Screams. White, hot screams that shattered the evanescent night, screams that echoed through the hollowed pines of the forest, whistling quietly in the sharp, cold breeze of the darkness. And suddenly, the world was quiet again. The order of the night was once again restored, back to its seemingly fragile tranquility where the crickets sang a hymn for the lost and the fireflies lit the inky darkness with the faint glow of a votive candle.
Grunkle Stan shuffled quietly through the living room of the Mystery Shack into the kitchen. Turning on the tap, the cold water ran over the hot stinging bruises on his palms and knuckles, the water dyed a pale crimson under the cold gaze of the moonlight streaming in from the kitchen window. His eyes were vacant and distant, as if his soul had evaporated from his very body, and only a husk had remained of the once tender man. He yanked a chair from the nearby dining table, plunking a first aid kit by his side. Opening the kit, he began dabbing some ointment, wrapping his bruises up. It was just an accident, bumped into a hot kettle while stumbling in the dark to get some chamomile tea in one of his recent bouts of insomnia. Yeah that would be it…He finished with his final wrappings and placed the first aid kit on the top shelf of a nearby cupboard but couldn't quite place it and the box hurdled to the ground, smashing its contents across the kitchen floor.
Cursing himself, he slowly began picking up the bits and pieces that had crashed onto the floor and he caught his reflection among the fragments of glass that had splintered across the floor. A monster, not a man was staring right back at him. What… what have I done? How could I have… His thoughts whirled around his head like a carnival ride; his conscience had all but abandoned him, he wanted to grab one of the glass fragment, its razor edge his sweet salvation. Just one slice… just one slice and it'll be all over. He imagined the burning coldness of the edge and how his sins… oh his sins would be erased… he could join them but another side of him grounded him back to reality, it would be insane to even consider the notion, not when he had already gone so far, not when the mission was at its peak. No one said that the path he was taking was easy, sometimes… sacrifices have to be made... for the greater good.
He head towards the front of the store, where the knick knacks and merchandise sat stonily on their shelves, their eyes seemingly following his footsteps as he walked towards the fluorescent light of the store's vending machine. He punched in his numbers and a soft click was heard behind the machine. With a push, the vending machine swung backwards, revealing his secret path down to the lab where he worked. He arrived at his office, dimly lit by a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Posters and notes were scattered across the room, a frenzied dance of questions, answers and clues. Was it worth it? The answers, the clues, they had lost their fascination, their mystery. Now, they appeared to be a testament to his atrocity, reminders that plunged into his heart like wicked daggers. He sat on his bench, a picture of the twins lay on the top of his desk. He grabbed the photo and slipped it out of its frame, their smiles and gestures seared deep in the echelons of Stan's mind, he could almost hear their shrill laughs that rose like crystal bubbles on a warm summer's day, reverberating across the yard and into the forest, those were innocent times, and now forgotten times. He pulled out a lighter from his drawer, a habit from bygone days when the stress of the chase proved too much, and perhaps now a welcome friend.
He brought the flame to the picture, the fire tearing away at his memories, his laughter, his sanity.