Freddy the Finder
The door squeaked as Freddy pushed it open. “Hello!” he called out. That was always a questionable tactic. It alerted people of your presence so there would be no surprise. But that meant there would be no surprise. “Is anyone here?” He called out again. Freddy had committed himself to the course of action, but the smell dictated that only someone deranged would be here.
He took a deep breath, wished he hadn’t and steeled himself for whatever was to come. Maybe he should start carrying a weapon… He stepped into the hall and followed his nose. The door jamb in front of him had a handprint in blood. It probably wasn’t going to be much use to the police. He was sure that he knew where, or rather who, it came from.
He stepped into the room and gagged. The smell was terrible. The window was covered in red curtains given the room a red glow. The bed was bare. The nightstand next to didn’t have anything on top. Freddy’s eyes and mind were trying hard not to see what he knew was just outside of his peripheral vision. The floor was wood, which would make it easier to clean, but it looked like the person who did this had used a plastic tarp to keep the amount of blood down. Or maybe they had cleaned the floor with bleach. That would be too bad for the detectives assigned to this case.
He finally gave in. He had to know if it was her. He looked up through heavily squinted eyes. He opened them slowly. It really was one of those nights. He gagged again and ran out of the room and out of the townhouse into the fresh air. He threw up at the base of the tree, his hand on the trunk. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open.
“9-1-1, please state the nature of your emergency.” The voice on the other end was cold comfort.
“There’s been a murder. 666 Elm Street. Send the police.” Freddy dry-heaved at the memory of the body nailed to the wall.
“Hold on, sir. I’m sending the police now.”
He took a deep breath, wished he hadn’t and steeled himself for whatever was to come. Maybe he should start carrying a weapon… He stepped into the hall and followed his nose. The door jamb in front of him had a handprint in blood. It probably wasn’t going to be much use to the police. He was sure that he knew where, or rather who, it came from.
He stepped into the room and gagged. The smell was terrible. The window was covered in red curtains given the room a red glow. The bed was bare. The nightstand next to didn’t have anything on top. Freddy’s eyes and mind were trying hard not to see what he knew was just outside of his peripheral vision. The floor was wood, which would make it easier to clean, but it looked like the person who did this had used a plastic tarp to keep the amount of blood down. Or maybe they had cleaned the floor with bleach. That would be too bad for the detectives assigned to this case.
He finally gave in. He had to know if it was her. He looked up through heavily squinted eyes. He opened them slowly. It really was one of those nights. He gagged again and ran out of the room and out of the townhouse into the fresh air. He threw up at the base of the tree, his hand on the trunk. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open.
“9-1-1, please state the nature of your emergency.” The voice on the other end was cold comfort.
“There’s been a murder. 666 Elm Street. Send the police.” Freddy dry-heaved at the memory of the body nailed to the wall.
“Hold on, sir. I’m sending the police now.”
