Our story takes place in a very ordinary town, with ordinary people, ordinary houses and ordinary streets. But it's in this ordinary town, every day from 5 pm to 5:30 pm, that something exceptionally out of the ordinary happens
We move now to 1277 Fortune Ave. This is an upper-class neighbourhood, don't get me wrong, but even by those standards house number 1277 was something to behold. High, arched windows (some of which were stained), white marble columns offset by dark oak wood and a huge wooden door with a shiny silver knocker. Looking at this house you'd be forgiven for thinking some rich architect or singer lived there, but you'd be wrong. In this house lived Jane Summers. She was a seamstress, who made a living fitting and repairing dresses. Hardly a job that could hold down a house of this value. Yet there she was, and there she'd be until many years after this story.
The first indication of Jane's return home was the soft crunch of gravel as her car wound its way up the long driveway. As she rolled her way towards the house, Jane opened the car window and smiled at the world. It was a perfect day, after all. The strong summer sun was blanketing her garden in light, and the birds were singing their favourite songs. A scent of lavender snuck its way from the flowers that bloomed in her garden into her car, and Jane smiled almost as bright as the sun shone. As she arrived at the door to the building, Jane hopped out of the car and moved around to the boot, throwing it open wide. Inside was a long, lumpy shape concealed in a black plastic bag. She grabbed the sack and pulled it to the ground, ready to bring it inside. As it fell, a low moaning sound could be heard emanating from the sack. Giving it a swift kick, Jane laughed quietly to herself before sweetly and gently placing her index finger on her lips.
The inside of Jane's house wouldn't give you any clues into her grisly pastime. A soft fur rug carpeted every square centimetre of the floor, muffling her footsteps as she dragged the sack through her hallway. The walls were lined with pictures of Jane and her friends in various situations: on the beach, hiking through a dense forest and clinging to the face of a mountain. She continued through to the back of her house, being sure to stay well away from the windows, as her neighbours had been known to be the nosy types. The kitchen was much like all the other rooms. It was painted a stunning white, with not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. The sun from outside shone in through large glass doors, reflecting off the bright paint and causing the room to almost glow. An incense burner sat in the corner, spewing pungent fumes that some people seem to enjoy.
Finally, Jane arrived at a bookshelf. She let go of the sack and wiped her hands on the hem of her bright white blouse. Gripping the corner of the bookshelf, she started slowly shifting it to the side, revealing a hidden room that would've normally been kept out of sight. The walls and floors in this room were smooth, grey tiles (for easier cleaning, obviously). Along the wall sat a long steel table that was covered in specks of dried blood and grime. Beside that was a sewing machine, also dusted with a generous helping of blood. Hanging on the wall was an assortment of tools, ranging from bone saws to scalpels. Perhaps the grisliest part of the room was the ceiling. Hanging from rows and rows of frayed string there sat bundles of drying human skin. A wave of smell washed over Jane. It was a mixture of rotting flesh and the industrial-grade cleaning solution that she used to wash the room. She breathed it all in deeply, ready to get to work.
It was the knocking that startled Jane. The scalpel she'd been using fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. The knock came again, louder this time. Jane leapt to her feet and quickly started removing her blood-soaked apron and gloves. This wasn't the first time someone had called over while she was working. There was a mirror on the backside of the bookshelf. She looked into that mirror now and did her trademark smile. "Sorry love, I'm busy at the moment, could you call back later?". She repeated this mantra into her mirror until she deemed her performance good enough. Closing the hidden door behind her, Jane glided through the house to the front door. A man was there in a tailored black suit and tie. From behind the glass, he raised a small golden badge and then pointed at the door. Looking at the badge, she could read the letters " F.B.I" emblazoned on the gold. "Is this the house of Jane Summers?". The man had spoken before the door was fully open. Jane smiled at him and delivered her rehearsed line: " Sorry love, I'm busy at the moment, could you call back later?". The man frowned and pulled out a piece of paper. "I have a search warrant for 1277 Fortune Avenue regarding the disappearances and suspected murders of 37 local men, women and children"