Pseudonymous This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

October 27, 2011
Someday, he thought, years from today, this exact story would be told in the dark luminescence of the night, as chilling and terrifying as it had been when it happened.

The executer kept his car silently in neutral as he crept forward, maneuvering directly parallel to his victims’ house. Its sleek black paint shadowed perfectly within the October moonlight. He watched her fumble for her keys at the doorstep in the dead of night. Shutting his vehicle off he collected his weapon, an old almost rusted off sledgehammer, and quietly crept out of his car. Nonchalantly he walked, the weapon camouflaged expertly against his dark, faded jeans. Harmoniously he followed his plans just as he had thought out accordingly over and over.

Reaching her doorstep, he politely swiped his dirt covered boots against the rought doormat that read: “Please wipe your feet.” Raising his finger to the doorbell, he slowly pushed it, tucking the weapon further underneath his jacket to ensure proper blindness of it. As the lock clicked and the doorknob anxiously twisted clockwise, a young woman’s face poked out. Narrowing her big green eyes at the man, she attempted to identify the unfamiliar face hidden beneath the hood of his jacket. Just at that second, before she could speak, the man leaned towards her, his arm swiftly cocked to her shoulder while the other smacked over her mouth so not a sound was released. The woman’s eyes bugged, fear filling them like a twisting twig read to snap. She was drug into her own house. Kicking his right foot up his muddy boot slammed the front door shut, leaving the house shivering in fear.

The moon’s luminescence seemed to glaze over as the house suddenly fell dark. Peering intently at her, the man pinched a smile across her lips before pulling out the sledgehammer. Knowing she would be too traumatized to shout, he waited a few moments before concealing her lips shut with duct tape, silencing her would-have-been squeals and squeaks. She shuttered and shook in the corner of her own basement. Underestimating his own strength, it only took a few strikes for her life to be taken, and put into his hands.

Later that night, after the man wiped his weapon clean, cleansed the splattered blood off the floors and walls, and lastly, removed every trace of him, he slipped out from his pocket a very slim and glistening object. It obviously, being a knife, he lifted up the bottom of the blanket that covered the unfortunate lifeless carcass and carefully sliced her pinky toes off, collecting them in a small container. Twisting the metal lid back along the rim of the jar, he left, leaving her body to rot, in the vault of her home.

Just as dawn breaks the horizon, the anonymous man pulls up to his one room shack in a dense foggy forest of cryptic woods on the outskirts of town. Crawling out of his obscure vehicle he snatches up the translucent jar. Taking it into the corner of his fruit cellar, a few feet away from his home, he silently set the glass on a shelf in-between two other jars and along the line of several others. He stepped backwards, admiring his hoard of toes lined up neatly along the dirt covered wall as spiders and insects swarmed around the underground accommodation.

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