Winter Time in Wickmore Place

All was dark across the land, aside from the light from the thick, fresh layer of snow. Aside from the gentle trills of birds singing at dawn, not a sound was heard from the edge of Wickmore Place and across the expansive fields of Old Man Deacon's farm.

To the untrained eyes, the whole town, not just Wickmore Place, looked like the most idyllic little place. The kind that features in Hallmark cards and calendars.

Well-kept gardens, elaborate decorations and a whole lot of festive cheer among the residents.

On the night of the 24th, all of the land was still and quiet as it always was. Not a sound could be heard.

Not even a pin drop.

Like one of many pins being dropped on Mrs Anderson at number 202, by her bullyish husband, Pedro as he made fun of her, yet again. This was his festive treat on the night before the day she dreaded the most, when his family would join them for dinner. He revelled in her discomfort and displeasure as he stood, with his muscular body stretching his short t-shirt like a cartoon, on a stepladder and laughed as each pin dropped and bounced off her body. He didn't care about where the sharp pins landed. Face shots were of greater value, though.

No-one heard this, of course, beyond the walls of their house.

Yes, the silence throughout the idyllic town was so quiet, it was deafening.

Albert’s screams of misery and pain fell on deaf ears beyond the walls of his home. It had been 12 months since his dearly beloved wife had killed herself. He stared at the note, her epitaph. Pain surged through his body the same as it had the previous 364 days. He coped with the pain of losing her through cutting and bloodletting. Later when he was done and felt closer to human, he would lie in the white blanket outside and make a pretty blood angel.

But still, the town remained as still and quiet as a graveyard. The fact that Martin at number 10 was raping his wife yet again, in celebration of nothing but his own depraved need for control over the woman who loved him so long ago, before he showed his true colours, before he used violence to exercise his dominance over her. The soundproofing he had installed worked a treat and by the time the holiday season was complete, and she was back at work, no one would be aware of the hell she had endured.

The gentle crunch of the snow underfoot as the cows wandered back to their barn was all that was audible from the farm. Beyond the walls of the outhouse that Farmer Deacon used for his special "kill by request" streaming service, that he broadcast on the dark web, there was no signs of any impropriety. To the townsfolk, he was an important member of the community, who did a lot of great work for charities and helped disenfranchised youths and immigrants by offering them mentorship. He was highly regarded, and everyone loved his endearing and infectious laugh.

His site visitors enjoyed it too. As they voted for the latest victim. A choice of positions and weapons was available to vote for. It was up to them.

To the outside world though, all was quiet, and it was very much the festive season of love, kindness, family, gifts, laughter and snow.

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Thank you for reading!

Author's Notes: Well done if you made it this far. This was written in response to Stephanie Hoogstad's Winter Horror Story prompt:

Others you might like...that might take the taste of it out of your mouth are:

You can also take a look at the rest of my work here.