The tiny shack with a tiny window (Wattys2016)

Warm

Stab. He pulls out, raises the knife, and repeats it once, twice, three times, over and over, until the gashes on the now-still corpse number to thousands. Cuts bleed into cuts, and when the body was still alive, it had thrashed, opening more cuts, divulging more blood.

Blood. Pouring out, leaking out, dripping in some places, clotted in others. The room is filled with the sour metallic tang of blood, coating sinuses and tongues, suffocating some and a fragrance to others. In the darkness appears a grin.

Grin. A maniacal, bloodthirsty grin. White teeth sparkle, reflecting the shaft of moonlight from the tiny window. The grin widens as the boy, only eight, surveys his surroundings, looking at his other works of art. Somewhere to his left sounds a crash.

Crash. The door crashes inwards and police squads flood in, or try to, as they're stopped by the bodies, the dead bodies, piled on the floor of the tiny shack with a tiny window. The boy steals out from the back door as he hears the sirens.

Sirens. Ringing loud, loud and annoying and hurtful to ears. News reporters are swarming like flies over a dead carcass, which is actually incredibly accurate. Police officers are closing off the scene with yellow tape, morgues are taking in all of the corpses littered and piled on the shack's floor, investigators are hunting for clues. An eight-year-old boy watches all of this in the forest behind the shack, the tiny shack with a tiny window. He smiles.

The bodies are still warm.