“Oh, John Gray passed last week, darling. They just found him dead in his home yesterday.”
What?“I’m so… sorry,” I say almost automatically. Truth be told, I must be the only person in town who never liked that man. It always felt like his affable smile was nothing more than a mask.
Still, he’s been my next-door neighbor all my life.
“I wonder if his son will show up for the funeral,” Mrs. Prattle says.
My shoulders stiffen instantly. “He won’t.” Noticing the curl of her lips, I casually flip my hair off my shoulder. “I mean, I don’t know, of course, but he hasn’t been around for so long that…”
Her eyes glimmer, the unmistakable sign of gossip being detected. “I didn’t know you two were close.”
“We weren’t,” I rush out. “We never even spoke a word to each other.” Okay, that might be suspiciously exaggerated. “Besides ‘hello’ and whatnot.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, I’m—” I point at the car.
“Go, dear. Go,” she says, though she doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she lowers her voice, leaning in closer. “But don’t think I didn’t notice what day it is.” She takes a small envelope out of her bag and hands it over.
“Mrs. Brattle,” I half-heartedly complain.
“I know, I know. You don’t celebrate your birthday. But it’s just a small gift, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Pretty sure that means the whole town already knows.
She waves off my thank-you, and I drop onto the seat, then check my reflection in the rearview mirror.Good God.My bangs are a brown tangled mess, and yesterday’s eyeliner is smudged.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it into some semblance of order. Setting the envelope down, I take out my concealer and mascara.
Once I’m as presentable as I can manage, I start the car and pull out of the parking spot, the old piece of junk creaking as if it can barely sustain its weight.
I turn on the stereo system and connect my phone. It’s Friday, which means the latest episode of my podcast aired last night. I open Spotify, and my shoulders relax as soon as the familiar intro music plays.
One episode a week for half a decade, and this feeling doesn’t get old.
Welcome toMurders & Manuscripts,the podcast where we delve into the darkest corners of crime fiction. I’m your host, Scarlett Moore, and today we’re unraveling the chilling tale ofThe Thornwood Butcherby Cameron Slate, a story that will send shivers down your spine and keep you on the edge of your seat.
Thornwood is a quaint village, the kind you’d see in postcards—peaceful, picturesque, and seemingly perfect. But beneath this serene facade lies a dark, twisted secret waiting to be uncovered.
Our story begins with a grisly discovery: Dr. Margaret Fairchild, a respected historian who had been kidnapped during a stroll with her dog, is found dead in her cottage. Her body isa horrifying sight—tied to a chair, her mouth filled with dirt and wildflowers, her throat slit, and her eyes replaced with small wooden animal figures. Scattered around her are blood-spattered manuscripts and artifacts. On the wall, a message written in blood: “The past never dies.”
My phone beeps with an incoming text, which causes the Bluetooth connection to stutter, so I give the stereo the usual swat.
—shocking murder has rocked our small town of Willowbrook, Connecticut.
I lower the volume, cursing the Jurassic car for switching to the radio, before I register the words of the host.
Catherine Blake, a professor at UML, was found dead in her home late last night. Details are still emerging, but police sources describe a scene too gruesome to believe.
A murder? Here?
I turn up the volume, my curiosity piqued.
Blake was last seen walking her dog. When her daughter called and received no answer, she went to her mother’s residence and found her body.
Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. This murder has sent shock waves through our small community, and everyone is advised to stay vigilant.
When someone honks behind me, I realize the light has turned green, and I resume driving, thoughts still scattered.
