The facts are unshakable. Incontrovertible. I saw him with my own eyes, laying in the coffin, eyes closed, hands crossed on his chest. They had him in a black suit and a white shirt, with a boutonniere; a red carnation. He could have been going to the prom. Only he wasn’t. In fact he prevented my sister and so many others from going to their proms. He was a killer. And I’m glad he’s dead.
As they nailed down the lid of his coffin I laughed a little on the inside. Maybe it was nerves. I have them now – a week later. I got a call from the police, in fact I just hung up – contacting his other victims’ families wasn’t fun. He’s gone missing from the grave. Did someone dig him up? Or did he get out himself?
What I didn’t mention to the police, nor to the other families was the damned red boutonniere I found taped to the outside of my living-room window. Even after a week it still looked fresh. Alive, even.
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