Jon de Vos: There’s a killer on the road |

Jon de Vos: There’s a killer on the road

She lay there, silent and barely breathing, hidden in the shadows. She’d been watching people come and go for several hours, feigning indifference and consciously willing them to think she was part of the background ” nothing out of the ordinary.

She marked her victim hours ago, but she waited patiently, savoring the hunt. She would know when it was time. Her instincts seldom failed; she always knew just the right moment to strike. Without warning she’d spring onto her victim, lashing out with a savage and astounding brutality that crushed any hope from her victim.

Like so many serial killers, she didn’t look the part. Her beauty made fools of men, and some women, too. But if you could look past the beauty into the twisted innards of her soul, you saw no compassion, no remorse, no conscience. Her allure and elegance made it easy to overlook a certain shifty gleam in her eye or a passing evil curl on her lips. She lay there, completely still, listening to the blood pounding in her ears. The house was silent. She rose slowly and crossed the few remaining feet like a gust of wind, barely touching the ground, soundless but deadly. She exploded into the center of her prey, ripping through the soft tissue like it was paper. There were no screams, no, not yet. Shreds of the victim splattered against the wall and littered the floor like the aftermath of a tornado. Despite the incredible fury, there was little noise except for her heavy nasal breathing and the noise her jaws made as she ripped apart of the victim. A squeak from the stairs made her stop. Another. She whirled around and leaped for the darkness that protected her like a cloak.

I got to the top of the stairs just as my wife’s mutt took off like a shot. It took a moment to take in the scene before me. As I did, my eyes widened in horror. I was too late. Again. Disgusting bits of tissue were everywhere!

I screamed, “Oh My God, look at this! Just look at this! Frank,” I called down to my wife, “Look at this! Your stupid Basset Hound has eaten another box of Kleenex! Get up here and scold her.”

I yelled. “Why does she do this? Is she addled? Bring the vacuum.”

My wife shouted back, “Don’t yell at Freeta. She’s very sensitive. Remember what happened the last time you yelled at her?” I did remember. How could I forget her gnawing all the spaghetti dangling out of the back of my computer? She did it to spite me because I yelled at her. She also ate all the pockets out of my pants in the hamper. That turned out OK. I can scratch both my knees at the same time without taking my hands out of my pockets. It looks odd but, oh, the convenience.

Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and now, Freeta Goodhome. It’s devastating when it hits your own family.

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