Page 79 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"Who are you? Let me go! I don’t fucking have money... I'm just a librarian, Arthur Pendleton! Let me go."

I laughed, the sound cold and sharp against the concrete walls. I didn't care about his money or his fucking shitty title. I cared about the archives. I cared about the shadows he cast over the children who just wanted to find a book in peace.

"Well, yes I know who you are Arthur," I grinned.

I dragged a metal table closer, the legs screeching like a dying animal.

“Do you want to hear a story, Arthur?”

Not waiting for his answer, I continue.

“So, this story begins with a woman walking into the town's library, just looking for a book to read. So, she walked to the back of the library where the horror books were and suddenly the woman heard a whimper. The woman turned to look around in search of this sound. This whimper. So, the woman walked and just around the far corner of the library where it should always be fucking safe place a man was doing something very fucking wrong to a child. To a sweet innocent child. Do you know where this is going, Arthur?”

As I spoke, the air in the room grew heavy. His face went as white as a sheet as the realization finally slammed into him. He tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.

"See Arthur, I don’t fucking like monsters who turn a sanctuary into a hunting ground. I don’t like grown men being somewhere they should not be. What I hate Arthur, is that it wasn’t the fucking first or fucking last time since I saw what you did. Five children in the week I couldn’t get to you. Fucking Five Arthur." I whispered, leaning in so close he could feel the chill in the room. "And I don’t like you using your hands for harm when you were supposed to protect them."

I reached for the garden shears touching the tip. Dull, that's good. Grabbing the shears I stepped closer. His breathing changed. Sometimes fear arrived long before pain ever could. He started trashing against the binds.

“You know what they do with weeds, Arthur?”

Angling the sharp end down, I stabbed him in his dick. A sickening crunch as the shears made contact with his groin.

The screams echoed around the abandoned house as I did it again.

And again.

And again.

The paper whispered beneath my fingertips as I slid the binder clip back into place.

Silence reclaimed the kitchen.

It settled over the cottage with familiar ease, replacing the cold, clinical cadence of the manuscript with the comforting creak of old timber and the quiet hiss of cooling coffee. I rested the pages carefully on the table, aligning the stack with the grain of the wood until every edge sat perfectly square.

Better.

I stretched, rolling the stiffness from my shoulders. A series of soft clicks echoed through the still room, followed by the satisfied sigh that always escaped me after a productive editing session. There was something deeply satisfying about finding the rhythm of a chapter removing the unnecessary, tightening the dialogue, coaxing the story into becoming exactly what it wanted to be.

"You smiled," Gerald observed from the mantelpiece.

I reached for my mug.

"Three times," Frank added from the windowsill, his painted expression fixed in its usual disapproval.

Gerald tilted his head. "Over one chapter."

"It was the dialogue," I replied, taking a thoughtful sip. The coffee had cooled just enough for the cinnamon to become more noticeable.

"The pacing dragged in the middle. It flows much better now."

"Of course," Frank sighed dramatically.

"The pacing."

“I've stopped asking if she's alright " Gerald said with the weary certainty of someone delivering a weather forecast.

"At this point, I'm simply here to witness history."