Eight Cases of Jane

by Ryan J. Powell

“I called him that day and told him to meet me there because I had a gift for him.” “What was the gift?” “Death.” “Why would you want to give him death?” "Because it's the greatest gift of all, Doc,"

"Eve's the reason all women experience pain on the level that they do, right? God wasn't merciful to her nor to anyone else. Why must I be merciful to man?"

The silence stretched on, punctuated by the occasional booming thunder that reverberated through the room,

The homicidal glimmer in her pristine blue eyes

forgetting the intrusion on my sanity that she’s had the pleasure of becoming.

her actions seemed to echo the tempest raging both within and without, a silent testament to the turmoil that churned beneath her composed exterior.

It was as if she held the very essence of night within her locked gaze, a harbinger of the horrors that lurked in the shadows.

With a chilling display of depravity, she parted her mouth, her jaws enveloping the dead heart, tearing into it with a ravenous hunger. I recoiled in horror as I watched her devour it, the crimson fluid staining her lips as it mingled with her saliva. Each moist chew seemed to echo a grotesque symphony of savagery and madness in the silence.

Fear grips me like a vice,