The Martyring of Emily Glenn Pt. 2
A glistening, blood-tinted moon had risen above the towering house, affirming its haunted status to the forces of the neighborhood watch. Mr. Goodly Boring tensed his stoically firm ocular muscles, and the moon burst into shards of brilliance in response to his gaze.
It was not there to aid them, he thought. It was only lingering to mock them with its deception of light. He knew it was nothing more than a cosmically dark ball of dead earth, its kinship with life exhausted.
The moon, stars and planets held nothing for him, and he said so aloud:
“These orbiting bodies hold nothing for us. Dark or light, we fight until the last man can no longer drag his blood-covered, limbless corpse into the breach!”
Shockwaves of fear and excitement caused intense chatter.
Then, above the din of everyone, Boring roared, “Engage now to defend our streets and homes from the poltergeists within!” He raised his arms defiantly, stampeding his juiced neighbors toward the house, as the Visigoths did to Rome.
The front door to this quiet, unaware and unguarded house opened as Boring’s phalanx broke violently over the threshold of its porch. There stood the awestruck Mrs. Emily Glenn, an 89-year-old housebound widow, who was about to let her cats inside for the night.
Even as Mr. Goodly Boring saw the horrifying light of his mistake, neighbor after neighbor punched, kicked and tore at Mrs. Glenn in the fashion of civilized people who are overcome by group-rage.
Glenn’s weakness, and the fact that she did not fight back, only spurred the vengeful mob deeper into bloodlust and frenzy. Limbs, blood, and innards of this one small human body spurted and gushed, exponentially increasing as one neighbor began to tear at the next until it resembled a child’s game of backyard tag gone horribly wrong.
Statue-like, off to one side, Boring stared with hollow, droopy eyes no longer stoic or firm. What he must have been thinking or would have said at the next neighborhood watch meeting, none can report. His comatose body resides in the overgrown shrubs.
And now, as the shades of blood, brain, and viscera still tattoo the bones of the decaying porch and door, even the rumors seem to swallow themselves up whole for not a single person walked away from the haunted house that night. Nor has any brave soul dared approach it since. It stands as a monument to the ugliness of conformity and to one dearly departed Emily Glenn, founder of Bull’s End. RIP.