There were legends in our part of town, ghost stories you tell each other on the school yard that everyone believes longer than they should. Ridiculous, maybe, but even the adults were in on it. Striking terror like Stephen King was better than the grim alternative: seeking the real reason behind all the gruesome murders.
Every month, around the same time, with the careful rhyme and reason of a mother goose poem, someone was found murdered in their bed. A bloody mess under the sheets, mutilated and barely recognizable. Marks on their bodies looked like parts of them had been chewed, or crushed somehow.
It wasn’t just anyone, though. Without fail, the victims were never any younger or older than elementary school. Someone had a sick, twisted desire to kill and they were darn good at leaving no traceable tracks in their wake.
And so it was that the rumor had circulated. New to school in