A white picket fence home on the cul-de-sac was filled with sounds of conversations and the radio, the sky a dusky purple; it was time for family dinner.
Inside the Jefferys's family home, children scrambled around while sounds of food were being cooked and sizzled over the stove.
"Kids! Wash up! You too Joe!”
A woman scolded her husband who just came in from the garage, hands covered in oil from fixing up the car.
Silverware clattered on the table, candles were lit, and four steaming plates of beef stew were placed.
Two for the daughter and son, and two larger plates for the mother and father.
Chairs were scratched as the family took their respective seats around the table.
“Let's say grace dears” mother soothed as her husband froze his spoon a inch from his mouth.
Taking hands they said their prayers, thanking the lord for their safety and abundance that was laid on the table.
Their grace was suddenly taken to a halt, interrupted by a knock at the door.
“I’ll get that,” joe said, already scooching his chair away from the table.
“It's probably that old weezer Ed asking for an extra glass of wine” he exclaimed, as his hands wrapped around the door handle.
Ed was their neighbor with an alcohol problem but his wife, Betty, keeps the drinks locked up.
Sliding the locks to disengage, he started to open up the front door.
“Ed you know we cant keep snea-” joe's voice hitched as he realized that it was in fact not the next door neighbor drunk but a masked gunman.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Darla, the wife, slowly reached over to the wall muttering prayers as she gripped the landline in her trembling hands.
The house was silent for a moment, the world seemed to spin underneath the family's foundation.
That was until the gunman hit the husband head in with the hilt of the weapon, the wife gasped as she watched her love crumble to the floor knocked out.
“Put that phone down!” the man yelled, noticing Darla’s frail fingers trying to press the numbers 9-1-1.
The man made his way towards the dinner table, the kids crying.
Darla seemed to be stuck in time, frozen in the perplexity of fear; she wanted to run to her kids and throw her body over them but she couldn't seem to move away from the phone on the wall.
Orders to comply filled the frozen silent air as the masked man took out duct tape and rope from his backpack.
The man gripped the wife and threw her onto one of the chairs, duct taping her mouth and binding her to the chair.
“Hey kids,” he restrained them to the chair just like their mother.
“Didn't your parents ever tell you to sit up properly, have manners!” he yelled, catching the rope, forcing their bodies upwards, the rope burned their skin.
He then took out a knife from the cupboard, and stabbed the mother as she crumbled onto the table; her children now looking back and forth at their parents lying lifeless.
The man walked over to the door, dragging the husband over to the kitchen.
Heaving him onto the counter, laying him on the cutting board as he started to cube Joe into bite sized pieces.
After dumping the husband into the crock pot, the gunman took the plates from the table and mixed them in with the large batch of Man Beef Stew.
The aroma of death filled the room, as he dumped in some extra carrots, stirring the crockpot.
“Your turn hun, your kids are getting hungry” he said, now dicing up Darla and adding her to the pot.
As it simmered, the gunman moved to the living room.
Static from the radio played as he turned the channels, deciding to stop at a classical music station.
The murderer started swaying and dancing to the music, laughing as the children let out more sobs.
He grabbed three plates and served the children to their parents.
“Dig in you rascals, don't want to turn cold and have your mother go to waste,” he said as he devoured plate after plate, licking the fine china clean.