Unlike my old neighborhood, Willow Park was not immune to addictive stories of gossip. Despite its name, Willow Park was an industrious city, carved with factories and rusty ravines. There were hardly any children, and most of it’s citizens were awkward and conservative. The only time anyone ever communicated with each other was when a new rumor was rampaging the streets.
These days the rumors were circled around the newcomers, otherwise known as the Smiths.
The Smiths lived in a crickety house, inbetween the butchershop, and the shoe factory. Not much was known about them, but it had been said that Mrs. Smith was former Hollywood star, and her husband a rather insane fan of deer hunting.
I observed them every morning during my daily runs, but their actions never revealed any more information. The mystery of who they were ate away at me day after day. I had to know more.
“And is that why you tried to eat them?” asked one of my psychiatrists.
I smiled at him. He knew exactly what I found appetizing.