(Posting this a tad late. But it still makes me lol.)
[TW for graphic imagery, language]
BetaC Mystery Theatre Presents..
If Carrot Juice is Murder …
(cue ominous music, dramatic drum beats)
In a backwater suburb overlooking a small creek in a town just like yours or mine, there is a green house with a red door, brass doorknocker and a quaint white porch. The picket fence all but radiates tranquil suburban normality. But, once a year, as the fall winds to a close and the snowflakes start to blow along these quiet side streets, people report feeling something different as they walk past the otherwise completely ordinary house.
Known only as “The Postmistress”, this serial squash killer claims another victim. The local police are baffled, and the witnesses can only look furtively over thir shoulders at the unassuming green house. “She might be invloved …”
Some point to the sheer amount of the carnage that crops up in this sleepy little community once a year and speculate that there cannot possibly be but one killer out there. “She must have had help,” theorises Officer Boutellier. “There’s not a lot of opportunities to commit crimes of this nature, she may have someone create a distraction, or perhaps supply her with her victims.” What the Officer doesn’t know is that some accomplices are not content to merely aid their partners in crime …
“Larry was a fixture in the community,” said one neighbour, when questioned. “He liked to walk his dog by the river on Sundays. I never dreamed this would happen to him!”
Janine knew that life in the business world carried a risk of backstabbing. She never expected it to happen like this, though.
“It’s a crying shame, ” said neighbour Willa Spencer. “Lt. Chubbins had just retired.”
The slaughter over, the fiend appears to have retreated back into a quiet, unassuming life. Businesses and lives on Spiller Road continue as they always have, people out strolling and taking in the last of the late sunshine, parents and children putting up lights and decorations together or doing a last minute cleanup of the yeard before the first big snowfall. All appears to be completely normal, with only a few telltale orange stains on a sidewalk or porch to indicate anying unnatural has ever happened here. There may only be a few subtle hints of the horror that lurks within the tidy little cottage at the end of the lane. Lurks, and waits. Until next year.