Young Writers Society

Two summers ago, my best friend was murdered. And this is where it happened.

An abandoned, unsuspecting house on the outskirts of our town. There were only half a dozen or so houses nearby, and even they were not very close to the house itself. Most of the residential buildings within the town were nearer to the centre, to the east. In fact, the town as a whole was quite isolated, so this particular area felt even more so.

I stand there, one of my hands on the small gate that swings open to grant access to the front garden. As far as I can remember the garden had never been tidy, but now it was completely chaotic, with weeds strewn across the earth, strangling the unfortunate pieces of litter that had found their way there. The concrete path that led to the house was barely visible; it had been covered by blankets of dry leaves. Still though, the gate could be opened.

I push my way through the gate, and instantly memories rain down on me like shards of sharp glass. Two summers ago, my friend had been lured through the very same gate, lured by promises of secrets and adventure. I had merely followed. I exhale deeply, taking a moment to look up at the grey sky above me and compose myself. I push on.

Making my way through the leaves, I reach the house. It seems to tower above me, only two storeys high, but looking twenty. Bricks bleached by sunlight, windows that had been boarded over, a drainpipe dangling from the side of the house like a dead snake. The house looked exactly the same as it had two summers ago. Just as foreboding and abandoned, but perhaps with a few extra crumbling bricks and damp patches now.

The door had been unlocked on the night of the murder. It was unlocked now.

On the night, my friend had been lured straight upstairs. We barely even glanced downstairs, we just headed straight up. The secrets had been too exciting to wait for; she was lured in too effectively. I had followed her hesitantly, still not too sure. But she encouraged me, smiling, telling me not to worry. I still remember her reassuring tone as she made her way up the stairs. I wish I hadn't followed her, I wish I could have somehow persuaded her to turn back. But instead, I continued to follow her, remaining silent.

Now, as I enter the house and gaze at the stairs, I try to remember exactly why she, why we, had been there. I know she had been lured there, but by what I cannot remember. Had someone told her about a spooky story that took place there? She was a lover of all things scary, she had made me watch Psycho dozens of times. Was she meeting someone? Had someone planned to show her something? Maybe.

Regardless, as I make my way up the stairs I know that there had only been two of us. Me and her. There was no attacker, no murderer, whilst we were on the stairs. There was only a murderer when we reached the upstairs landing. Had they been waiting there? Or had they followed, walking silently so that they weren't heard?

I reach the landing. This is where it happened. Grey wallpaper was lazily peeling itself off the surrounding walls. A tiny window faced me, half of it unblocked, allowing a slither of grey light to wash over the house's interior. Part of the light catches something on the splintered wooden floorboards. A stain.

A red stain.

The attack seemed to come from no where. It was all so sudden.

Like a vicious animal that hadn't been fed for weeks, the murderer pounced on her. I can remember seeing her blonde hair whipping around her face as she fell to the floor screaming. She had been stabbed directly in the chest. Blood gushed from the wound, instantly staining her shirt scarlet with hate. Screams of pain. Cries of pain. Whimpers of pain. But the murderer hadn't finished. They stabbed her again and again. Repeatedly slashing at her with the knife. Cutting her chest, shoulders and face.

I can remember it so clearly. Her face. Whilst she was alive, she was beautiful. Clear skin, warm brown eyes, a sprinkling of freckles dancing across her rounded nose. Whilst she was dying. Harsh, deep, red cuts burning in her skin, slicing it open across her mouth and her eyes, her tears running down what was left of her face, her head twitching as she furiously struggled, her screams becoming muffled as she choked on her own blood. Whilst she was dead. Still and silent. Her eyes open and blank, staring at the ceiling. Her face completely mutilated. That's the part I remember the clearest.

I stand looking at the stain. I escaped. But she didn't. I had crashed down the stairs, my throat raw from screaming, my clothes dishevelled, and with hot tears streaming down my face. I escaped through the back door, running away from the town. Running as fast as I could.

I barely got out in time. I left her there, her body cold and bathed in blood.

Of course, there was a police investigation. Our town had such a close knitted community, everyone was affected by and was shocked by what had happened. In fact, the whole town came to her funeral. All but one person; the murder suspect.

His name, Evan Lowe. An outcast. Everyone knew that he hung around that area of town, usually by himself. He'd been arrested previously, for illegal possession of drugs and also possession of a dangerous weapon. A homemade sword I think. He was the only real suspect. He'd been seen hanging round the house a few hours before the crime was committed. Plus, the only piece of evidence found at the crime scene was traced back to him, a glove with a tear at the base of the index finger. A few weeks later, they found the knife. In his back garden, amongst the bushes. Obviously, he still denied it was him. But no one believed him. He was the only crazy person around town, and he was often violent, occasionally wandering into the town centre whilst drunk or high, smashing into benches and other objects. Finally, the police had found something they could properly arrest him for, something that would let them cart him away, somewhere far away from their perfect town. He was a red stain on perfect wooden floorboards. As they hauled him into the police van, he shouted about how he was innocent. Of course, no one believed him. They all hated him. So did I.

As I crouch down, staring at the stain on the floor, something catches my eye. In a crack of one of the floorboards, something was shining. Leaning forwards, I stick my fingers between the planks of wood and grasp the shimmering object. I smile as I bring it towards my face. Excellent. My ring. The only piece of evidence linking me to the crime scene. Those stupid police officers didn't look hard enough.

Standing up again, I smile down at the stain. Yes, I remember. The light fading from her eyes as I slashed at her. The feeling of the knife in my hands as I shoved it deeply between her ribs. The sight of her dead body beneath me. I snigger.

I lured her into the house, saying that I'd heard someone had found a creepy jewellery box in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and that it was supposed to be cursed. Of course, she believed me. Through her eyes, I had no reason to lie. She trusted me. As we walked up the stairs and I pretended to have second thoughts, she reassured me and promised it would all be fine. How wrong she was. I could feel the knife hidden inside my jacket as she continued to walk up the stairs. All I had to do was follow her. Technically, there hadn't been a murderer whilst we were walking up the stairs. I hadn't done any murdering until we reached the landing.

The murder itself was relatively easy. She wasn't expecting it, and I was far stronger than she was. I felt so angry as I attacked her. So angry. Perhaps that was what gave me so much strength. The heat flowed through my veins as I slashed at her, as she struggled on the floor beneath me. I was screaming almost as much as she was. I think I may have started crying too. Due to effort or anger, I'm not sure.

Whilst she was struggling, she managed to lash out at me and successfully dislodge my ring from my finger. I hadn't had time to think about it. Finally, I had collected it, so there was absolutely no evidence of me being in the house on that day. I had made sure no one saw us go in, and now I knew for sure that there was no way that anyone could ever prove it.

The only other mistake I had made was staying there for too long afterwards. It was as if I was paralysed, mesmerised almost, by her dead body. It made me stay there for far longer than I had intended to. Someone must have heard the screaming, because police sirens were wailing in the distance, the sound getting closer every second. I threw Evan's glove to the floor, grabbed the knife, crashed down the stairs, ran out the back door, and sprinted away from the town. I barely got out in time. Any later, and the police would have found me at the crime scene.

I made my way down to the woods at the back of the town. It was dark, so I was forced to move painstakingly slowly as I navigated my way through the blackness. The murder had to be committed at night, otherwise people would have seen us go into the house in the first place. Looking back, I regret going into the house at all. I wish we'd turned back at the staircase, so that I could have led her out into the woods, where it would have been much easier to avoid any unwanted attention. Alas, not all murders go perfectly. I've since learned from my mistakes.

When I reached the woods, all I had to do was make my way down the winding path, back to my house. On the way, I threw the knife over the back wall of Evan Lowe's house, so that it landed in the bushes. I myself had covered the knife handle with a plastic bag, and also kept the knife within the bag, just in case the police decided to test it for any DNA. But as far as I'm aware, they didn't bother. And they didn't test the crime scene either, but even if they had found traces of my DNA I would have just said that I had spent the whole day with her. Which would have been the truth. Everyone in the town hated Evan, and as he had 'evidence' against him, it was only ever him who was going to be blamed for the crime. The police got him arrested as quickly as possible. It was almost sad how easy it was to frame him. Those stupid people. It's amazing what hate can do.

Now, as I leave the house, I find myself thinking about her again. Lying on the floor, covered in blood. I smile. It's an image I haven't been able to get out of my mind for the past two years, and I feel like it will never leave me. Now, I can feel like the murder has truly been completed.

Twirling the ring in my fingers, I take one last look at the house, relieved that my tracks are now completely covered.

Two summers ago, my best friend was murdered. And this was were it had happened. A place I'll always remember fondly as the site of my first murder.