Naive

• Jessica Saunders, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

It was the year 1889 in London, England and the city was in a frenzy. A notorious serial killer was on the loose. One of whom had no discrimination. One of whom never left any traces. Not once was there ever a sign of major struggle, little to none at best. Each victim was always left to be found with a seemingly random word carved into their breast. No sense to the random string of nouns and verbs.
Late one Saturday night the moon was full, as a young gentleman nervously walked down the dank, dark, deserted, pebbled street. Well aware of the deranged murderer that had terrorised the alleyways these past few months, he kept on edge each time an opening was passed. Breath quickening as he neared a corner, trying to focus on the sounds ringing out-in the otherwise pure silence- of his feet hitting the small puddles which had gathered that day. The hair on the back of his neck standing up, an instinctive response to danger. Ignoring the clamminess of his twitching fingers the man moved on, believing it to be tricks of the anxious mind. Until he rounds the corner and a high-pitched, blood curdling scream rings out.
Everything happened so fast. The young man yelled as a shadow took off running from the next alley. He went to give chase but a pathetic, agonised whimper and a flash of colour stopped him. Looking to the side into a small crook, a cowered maiden laid slumped against the wall. Wearing what was a once cream dress dyed red from blood and smudged black with dirt, she clutched her wounded midriff. Long black hair clung in strands to her sweaty face, the remnants of what had once been a beautiful hairdo, dishevelled from the attack. Skin so pale with the life drained from her cheeks. She already appeared the likeness of a ghoul.
Moving forward he attempted to comfort the girl while promising her safety. His hands moved to the female's stomach but she slapped them away untrustingly, transferring some of her vital fluid onto him in the process. Instead of putting her singular hand back, she moved it behind herself, presumably for support. The bloke gently tried to gain the girl's trust as his mind rushed for solutions. When a mind races it can become oblivious to the surroundings, it taking a moment to notice the maiden's widened eyes on something at his back. Turning, he saw the man from before grinning over him menacingly. Just as the cold, steel blade of the stiletto dagger impaled him from behind...
"A man in his early twenties was found this gloomy morn, murdered in an alleyway by the infamously elusive 'Word Carver'. Impaled seemingly from behind, the chosen word for this victim was 'naivety' carved into the chest in the usual manner. No traces of the murderer were left behind, however a curious splash of red stained the victim's hand..."