Gwen's Cold Blood Murders

The Last Walk Home

It was just another ordinary afternoon in the small town of Oak Ridge, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else's name, and the streets were as familiar as the back of your hand. The sun was beginning its descent behind the hills, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. Thirteen-year-old Max Henderson walked alone down Maple Street, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the hum of the neighborhood around him—a distant dog barking, the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Max had always been the kind of kid who liked to walk home by himself. He wasn't exactly a loner, but there was something peaceful about the quiet that came with the walk after school, the time to think, to let his mind wander. The streets were mostly empty now, save for a few cars passing by, their tires hissing on the damp asphalt.

His thoughts were on something as trivial as the math homework he'd forgotten to finish, and the fact that his best friend, Jamie, had made fun of his new shoes. Max didn't mind, though—he knew Jamie was just messing around, trying to act tough in front of the other kids.

He passed the old bakery at the corner, where Mrs. Langford was still stacking fresh loaves of bread in the window. She waved at him. Max waved back, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"See you tomorrow, Mrs. Langford!" he called.

"Take care, Max," she replied, her voice kind but weary.

It was only a few more blocks until he would reach home, a cozy, two-story house with peeling white paint and an overgrown garden. Max's mom would probably be in the kitchen, the smell of dinner already filling the air. She always made spaghetti on Tuesdays. His younger sister, Emma, would be on the couch, eyes glued to whatever kids' show was playing on TV.

But today, things would be different.

As he rounded the bend near the old church, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Max paused, glancing around. The street was unusually quiet—too quiet. He squinted, scanning the shadows between the trees and houses. Then he saw him.

A man stood by the broken-down fence of the churchyard, his silhouette dark against the fading light. He wasn't a person Max recognized, not in the way you'd recognize a neighbor or even a stranger passing by. His clothes were too out of place—too clean, too neat for this part of town. The man's eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but something about his posture made Max's stomach twist. It was as though the man was waiting for something—or someone.

Max kept walking, but his pace quickened. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement. He told himself it was nothing, that he was just being paranoid. But the feeling didn't leave. He felt the man's gaze on him, even from behind.

Another few steps.

Then, a voice.

"Hey, kid."

Max froze. His heart raced. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. But the voice was low, too calm. Too deliberate.

"Hey!" The man's voice was closer now.

Max's breath caught in his throat. His legs moved before he could think, the urge to run overpowering everything else. But his feet betrayed him, stumbling forward in a half-hearted sprint. The man's footsteps followed—quick, too quick, coming up behind him with an almost predatory rhythm.

Max's mind raced. He could hear his own pulse, pounding in his ears. His house was only a block away, but that seemed impossibly far, like an unreachable oasis. He glanced over his shoulder. The man was gaining on him.

"Stop," the man said, his voice now sharp and commanding. "Don't make this harder."

Max's breath came in panicked gasps. He wasn't sure where to go—he couldn't outrun the man, not on foot. He thought of the alley to his right. It was narrow and dark, but it could give him a few extra seconds to think.

He turned, darting into the alley. His feet scraped against the gravel, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard the man's footsteps follow, but closer now, much too close.

Max reached the end of the alley and tried to turn the corner onto a quieter street—but the man was there. In an instant, he grabbed Max by the arm, pulling him back into the shadows. Max struggled, but the man's grip was too strong, too tight.

"Please," Max begged, his voice trembling. "Let me go. Please."

But the man only shook his head slowly, his lips curling into something that wasn't a smile—more of a grimace.

Then there was a sharp sound. A cold, metallic flash in the dim light.

The pain came before Max even knew what had happened.

A scream caught in his throat, but it never left. His legs gave way beneath him. His vision blurred, the world spinning as he crumpled to the ground. The man stood over him, silent now, watching as the life slowly drained from Max's body. His eyes remained hidden beneath the brim of his hat, unreadable, but his presence filled the alley, dark and suffocating.

Max's last thoughts were of his mom. Of Emma. Of the simple, ordinary life he'd had. And then, as the coldness seeped deeper, there was nothing at all.

The man stood there a moment longer, then turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving only silence behind.

No one would ever know what happened to Max Henderson. Not right away. The quiet town of Oak Ridge, which had known nothing but peace, would soon discover the kind of evil that could slip by unnoticed in broad daylight.