The Dismantled Alter of Life

v. the french swordsman doll

"Mary, dear, I'm not sure where you were last night, but a couple of us were around when Mr. Keeper got in from work, and he said..." Betty paused, swallowing uncomfortably. She pinched her napkin, folding new creases into it. "He didn't give us many details, but he said they'd found another body on campus last night. He said it looked like the same cause of death as Gale Smith."

Mary flinched, blood shot eyes fixing on Betty with inhuman focus. "What? Where? Was it a student?"

"We don't know any more than that. Those were the words he said." Hayley said softly, reaching across the table to give Mary's hand a squeeze. "Take a breath; we're all here now to talk about it. We'll know more later."

{ tenebrous }

A coveted copy of The Anatomy of Melancholy clutched tightly in hand, a gift for Mary, Betty stumbled clumsily through a forest pathway. It was the quickest way from the old bookshop back to the university campus, a shortcut much needed in order for her to return in time for her afternoon class. Betty folded the paper wrapping more snugly around the book and tucked it into her bag, crossing her arms over her chest and hurrying onward, chin tucked to her chest.

If any of the friends knew she had taken the forest path alone, they would have conniptions, every one of them.

"Whose woods these are, I think I know," She quoted softly to herself, sniffling coldly. She couldn't remember the rest of the verse. Mary would have known. She obsessed over poetry and prose, the stages of her life sewn together with the words of classic literature.

Betty checked her watch, anxiety clawing at her chest. She was nearly late already. Shortcut through the woods or not, she would miss her class. 'Maybe I should just buy a car.' She thought to herself, sliding in the mud. The idea was quickly dismissed. 'At sixteen cents per gallon? Fat chance.'

A branch snapped behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but the shadowed trail behind her. With the trees blocking the light of the sky, the foggy, damp forest stretched out in every direction seemed like a foreboding blanket of darkness.

Betty picked up her pace, struggling not to stumble over roots in her path.

Someone coughed.

Startled, she stopped short and spun around, wide-eyed. No one was in sight, and there was no trace of anyone anywhere. Clutching her jacket more closely around her, Betty turned back toward the university and hurried on, heart pounding frantically.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep." She whispered to herself shakily.

Footsteps thudded softly behind her.

Betty didn't look back, only squeezed her eyes shut for a second and kept walking, speeding along the muddy trail as quickly as she could without breaking into a sprint. "But I have promises to keep; and miles to go before I sleep."

The footsteps sounded heavier and faster, rushing closer.

Tears of fear pricked at Betty's eyes, but she didn't dare cast a glance over her shoulder.

"And miles to go before I sleep," An unfamiliar voice sing-songed near her ear. When she whipped around in protest of her personal space being violated, no one was there.

{ tenebrous }

"Look, Charlie, your piece on Gale Smith was good; it was intense, it was tragic, but it was your turn. I already have Robert looking into the new case." The editor of the Weekly Crier brushed past Charles with a handful of stapled papers, tossing the whole lot of them in the trash can by the door. "I've got plenty of other assignments for you to choose from though—pays off to be the first one here, doesn't it?"

"Come on, John, please. You know Robert's going to turn this piece into a drab, dry shred of kindling. Give me this assignment, I'll sell it, I promise." Charles begged, following John Richards around the office like a lost puppy, assisting in the occasional moving of furniture to clear a path and reorganize the workspace.

"If I put two writers on one job, another job doesn't get done. If I take one writer off a task in favor of another, I'm a bad editor and we can't have that. I'm giving you your pick of the remaining assignments, Charlie. I don't do that for everyone." John said with a sigh, turning to face Charles and leaning tiredly against a desk.

"I'll take one of the remaining assignments and I'll cover the new case. I'll make sure to have mine submitted by the time Robert has his, and you can compare them and pick the superior article. If you don't like mine, choose Robert's, and in the meantime, I'll have the other assignment done and ready to go. Please? Give me a shot at this, John."

The editor's expression hung like he didn't have the energy to form anything more than an unimpressed, dead-eyed stare. "You're killing me, Charlie. What do you want this so badly for?"

"You know me, John. This is it. This is my goal—I'm working towards uncovering these truths and there's a chance for me to do that right here, right now. It's bringing crime one step closer to justice. Come on, John, let me give it a go."

The sigh uttered by the editor could be heard all the way downstairs. At last he rubbed his eyes and nodded. "Fine. Fine—write one up for comparison, but you have to finish another job and you have to have them both done before the deadline. No exceptions; if you've got any brains at all, you'll do the other assignment first."

Charles shook his hand vigorously, thanked him, and snatched up a random assignment on his way out the door.