Dreams To Nightmares, Part Eight.

Sorry for not writing another part for almost a year lol. (Read other parts first if you haven't already)

"That stain will never come out of the carpet." A figure was standing over the body of the criminal, examining it's kill. Marisol's lifeless body lay limp on the floor in a pool of blood. All of her accomplices were gone. The leader had become an unlucky statistic in the home. The figure stood up and surveyed it's surroundings, listening to see if anyone else was still in it's territory. "Ha. The stupid girl. You should have listening to your head when it told you to leave. You were correct in your assumptions that something was wrong here." The figure stopped his monologue to bend down and grab Marisol's face. He pulled it up to his eye level and whispered to the corpse, "You knew not of what truly happens here, and fortunately for you, you did not have to find out. Be glad your little accomplices ran like terrified children away from my home, or they would have faced the same fate you had." He slammed the body back to the ground and stood up. The murderer was dressed in a long, black hooded trench-coat. He was tall and lean, with a menacing look in his eyes that barely peeked through the mask on his face. A typical killer, one may think, but his methods were not so typical. He had no pattern, no preferred instrument. The only non-variable in his craft was his residence. Those unlucky enough to step foot into the place rarely stepped back out. He moved from his threatening stance and started for the attic. He had watched the thieves cart the two girls up there. And no one exited his house. Not even two children.

Author's Note

I try to avoid grammar issues, but if there are any, don't be afraid to tell me about them so I can fix the problem. Also, constructive criticism is always welcome!