I work in the library of a quaint town a few miles North of English sea. The town was well-looked after, plentiful overgrowing plants and trees, delightful smiles and an economy that is well-organized. Yes, there may not be so many people here, but we have more than the other towns adjacent to ours. We have a famous farmer’s market once a week that keeps our town’s name on the map, although barely. The town’s name is Conroy.
My job at the library wasn’t enough to put food on the table, so I had to work part-time with the mortician, a truly dismal and sickening job most of the time. However, it was over soon enough and I could return to work, taking care of the library and continuing with my writing. A wonderful experience most of the time, but dreadfully dull the rest of the time. Inspiration was fleeting at most points, I’m sure you understand. However, there soon came a serious of tragedies that filled me with such inspiration and I played a hand in these tragedies.
Not a direct hand of course, but I was involved with the bodies at the mortician. I woke up on what seemed a normal day and made my way over to the mortician to get the work over as soon as possible. However, along the way I heard people discussing a killer. I asked what they were talking about and they informed me that three townspeople had been killed, one of the names I recognized as the retired butcher who lived in the centre of town, not too far from where I lived.
My steps hurried me to the mortician and no soon had I entered the town priest had left. He looked horrified, a worrying expression stretching his face into a sorry state. He gave me a nod as greeting, but walked past me without a pleasant discussion. He certainly was in a hurry, but what I found curious is why he was at the mortician. I found out soon enough when I entered and made my way to the cold room. Dr Jeffries stood at the middle table of the three. T he bodies were covered, but not their heads. I recognized the butcher, not second, but the third I knew to be the priest’s brother.
The doctor informed me that he already finished the autopsy on all three and he was broken by what he discovered. The victims were killed by poison, but in addition to that there were small incisions, stab wounds as small as needle points, all over the bodies. The doctor told me he found it curious that none of them struggled at first, or were bruised of beaten in the process. It was only late last night that during the autopsy that he discovered the insides blackened with poison, the toxic smell terrible, forcing the doctor to remove the stomach and seal it away in a container as well as a section of small intestines.
The doctor told me that how this would hit the town, the panic, the possible-witch hunt, everything. For now, the bodies were to be kept until he could come up with a statement that sounded less terrifying than poison, violent stabbing and serial killer. While I was glad to leave the office for the first time since I started a part-time job with him I have felt a morbid sense of curiosity when it came to the bodies. Still, I decided it was time to force myself into more pleasant work. I felt a sense of excitement and anxiety.
Please, don’t think me childish or a bad person for feeling the excitement, I know how terrible the killings were, but the emotional shock they brought me also ignited a sense of inspiration within me which I used to continue my writing. A few days passed since then and there was no sense of panic or witch hunt as the doctor expected, however, the priest did apparently isolate himself during the days, at least until Sunday. He was in mourning, but his attitude change, it was one of frustration and anger. Many could tell he was close to his brother, their smiles a common sight when they were together. The brother’s wife tried to pray with the priest, but she herself was caught in an ocean of misery.
The spirit of the town was weakening, that much was clear, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Now, I am not much of a man-hunter or even a policeman, but I know how to write. So, I decided to write an article for the town paper. In this article I discuss the killer and my feelings on him. I made sure to include many insults and slander towards the supposed killer. It wasn’t great writing in doing this, but it was strong writing that would hit hard, at least, that is what I hoped.
The priest contacted me upon reading the article and we discussed the killer. He told me my article showed too much anger, but he would not make me apologize. Instead, he shook my hand and thanked me. Something he would not normally do, but he felt it necessary. Sure enough, the killings had an impact and my article added to it. Somewhere, in the town, there was a murderer who had been hurt in some way by what I had written. While I was intoxicated by fifteen minutes of fame that I now I had, I was also fearful for my life.
I told the priest my worries and plans to bring out the killer, knowing he most of all would most likely provide guidance on my actions, but once more he did not tell me if my actions were right or wrong. Instead, he told me to go to the police and inform them of what I have done and expect to happen. With another thank you and a stronger hand-shake, we parted. I didn’t go to the police, but instead went home. I do regret doing so and not taking the father’s advice as soon as possible, but seeing as I am still alive, I cannot complain about what happened.