale as I thought it was. With a shaking hand, I touch what’s left of Lorelai’s high cheekbone and feel she is warm. 

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

I stand, feeling as if I might convulse on the ground. I frantically dig through my pocket and feel something sharp prick my hand. I slowly pull the sharp object out of my pocket and the pain becomes numb when I see it’s a knife. With blood on it. How fresh it smells, too! 

… “What?”