Laughing Bloody Murder

Author's Note: Yay! My first story on Wattpad! =D I wrote this story a couple of years back, though I can't really take credit for the storyline: it's loosely based on a true story a family friend of ours told us. Creepy, I know. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it! =D

Cover credit: @LetsBeFictional (my sister!) =)

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The little village of Briar-Downs was a quiet, sleepy cluster of houses situated on and around and small grassy hill which rose up out of the ground not far from a lush green wood. Everything about the village was simple -- the buildings, the villagers and their way of life. But the pleasant smiles and cheery faces of the villagers masked a deep seated fear.

Barely a month before, a young boy had left for school on a bright summer morning, swinging his satchel and whistling merrily. That evening, however, he didn't return, and after asking around his parents began to worry. The next morning search parties were sent out to look for the missing boy. Before the sun had reached its highest point, they found him -- pale and cold, mutilated and mangled with knife wounds, lying dead under a bush on the fringe of the wood. This poor boy would be the first of seven to fall prey to the Briar-Downs murderer, who was now on the prowl for his eighth victim.

Mitchell was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed boy, and at seven years of age, was uncommonly witty. He had only been going to school for three months, enough time for him to gain infamy among the teachers for being notoriously talkative. While this trait earned him many friends, his teachers were constantly trying to silence him -- it didn't help that he was bent on frustrating them by making mischief in any way he could.

One fine spring day after school, Mitchell and his large group of friends unanimously agreed to go down to the little stream at the bottom of the hill near the wood to sail the paper boats they had made at school that day. So they sailed the boats till they were soggy and the shadows were long. Then, hungry and tired, they decided to go back home and turned to trudge up the hill.

Mitchell was the only one who still had any energy left, so he took his time, pushing his boat around a bit more on the current before he got lonely and decided to make for home. His mother had told him something about not staying out after sunset, though he couldn't understand why. He stood up and brushed the dirt off his knees and turned to go -- and there in front of him stood a man he had never seen before.

The man wore a neat, tailored suit and tie with not a crease to be seen, and his dark hair was combed back neatly, very different from the villagers' old, worn clothes and messy locks. He had cold, piercing gray eyes and there was a strange twist to his thin-lipped mouth -- it looked like a cruel, cynical smirk. Casually, he sauntered over to Mitchell and picked him up as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to do. His hands were cold and his grip was strong. Mitchell sensed something odd about this smart looking man, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Well," said the stranger, looking Mitchell in the eye, "aren't you a nice, fine little boy?" His voice was a strange, whispery kind of voice, chilling to hear. He started to walk down a path into the woods.

Oblivious, Mitchell answered cheerily, "Oh, yes, yes I am! At least, my mother thinks so, and my sisters think so, though my father and my teachers give me a smack on the bottom once in a while -- they think I talk too much and I should learn to sit still and keep quiet. I don't see anything wrong in saying what you think, do you?"

"I -- I don't think so," replied the man, stunned. Why isn't he frightened? he wondered. What's the point in taking him if he's not frightened? Such was his train of thought, for this was indeed the Briar-Downs murderer, responsible for the killings of many a young, innocent boy. Each and every one of those boys had been afraid of him, and he had thrived on their fear -- it had made things more thrilling, more exciting. But this boy was throwing him off balance, and he had no idea what to do.

"Exactly," Mitchell said, unaware of what was going through the man's head, "exactly. I see no point in anyone trying to shut anyone up. It's mean. Has anyone ever tried to shut you up?"

"Er... in a way, yes," said the man. Yes, people had once tried to shut him up -- in prison.

"It's terrible, isn't it? I know how you feel. My sister once told me -- just this morning, in fact -- that my mouth ran on ahead of my brain. How is that supposed to work? My mouth doesn't do any running; it stays in one place on my face. And my mouth wouldn't be able to move without my brain anyway, because they told me in school that your brain controls every single part of your body. So it's impossible for my mouth to go ahead of my brain; my brain has to go on ahead of my mouth."

"Then your sister must not be very smart."

"Oh, she can be. She once taught me how to do my sums when I couldn't understand them and the teacher at the school couldn't help me. And she knows all about the stars and the patterns they make in the sky at night. She says that in the city you can't see the stars because there are too many lights and the clouds go to cover the stars so the lights don't hurt their eyes. Because stars are really babies waiting to be born, you see."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is! My mum always tells me that she chose the biggest, brightest star in the sky to be her son, and that the star came down as me. She thinks that maybe she should have chosen a smaller star, because I'm getting awfully heavy and she can't really carry me around anymore like when I was younger, though you can carry me all right. You're very strong, sir."

"Well, thank you," said the man, quite touched in spite of himself. Here was a boy he had intended to kill, complimenting him and talking to him like a brother or cousin.

"That's alright, sir, I always talk truly. And speaking of talking truly, I must say that I'm awfully hungry. My mum would probably have a good dinner waiting for me at home by now. She promised she'd make me a treacle pudding today, and I do hope my sister hasn't eaten it all. She once ate up my entire dinner while I was busy doing my schoolwork like a good boy. Though she doesn't like kidneys -- my mum once made a steak and kidney pie and she gagged and made all sorts of funny faces at the table and I almost choked on my food, I was trying so hard not to laugh, because if you laugh at the table my father gets all angry. My other sister actually made orange juice come out from her nose; I didn't know that was possible before then."

At this, the stranger burst out laughing. He couldn't help himself. The story had reminded him of his own family life and the warmth and laughter that came with it. This little boy had warmed his heart, a heart that had grown stone cold over his years of murdering. This was the first time he had really laughed in a very long time.

"Oh, you dear boy," he said, when his laughter finally subsided, "if you're hungry I mustn't keep you. Why don't you run along home now? It's getting very late." And he bent over and set Mitchell on the ground.

"I think I will, sir," said Mitchell cheerily. "Thank you for your company, good evening!" And with that he ran off through a few trees towards the hill, leaving the murderer to saunter off into the woods by himself, whistling a cheery tune.

Soon enough, Mitchell found himself pushing open the door to his house near the top of the hill. He opened his mouth to call out to his mother, before realising she was already right there. His face split into a broad grin. "Hi, M--"

"Mitchell!" she shrieked, running at him and throwing her arms around him. She succeeded in squeezing all the air out of him before she pulled away and stared into his face with eyes that expressed both panic and intense relief. "Oh, Mitchell, where have you been? We've been worried sick about you! We thought -- we thought..." She didn't finish her sentence -- she just threw her arms around him again and held him as if she would never let him go.

"I'm alright, Mum, I'm alright!" Mitchell laughed uncertainly, wondering why his mother was in such a state. And then his gaze fell on that morning's newspaper, lying on a table nearby. NEW LEAD ON BRIAR-DOWNS MURDER CASES, read the headlines. And then it hit him; the cold gray eyes, the strange clothes, the unusual behaviour...

Mitchell's eyes widened, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He clutched his mother tighter as only one thought ran through his mind: he, Mitchell of Briar-Downs, had just cheated death, and had he not been the chatterbox that he was, he would not have been alive at that moment.