To Catch A Killer

Well, this proves it. I'm dead inside.

After the untimely death of my beloved pet hedgehog Hector, named after my late grandfather, I had thought for sure that I would feel... something. My mother had soothingly placed her hand on my shoulder, as the last of the dirt was piled on the tiny, pitiful grave, and said it would be completely acceptable for me to grieve, or cry. I had looked up at her, surprised to see how emotional she was standing beside this tiny graveside. I suppose the name ‘Hector' etched into another gravestone so soon was too much for her.  Even my father had told me it was acceptable to cry, "There is no need to be brave", he had said. But I wasn't trying to be. I just had no tears for the little hedgehog.

I had expected to be so sad.

I had seen how terribly moved Abby from next door had been at the untimely death of her, if I'm being honest, very annoying dog. She had cried for two whole days without end. I had thought she would drown the entire town, or that glaciers must have melted somewhere behind her eyes. Even Paul from across the street had cried when his pet, Thomas MacFish- stupid name for a cat, cat had lept from a tree, managed to somehow get its head stuck in a branch, and accidentally snap its own neck. His tears were the brave kind of tears my father spoke of.

And yet, here I stood, completely unmoved.

But I guess the expectation is always better than reality.

It wasn't until Post Hector that our tiny cul-de-sac gathered a reputation for serial pet "accidents", and with that a local nickname, Haunted Hallows, inspired from our street name: "Hallows Street", a true testament to school-yard creativity.

True suspicion in the form of authorities and parental supervision only came after the unfortunate incident involving Cynthia's bunnies (they're rabbits, not whatever a "bunny" is, or, were rather). They had always been kept securely locked in their pen in her back garden until the rather unpleasant occurrence during which they had been accidentally stomped to death. As much as it is possible to stomp a creature to death (with the exception of insects and hamsters, naturally) and to "accidentally' stomp two rabbits to death is a leap of imagination even the local authorities were unable to make. Thus, local authorities began to ask questions regarding the poisoning of Abby's dog. Hector's apparent hunger strike, which had resulted in his death, was no longer thought to be of his own accord. Even the death of Billi's goldfish (the first death, and originally attributed to old age) was recalled and re-examined. It seemed we had a serial killer in the Hallows. 

In the true tradition of adulthood: the authorities spoke only to our parents, and our parents (having asked the children to go to their rooms) spoke only to each other. There was a serial killer on our streets, killing our pets and no one was talking to us, at least these were the sentiments expressed by Paul as the pet-less children gathered in the cul-de-sac's one vacant lot, or what had now become more like a memorial to the fallen pets; a scene that would have sent shivers down the spine of anyone who had stolen glimpses of Pet Cemetery.

"But it's not a someone- it's a something" this was Abby's valuable contribution to the detective work, "obviously it's a creature from the... the... Underdown dimension." I have always found it a curious feat how information seemed to treacle into her mind, manage to meander slightly off track and then pour back out again. Abby's painful interruptions excluded our Scooby-less gang plotted a course for the woods behind the Hallows. It had been reasoned that of course none of us were capable of these heinous acts, therefore whoever the deplorable culprit was they, for obvious reasons, would be taking refuge in the woods. It seemed we were engaged in detective work driven by cartoonist logic rather than any true-crime documentaries, but my views fell on deaf ears as we headed, with considered determination for the woods.

Another interruption "but there are ghosts there- "

Perhaps, with any luck, the serial killer would move on to more challenging prey before he was caught and I would be spared any more of Abby's helpful input. The woods, the childhood playground for the socially awkward, were not especially difficult to navigate; and despite considerable effort on my part, the Grade A snooping displayed by the Haunted Hallows Pet Detectives eventually lead them to a small abandoned shack.

I had so hoped the lock would discourage them.

It would have, had it not been for that brave boy, with his brave tears. Ignorance, not bravery Dad; ignorance will drive you to break open a locked door and barge into an abandoned shed in the middle of a supposedly haunted wood.

 It is important for you to know that what happened next was not my fault. Half the things in there did not even belong to me; I had only added the pet collars to the collection of mementos already in storage. The photos of the strange dead faced children and the emporium of toys belonged to old Sam from the school; and he said he didn't mind me using the shed to store the odd collectible. And the pets weren't that big of a deal; one could argue I had only done this so I could understand myself... Feel something.

But that dog had been so... annoying.

The brave ignorant boy did not understand this, none of them did. And when he bore down on me with his fists raised... I didn’t have a choice.

I want to say it was self-defence. Yes, that'll be what I tell them... if they're found. But, if I'm being honest he wasn't the one holding the stick, and I hadn't been very scared.