And The Murder Goes to
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- Votes 10
- Parts 4
Ongoing9m
Last published Sat, Oct 21, 2017
Eight Bodies... Eight had gone missing in the last 2 weeks. Murder in the area wasn't new but it was never this frequent. After a while they had given up on trying to solve the investigation. But the thought had lingered in my mind. I wonder if it was their child or someone they knew personally how much effort would they put in it. Would they give up? Or would they fight for closure and justice.
Willbridge was a town on the coast of Washington. I had never been outside of the small town and at times I feared that I would never make it to. Being a POC didn't make it any better. I'd like to pretend that privilege didn't exist in the community at times. But let's be honest it did.
Willbridge held 2 hospitals, 4 schools, 1 library, 32 stores, 5 restaurants and the rest was just filled with houses and faith temples. The aura held something that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So many secrets, so little light but I think that we all knew that the Murder goes to the one that creeps in the night...
🌞🕊
Beatrice Night is your normal teenager, her daily ritual consist of school, food, sleep and books. Until one day things take a twisted turn when people of Willbridge began turning up missing. As the Night family take precautionary measures to make sure they're safe they may just be blind that the person responsible is sitting under there nose.
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#169
blackgirl
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'The night was alive with silence. I moved through it like a shadow, black leather gloves tight on my hands, boots soft against the grass. My gas mask hid my face, leaving only darkness where my eyes should be. The world narrowed to a single point: the house ahead. Tonight, it would belong to me. The farmhouse rose stark and white beneath the moonlight, silent except for the occasional grunt of a pig or the low hum of a cow. They were unaware. They were insignificant. I crouched behind the hedge, eyes scanning, senses alert. Every detail mattered: the flicker of light across the curtains, the faint rustle of movement inside, the way a shadow shifted across the floor. She was there. Oblivious. Popcorn in hand, murmuring to herself as the television flickered. Every motion was a note in tonight's symphony, and I was the conductor. I studied her, cataloging. Timing. Patterns. Fear. She didn't notice me yet, and that was perfect. Patience was everything. One sound, one misstep, and it could all unravel. I rang the doorbell once. Silence. Again. Still nothing. She flinched slightly, just enough to make my pulse quicken. Her small reaction was delicious. A sudden movement in the yard caught my eye-a neighbor's dog barking at some unseen intruder. Its voice was loud, startling, but contained. I froze. My breath slowed. Patience. Observation. The dog's curiosity would pass. I remained still, hidden in shadow, letting the moment stretch. The animal lost interest and padded away. Perfect. I moved to the back of the house, hammer in hand.' ...
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