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NIGHTS OF HORROR
By Neel Anil Panicker
“I don’t know what you call it___howl, yowl, bowl or scowl___but it was a long, doleful cry that pierced through the thick forested leaves and stabbed my heart, inflicting pain in ways I have never felt before or worse, never knew existed.”
The detective looked at the bedraggled figure in front of him who sat on the bed, her head half resting against the walls; and wondered to himself and not for the umpteenth time in his two-decade old policing career whether women lived in a make believe world and manufactured crime when there weren’t any.
He crossed his legs and changed tack, this time starting with, “Tell me Mrs Gonsalves, what did you have for dinner last night and what time did you go to sleep last night?”
The question seemed to have riled the seventy something spinster, for, suddenly, her eyes rolled all over, and her tongue___a horrendous purplish yellow hue___sprang out from the bowels of her mouth and began to marinate her parched lips.
Clearly, the old hag had taken umbrage to the cop inquiring about her unconventional dietary habits and her irregular sleep patterns, when, she, was expecting to regale him with further recollections of what all she had heard____not just the previous night, but in the past three nights.
The nights, when the her quaint little fishing village was rocked by not one, not two, but three gruesome murders.
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