Murderer's March

A short over-the-shoulder story about an axemurderer. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

Ryan’s soft hands held the cool wooden handle firmly, twisting it towards him so the streetlights glimmered along the sharp axeblade. The road he walked was littered with w****s and hellions. He passed by them with a deadeyed march as blood slid down his forehead like cracks in a vase. His upper lip was curled in a cigarette paper snarl. Raising his fatigued arms, he gently sliced the nighttime air, mimicking murderous movements.

 

Ryan reached the path. The house. The grass underfoot crunched like chicken bones. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs against the axe’s handle, feeling its power. A solitary gnome stood guard at the door. Ryan kicked it away as he rapped on the door with the blunt end of the axe. Knock. Knock. Knock.

 

A woman answered. Ryan brushed his wet, dark hair out of his eyes and looked up at her, arms stiff, hands tense on the axe. His yellow teeth were aglow with anticipation. His snarl grew into a grin. It was time. This would be his victory. His glory. His feast. He lifted the axe high, struggling under its mighty weight. He stared into whites of the eyes of his latest victim and barked out, “Trick or Treat.”