The Town of Salem

Executioner

Alignment:
Neutral (Evil)

Abilities:
Trick the town into lynching your target.

Attributes:
If your target is killed at night you will become a Jester.
Your target is always a Town member.

Goal:
Get your target lynched at any cost.

The creaking of the floorboards could be heard throughout the village square, a hooded man pacing the floor of his home as his mind swarmed with collective thoughts. He had a target. He had a mission. Nothing would come between them.

The view from the door was rather concealed, strategically-placed works of art tacked to corkboards that lined the tight hallway. These were pieces that made you stand and think, wondering what the beautiful colors and blurred lines could be representative of. They were meant to draw your eye, trap your attention-to-detail as the man quickly found a way to shoo you from his home. One misfired eye and you could be next.

Turning into the man's living room, art supplies were strewn across the scuffed wood. There were paints, pencils, reams of paper, and stacks of crumpled newspapers and old shirts to mop the stains of what was assumed to be "just paint," for he himself was not a killer.

The couch had been torn apart at the seams, re-purposed into a makeshift easel after breaking three manufactured displays in a fit of rage. Charcoal dust and watered-down paints had seeped into the remaining fabric, creating an unattractive and crusted look. The rest of the man's furniture looked rather normal, for he himself was not a crazy man.

The only alarming detail, the Investigator did find, was the bruised walls that enclosed the lot. There were countless holes from broken tacks that had either fallen from wear-and-tear or had been relocated and replaced. The wallpaper was being stripped before the man's eyes, making the way for something he seemed to cherish more: the pictures of an unidentified girl's face.

This man did not know why he had such an affixation for her. He would be roused from his sleep, breaking every thought of his as it began to overtake his works. Her face was etched into every piece, her hollow eyes staring straight forward as she weakly called for anyone willing to hold a gaze with her.

The Investigator became particularly interested in the linen closet tucked towards the end of the living room, the door slightly ajar as though it was welcoming him as a visitor. The hooded man was watching calmly in the shadows, unashamed of his disturbing obsession. He had no fear, no doubts in his mind that he was not in the wrong.

Perplexed, the Investigator tore down each headshot of the young girl: she had been painted in such dull, monochromatic colors that it put him on edge. She was always portrayed head-on, her eyes growing more and more menacing as another tack would be ripped from its place. He was confused, crumpling the evidence in his sweaty palms as he went for a closer look in the glimmer of moonlight falling through the window.

He let out an audible scream, dropping the works of art in front of him as a few fled under the tattered couch. The moonlight had revealed the dripping red paint, which stroked across her cheeks with a glaring "X." The man fumbled for his notepad, rushing to stumble out of the hooded man's house before he was caught. The man let a crude, deep laugh that could haunt the soul. He emerged from the shadows, falling to his knees to hold the murals close to his chest. He could feel the fresh, red paint seeping through his clothes and to his chest as he rocked back and forth. He continued to let out his petrifying laughter, feeling in-tune with his heart and soul as the moon continued to rise.

The Investigator could not uproot the soles of his boots from the aging porch, his heart thumping in his chest as his handwriting scrawled across the pages. He convinced himself that the burning sensation on the back of his skull was only anxiety-induced, tapping his foot rapidly as he thought of what concrete evidence he could bring forth to the town.

What was causing this disruptive behavior? This girl, is she truly a target or rather wrongfully chosen? Would the town even believe his outlandish claims without evidence, or would evidence only have gotten him killed?

The bushes violently rustled within his sensitive eardrums, causing him to chirp as he dived behind the large column at the edge of the porch. The hooded man had been alerted of this too, scrambling to stand directly in front of the cracked window.

This man was hyper-focused on the shrubbery, oblivious of the man in front of him as each individual hair on his body raised at once. He pressed his hands against the glass, ignoring the soft creaking against his calloused skin.

He knew she was coming.

The two men kept their gazes locked forward, their hearts thumping rapidly against their rib cages as their heightened senses were in-sync with each other. They could see a shadow slowly painting the ground in front of them, their eyes straining to focus clearly as a woman emerged from the entrance of the town.

The Investigator stood in a similar fashion to the hooded man, the two of them craning their necks to catch a glimpse of her innocent beauty. She kept a notebook close to her body, her eyes darting around the village center as she retired to the first house for the night. The two men couldn't help but feel the breath quickly escaping them as their minds were racing.

The man on the porch was swift in bagging his notebook, his suspicions being the driving force to get him off of that property. He rushed home, the adrenaline pushing him faster than he had walked ever before. He had pocketed the notebook, begging himself not to throw back a glance at the hooded man's house. His mind was swarming with thoughts, none of them concrete enough to feel comfortable presenting his evidence in front of the town. He knew that he was properly stuck within his investigation.

The hooded man had calmly composed himself, crouching back down to the floor to pick up the pictures one-by-one. He did not mind taking his time, admiring each of them for an appropriate amount of time before moving to the next copy.

When the final piece had been retrieved, he positioned himself to sit more comfortably on the floor. He took a trembling finger, pulling the cracked skin through the tacky red paint of the "X." This smudged the young girl's face, an uncontrollable smirk overtaking him.

You see, this man himself is not a killer. This man is simply a middle man, the one more than willing to dip his toes into either side. He was more than pleased by his work, undoubtedly devoting his life to the cause of finding and executing this girl. He spent hours upon hours in his makeshift studio, dedicating months and years of his life perfecting his craft for this very moment in time.

He wasn't sure why this instinct was implanted into his sickened mind. From a young age, this man knew that he had a gift. He knew that he had a purpose in his life that would one day be fulfilled, but he didn't know how. Not until that very night.

Whatever the cost, he knew that he would get that girl killed.