Would you like a cup of tea?", Jane asked politely. It was part of the routine she'd started putting into practice any time a police officer or an investigator called to her door. First, attempt to turn them away at the door, as politely as possible of course. Failing this, accept them graciously into your home, showing no signs of fear or nervousness. Next, offer them a cup of tea. This will show them that you're completely at ease with them in your house and that you're fine with them being there longer. Finally, do your best to subliminally steer them away from whatever dirty deed it is you're trying to hide. "No" replied the agent, his tone icy. "This is an official investigation. In fact you're under suspicion for murder. So no, I don't think I'll be having any tea". Jane didn't even bat an eyelash. She'd expected him to decline. They always did. " Then shall we begin your tour of the house?" she asked him cheerily.
The officer's search went perfectly, right up to the point that it didn't (such as things usually do). The F.B.I agent had found nothing out of the ordinary and was on the verge of calling it a cold case. It was then that he stumbled upon Jane's single mistake. In her haste and excitement to greet the man at the door, she'd forgotten to turn off the light in her "special room". It was this light that now shone through a crack in the bookshelf, in much the same way that a single ray of sunlight would shine through a break in heavy clouds. The man said nothing, but he glanced at Jane as he moved to push open the bookshelf. She didn't move to stop him. The switchblade clasped behind her back would be enough to keep him silent in the event that things went South. The sight that greeted the agent was one of nightmares. There was a body lying across the steel table. It was a man, although you wouldn't be able to describe any of his key features as all the skin from the top half of the body had been cleanly and meticulously removed. Worse still, it did not appear that the body on the table was dead. His chest rose and fell as he drew in ragged, gaspy breaths. The agent wheeled around to face Jane. She was smiling that sweet innocent smile. But he wasn't looking at the smile. Something about a long, shiny knife was enough to draw his attention away.
The agent flung himself down the house's stairs, not glancing back once. The thought of turning and fighting the psychopath behind him never crossed his mind. He hadn't even thought to bring his handgun. Looking back at it now, it seemed like a dumb decision. As he reached the landing a soft voice glided down the stairs after him: " You're not the first officer to investigate me… I've taken precautions." The man reached the front door, throwing his full weight onto it to escape. But it was locked. Of course, it was. The front door was always locked in horror movies. As quick as he'd ran down the stairs, the agent spun on his heels and made a beeline for the backdoor. It was glass, and even if it was locked he knew it would smash easily. He'd seen a large metal shed in the garden. He'd go there and arm himself with whatever gardening tools she kept. He sprinted through the kitchen, the incense burning his nostrils, making him feel dizzy. The voice had stopped calling after him, but he never thought to wonder why. He also never questioned why the sliding glass doors we're already open.
The garden didn't suit the rest of the house. It was neat and clean, but there was nothing there. No grass grew from the ground. The walls were high, cold grey stone. The only thing in the entire area was the huge metal shed. There was a padlock on the door, but the key was already in it. Again, he didn't question it. His brain was still foggy and questioning his abnormal streak of luck was far from the front of his mind. He fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking so much that he nearly dropped the key. Finally, the key twisted and the lock gave a satisfying "click". He tossed the lock to the side and flung the doors open wide.
I will now give you the chance to stop reading. I intend to make the next part quite graphic and a lot of little snowflakes can't handle that. If you're one of the snowflakes, go now and imagine your own ending. Maybe the agent finds a shovel, defends himself and lives. Maybe he doesn't. Up to you. Still here? Then read on.
The sight that greeted the agent was enough to make him vomit. Standing in the shed was people. Dozens of people, all with no skin. Each of them stood slouched as if straightening their backs would only cause them great agony. The skin itself, or at least, where the skin used to be, was stark red. It was all muscle, covered in congealed blood and dried bodily fluids. Perhaps the scariest thing about these people was their eyes. Their eyelids had been removed along with the rest of their skin, so they all had a wide-eyed stare. The whites around their iris' stood in stark contrast to the rotten flesh that surrounded them. The officer retched again as the smell hit him. There must have been a bathroom in the shed, as the smell of human waste mixed with rotting meat and drying blood assaulted his senses. One of the walking corpses was looking at him with a baleful gaze, as though they knew something he didn't. Too late, he became aware of a presence behind him. He spun around, only to be met by a heavy blow directly to his forehead. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes and Jane tossed the shovel she'd used to hit him to the side. She knelt beside him and gave him a final smile. Jane ran her index finger along his forearm, feeling the textures of his skin. She nodded, obviously satisfied. Without another word she stood, locked the shed up tight and dragged the limp form of the agent into her house, ready to add to her collection.
The End.