The Westmoore Secret

Who did it?

The shattered window’s sprinkled glass lies scattered about the room, but the silence is still whole. Her evening dress is draped over the chair, stained with scarlet arterial spray. Even though time has stopped for her, it still goes on for the clock in the hall that still chimes every hour. Beneath the blushing coverlet, her cold body sleeps, still and silent, it has been so all night. Under her pale, white hand, the penknife that was her last chance, but one that failed her. The knife’s blade is broken, its tiny edges jagged and stained. Lonely and sad, the angelic cherubs, carved into the headboard stare at the soundless scene. Ever watching, they silently mourn their mistresses death.

            Renovations and redecorating have been done without her consent. Death has changed much, from the lavender walls that once calmed her nerves, to bold scarlet, that heightens fear. Ill boding, the stench of death wafts throughout the house, chasing away the happiness that once dwelt there. Darkness falls again, slowly, but surely. In the night, all is hidden by a dusky curtain, though death’s presence is still about. The last sliver of life creeps from the house, and is lost in the abyss. 

Author's Note

Tell me who did it. It's all in the details. :)

Reviews

[Rasputin]

The dog did it.

[Larry Dyson]

she did