Michael writes:
I entered the cellar of an old mansion with a team of cat-burglar/specialists. We were there to find something out rather than to steal. I found a stack of old black and white crime scene photos on a work bench. Something horrible had happened here, and the photos that depicted the nightmare were left out in the open as if the events were just a natural part of this family’s story.
Six children had been savagely murdered by a teenage girl. She had killed them and then perched each of them atop a rocking horse. The first photo showed this from a profile angle with all the rocking horses lined up side by side. Two of the older children, a boy and a girl both about 5 years old, at the fore of the shot appeared to be smiling with blood at the corners of their mouths. They were all dead and were situated with their eyes open as if they were all at play riding together as a rank.
The young woman who did this had had an aneurism which triggered a violent rampage. She took a carving knife from the kitchen and went after the children, stabbing them maniacally as they slept. She drew the knife back behind her head and then back down into their little bellies over and over.
One brave girl escaped. She tucked her dolly in her bed as a decoy and ran and hid somewhere in the house. So one of the dead children perched on the rocking horses was actually a plastic doll with multiple stab wounds. The killer couldn’t distinguish between a real little girl and a doll.
The scene shifted. Now the team and I had managed to enter the upper part of the house. There was a dinner table set and we were all seated around it. Somebody started convulsing and there was a woman, a house servant who had been setting the table, who came to his assistance to administer first aid.
Minutes earlier this graying woman had been the object of our contempt. She was either the surviving little girl who had used her dolly as a decoy, or she was the teenage girl who had committed the murders. Someone in the room had been pressing her for information about her identity. Her rush to help this ailing man was now being cited by somebody else as evidence of her goodness.
She wore delicate cloth gloves to hide her hands. These gloves implicated her somehow, a stigma, but also indicated her purity. She pleaded with us and denied any wrong doing. What had she done? Was she the former teen killer? Would she strike again?
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I dream of dada 