My sister is a spinster. While at forty that isn’t that unusual these days, with careers and all. And it isn’t that she’s attractive, or that she doesn’t date. It’s only that her relationships never seem to last more than a few weeks before she is dumped or the guy just “does a runner.”
Recently, I have had a few hassles at work, and just needed some time away from the daily grind. So she offered me the opportunity to spend a few days at her “country place,” while she is working in the city. It seemed a great opportunity, especially since her “country place” is a large Victorian farmhouse with a nice orchard, and several quaint outbuildings.
I slept uneasily the first night. There seemed to be a banging somewhere on the property. The wind I supposed.
But today, as I was passing a stone-built workshop, I could hear the muffled sound of a male voice and banging coming from behind a heavy locked door. I ran back to the house and brought out the keys. Inside was a emaciated man, I recognised as her latest “boyfriend,” and a collection of photos gathered by my sister the serial killer.