by Kylie Wilson I WALKED IN THE DOOR and a putrid smell filled my nose. I scrunched up my face in disgust, and when I opened my eyes again I was taken back by the sight in front of me: investigators and police officers hustling about Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s foyer, carrying and logging various evidence bags and samples. My eyes traveled up the stairs, where the commotion was coming from, and walked cautiously to the master bedroom.  When I got up there, blood was splattered across the walls in a horrific dark red pattern, similar to a speckle of stars in the sky. Wallpaper was torn, as if attacked by an animal. Any glass surface in the room—lightbulbs, windows, mirrors—was completely shattered. My eyes traveled across the room at the disturbing sight.  But the worst of it all was Mr. Brown. Poor, sweet Mr. Brown, with shards of glass impaling him to the wall like thumbtacks. Just dangling there. Gone was the friendly twinkle that welcomed you when he smiled. His face now drooped down, like he’d suddenly aged a century since I last saw him. Blood was caked over the entirety of his face. His eyes, to my horror, were stuck in a terrified expression of shock. I stumbled backwards, my mouth gasping at the sight. A moment later, after the initial shock of the situation wore off, I was ready to get to work. A job had […]

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