Mrs. Brumfield gingerly stepped out into a blinding white world. The rugged earth below was now smooth, covered with a warm, welcoming blanket of snow. The trees swayed in the gentle stirring of the wind as fine linens of white were draped about them. All was beautiful, radiant, and virgin. All, that is, except for the now faint tracks of snow, left by a little boy, leading away from the dark mahogany door which Mrs. Brumfield now stood at, surveying the situation. "Oh Billy," Mrs. Brumfield muttered to herself, "Where have you run off to now?"
Inside the house, which the dark mahogany door guarded, a warm meal was beckoning her growling stomach. Hot biscuits, and crackling bacon sat softly, giving off an absolutely divine odor. Steam poured forth from hot pockets in the biscuits. Above Mrs. Brumfield, clouds, dark and threatening, released their spell of murk on the world below, and the first cracks of the day's sunlight ripped through the massive layer of clouds, and shined upon the white earth. At that moment, a voice, small, scratchy, and seemingly unimportant, cried out in an almost inaudible tone.
"Oh my," Mrs. Brumfield muttered to herself under her weary breath. She clumsily broke into a fast trot, then a run, and nearly slipped on the ice beneath her. The snow bounded forth under the soles of her boots in a vicious blur. The cry turned to a horrid scream. This screaming intensified to a point where one would not be able to distinguish the owner of the voice to be a boy, a girl, or a Banshee. Mrs. Brumfield continued to follow the direction of the source of the screaming when suddenly, as she turned the corner of the house, she came to a reckless halt, nearly tripping over the unpredictable flight of her feet. Fortunately for her, she was able to remain upright and not face first into the earth's cold blanket. What she saw next caused her skin to brake out in a rash of goose bumps, a color so white that she blended in with the snow around her. Her knees turned to jelly, and she nearly lost her balance. She would have most certainly collapsed and smacked her head on a cobble stone behind her, rendering her unconscious, if it was not for the unexpected conclusion of Billy's screaming. And now the world was silent, so silent. The irregular pounding of her feeble heart within her frail chest was audible. He was simply standing in the backyard of the house with his hands by his side and a monstrous grimace of pleasurable evil on his face. The grimace must have been a bona fide gift from the Devil himself. That was the evil stare that met Mrs. Brumfield's shocked gaze. She was certain that if she was to look upon the stare of that boy any longer, she would most certainly go mad. That was the last thought that made its way through kind Mrs. Brumfield's mind, when Billy, as swift as a panther pouncing toward prey, raised his arms in violent upsweep and ran at her.
When he finished filling in the makeshift grave and its vacancy of space was satisfied, he wiped his brow, and momentarily turned back to view the land. Everything was covered with a thick veil of white innocence. All that is, except the mound which just welcomed its new occupant. But it too would become covered with snow, just as all of the other mounds had. With that, Billy trudged toward the dark mahogany door which stored a warm, steamy breakfast. He could nearly taste that golden bacon, gently melting on his blood ripe tongue. Boy, was he famished...after all, keeping his place in order was hard work, and he heard word that someone else was already inquiring about a place to stay for the rest of the cold, ruthless winter ahead.
