Female Killers

SOUL WITCH…

©Tanya Grout

The ramming boulder took the door right off its hinges. Old rotting wood flew back across the room, almost hitting Kari – a startled eight-year-old who darted behind the leather sofa.

 

The police were astounded at what they saw: Old Woman Ireland was secured in her rocker by the window, anchored in. The green tendrils of a plant had shot up from their heavy urn, beside her and plunged deep into the woman’s ears. They had torn painfully through her skull, through parts of her brain and then had ripped out her eyes, pushing the ocular tissue to the side – strange, bloody bulges.

 

The sturdy stalks had crawled down her face, crisscrossing into her nasal cavities, plummeting down her trachea and into the trunk of her body, exploding out of organs, creating a maze of convoluted control over this powerless body.

 

Shocked EMS personnel cut off the old woman’s shirt, as the photographer documented parts of the plant that could be seen under Mrs. Ireland’s wrinkly skin. Some of the vines had travelled down her arms bedside fragile veins, riveting each limb immovable in a right-angled position. These slender stems had then spilt off and out of her fingers forming an extended hand of woody digits, with little green shoots that trapped many a fly with their undulating stickiness.

 

Other vines had carved a stronger journey through her trunk and pushed through the fragile tissue of her lateral thighs, sliding off the chair and down to the floor. They had then grown through the soft wooden planks; deep into the basement and into the soil underneath, where they had became rooted.

 

There was just one question from the lead inspector, “How on earth could this have happened?”

 

Only Kari knew, as she had envisioned it, had planted the little bulb in the urn and had fed it thoughts to help it grow. Although #158 hung from her mother’s toe at the morgue, the magic had been passed on at birth and Kari had used it well to avenge her mothers murder, keeping Granny Ireland alive through the whole torturous ordeal. Alive… breathing…

 

© kym darkly

WIDOW BLACK…

©Tanya Grout

While smashing the tips of the flower stems, so they could absorb fresh nutrients and water that filled the heavy crystal vase, it suddenly occurred to her that she could smash her third husband’s head in.

Asphyxiation and arsenic were out of the question, as Melisha didn’t want to draw attention to the first two mishaps in her marital career.

Smashing would be excellent. It would relieve her of the hatred that had been building. She could really pound it out, crush his skull, maybe bash an eye out while he begged for his life from her dead, psychopathic eyes. How fulfilling.

She could pay him back for the derogatory comments, for the affair and for making her dependent once again on a man for money. What’s a gorgeous young woman to do?

It would be his fault. He was the one seduced to elope after just days of dating. He was the one who kept her imprisoned in this kitchen, cooking things he demanded like a spoiled child. He was the one who lifted her skirts and made her feel sick with his perverted demands. He deserved it: to die.

A hammer might be nice. She would buy one on her walk to pick up fresh bread, apples and wine. She’d buy two bottles. He’d be an easy target, sloshed and expecting freaky sex.

It would be a break in – a robbery. The police would never suspect her. It would be too violent for a woman’s hand, especially one with a perfect French Manicure and such a sweet disposition. She’d have to buy a knife too – a sharp one, one that wouldn’t hurt her too much when “the robbers” ripped it across her own delicate face.

It’s decided then, she thought, pulling a perfect apple pie from the oven.

A soft roaring drew her attention to the window. As Adam rolled his Royce up the granite driveway, she poured him a Scotch and wrote him a quick note: Make yourself comfortable darling. I’m treating you right tonight. Then she slipped quietly out the back to buy wine and bread and a hammer…

©kym darkly