The day on which the first murder occurred in the quiet town of Wrightsfield, Vivienne Black was just beginning to open Matilda's Diner for the day. And what a beautiful day it was. Not a single cloud was present to smother the sky, which happened to be the most crystalline of blues that morning. The sun emitted just enough light to be pleasantly warm as it brushed one's skin.
Vivienne herself was in miraculously high spirits for her, even going so far as to hum while she worked. As usual, just as she was placing the first freshly baked cinnamon rolls in the glass display case, her regular early bird arrived.
Mrs. Honeycutt was adorned in a most ridiculously too tight fuchsia sundress. The fabric itself was bespeckled in miniature baby blue robins, and Vivienne found that she was grinning, despite her notion that the garment was a tad outlandish. Mrs. Honeycutt's hair was all gray, a shining shade of silver that cascaded down her back in delicate waves. A white shawl that seemed to glitter in the light was splayed across her thin, bony shoulders. To top it all off, the old woman wore what was positively the happiest, most cheerful smile that Vivienne herself had ever witnessed. Admittedly, the damn thing practically gave her a toothache, it was so sweet. Sweeter, surely, than her homemade cinnamon rolls.
"Good morning, Mrs. Honeycutt. You're perfectly on time. I've only just retrieved the cinnamon rolls from the oven." Vivienne greeted politely, just as she did every morning. The same way she had been for the past two years. And like she always did, Mrs. Honeycutt clapped her hands together in delight at the remark. "I would absolutely adore you if you could box me up a dozen!" the old woman beamed.
That was the only attribute the woman ever changed about their interactions. Some days, Mrs. Honeycutt would regale Vivienne with tales of her glorious, and at times scandalous, youth as she slowly munched away at a pastry and delicately sipped from a tall glass of milk. And then there were the days she purchased a dozen rolls to share with her children and grandchild. Today appeared to be a family day.
But as Mrs. Honeycutt reached across the counter to collect the vibrant red box of sweets from Vivienne, she froze abruptly about halfway there. She turned eyes full of cloudy confusion on Vivienne before she suddenly clutched at her throat, gasping violently for breath.
Within seconds, she was clawing at the delicate flesh, blood running down the column of her neck in thin rivulets. Vivienne could only stare at first, shock keeping her rooted to the spot. As Mrs. Honeycutt's eyes began to darken strangely, Vivienne quickly snatched the telephone resting in its cradle from the wall behind her and rapidly dialed 911.
She gave the emergency dispatcher all the necessary details, distracted as all hell. She then immediately made a mad dash for the front door to call for help. Which would not open. For presumably no logical reason at all. She whirled around to face the woman behind her and instantly regretted the action. It appeared that the blood vessels in Mrs. Honeycutt's eyes had burst and scarlet blood ran down her face, getting trapped in the hollow of her throat, before splashing onto the shiny checkered floor like macabre tears.
Mrs. Honeycutt continued to claw at herself as if she were an addict on a particularly nasty trip. Blood. So much blood poured forth that it was as if a river dyed vermillion had emptied itself on the floor of the once fashionable diner. The scene now unfolding before Vivienne was far from fashionable.
Vivienne attempted to grab ahold of the ancient woman, in a futile endeavor meant to cease the gouging off of her own flesh. Out of nowhere, the woman backhanded Vivienne across the face with an unbidden amount of force, momentarily blinding her with dizziness. Mrs. Honeycutt took that as an opportunity to snatch Vivienne's left arm in a vise like grip, her hot pink nails digging in until blood bubbled up to the surface of the waitress's arm.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. It went, collecting in the stream of Mrs. Honeycutt's blood.
And that was when Mrs. Honeycutt collapsed to the floor, dead. Vivienne struggled against the weight of her body as she went down. Her feet slipped in the gory mess and she smacked into Mrs. Honeycutt. She quickly scrambled to her feet, sliding around unceremoniously. As she did so, it was as if a plug had been pulled from a drain, every last drop of their combined blood seeping into the ground. Gone.
Vivienne herself was covered in the sticky slickness of it. It too seemed to vanish.
The body of the once kindred spirit that was Mrs. Honeycutt was a sickly shade of gray. Even her only seconds earlier lustrous head of hair had turned a stark white. Her thin lips had morphed into a slack line of cerulean. Her eyes, normally so full of life and vibrancy, stared straight up, oblivious. Chillingly empty.
The papers haphazardly flung into yards later that evening would proclaim that Mrs. Honeycutt had passed away from an unexpected heart attack. Most likely to avoid even more panic that had been spreading through Wrightsfield like a plague for weeks.
But Vivienne Black stood, staring at a body she could no longer recognize. The only sound she could hear in the now dim diner, echoing in her head loudly, as if it were being spoken aloud, was the Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Of her own blood as it was sucked beneath the surface of the earth.