The screams and cries for help had long since faded, and replaced by an unsettling quietude that seemed to hang in the air like a challenge.
The town streets, once bustling with life in the day, were now desolate and still. The only sound was the soft creaking of trees and the distant hum of the wind. Every window was dark, every door closed. There was not a soul in sight. It was as if everyone had decided to move out at the same time.
But amidst this eerie silence, a single destination drew the eye - the Victorian house, now a beacon for the gathered crowd. It stood like a monument in the night, a structure once envied for its elegance and grandeur. Carved stone, polished wood, walls the color of aged mahogany, and a slate-tiled roof that shimmered in the moonlight—once the jewel of the town.
Now, it burned.
Lit like a pyre, the house roared with fire, its beauty consumed by violent flames that clawed into the dark sky. The glass shattered, spilling out onto the ground, with embers and sparks flying everywhere. Windows, that were once bright and cheerful, now gaped like empty eye sockets, their shattered panes resembling jagged teeth. The fire's intense heat radiated outward, casting a golden glow on the surrounding streets, while also illuminating the faces of the townsfolk.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the burning building, their expressions a mixture of happiness and relief. Smoke choked the air. Embers floated like dying stars.
Then came a scream.
A figure appeared at the top floor window, his body engulfed in flames. Everyone knew who he was. He screamed for help, letting out a desperate, anguished cry that echoed through the night air.
"Please! Help me!" He yelled over and over again.
But no one moved. They watched as the burning man stumbled and fell, his body crashing to the ground outside the house, withering in pain as he lay there. He reached out a burning hand, pleading for help, but the people just stood frozen in place. No one stepped up to help him, no one spoke a word. And after a few seconds, his charred body was motionless on the ground.
"This is wrong" Helen whispered to herself.
The young girl looked at the man further away from her. A muscular figure with a stern face, staring intently at the fire. He had been Mr.Robert's best friend. The plump woman in blue next to him, Madam Rosella, the sweet and kind hearted teacher who helped everyone in need, looked at the body on the ground with teary eyes and relief. The shop owners who were always reliable, the seamstress who never stopped smiling, the pretty librarian who loved children, the neighbors who were so welcoming, and the rest of the generous townsfolk-all stood by, watching the fire burn down the house.
Helen never thought things would escalate to this extent. Clutching something in the pocket of her violet dress, her fingers tightened. The weight of it pressed against her palm like a secret she didn't want to keep. Whatever this was, it couldn't be right.
But then again, how could killing the devils be a bad thing?
Her mother placed a hand over the girl's dark hair "Look closely Helen. This is what justice looks like." The girl's gaze shifted to her mother, who stood beside her, transfixed by the scene as her wide brown eyes seemed to mirror the flames.
Helen followed her eyes and looked back at the grand house, watching, as the last of it collapsed inward, the frame now nothing more than a glowing skeleton.
No matter the cause, tonight, we're all murderers.