When I arrived home, I noticed that the door had been left slightly ajar, which seemed odd because usually it was dead-bolted shut, or triple-locked. I dropped my basket silently by the door and took a few catuious steps, my heart pounding in my ears, my breath sounding like a chorus of toads, until I made my way into the first room I came to, the living room.
We call it the living room because it's the time we spend the most time in, the place we live the most, the main difference being the lack of television, stereo or computer. It is a large room with oak and gothic furnishings, its central feature being the huge (although to call it huge would be an understatement) book case on the west wall facing east. There is a huge marble fireplace that stands five feet high with a roaring fire fuelled by "the finest coal that money can buy", but to me, it's just coal. The brass fire utensils stand next to, accompanied by a large pair of bellows.
There are a pair of huge beams that run parallel across the ceiling, previously used for hanging half a cow and various other meats from the 1900s when it used to be a huge butcher's shop, the massive hooks still in place.
But as I stepped in the room, I now saw two bags suspended in midair, oddly large. Curiosity got the better of me, and as I reached up to slide the first bag down, upon closer inspection I noticed that the bags weren't floating at all, but being held up with hundreds of strands of cheese wire. There couldn't be any explanation for the cheese wire except from theatrical purposes which made me all the more curious as to what was inside those bags...
I reached for a pair of scissors from the ornate writing desk, and started cutting at the dense material of the bag, when all of a sudden a huge rush of liquid came out of the two-inch-in-diameter circular hole; it was a rusty-red colour, quite sticky and smelled slightly metallic. Blood. Though my clothes were saturated, the burning curiosity to know who or what was in these bags, coursed through my veins, daring me to give up. I didn't. I gripped the scissors tighter, using two hands to try and hack my way through the thick material until at last the hole was big enough for me to get my hands in and rip away the material that stood (well, hung) in the way of my answers. When the hole was just big enough, I could see the tips of two dainty little feet, with a freckle just above the little toe and ten professionally pedicured emerald-green toenails with even daintier little white daisies on them - it couldn't be... I gave them the gentlest little tug on the satin soft yet ice-cold feet and the body came tumbling down, and I leapt back, surprised.
As my mother lay sprawled on the concrete slabs of the living room floor, something was missing; not an eye, nose or mouth, buth the whole head - this must be someone's sick, twisted idea of a joke. There was no note, so I would have to use my detective skills that I had acquired from reading books such as Poirot and The Moonstone.
I hacked through the last bag, just to check, and sure enough with a thud that held its own, cam my father. He too, was missing his head; I madly shook the bag, but no head came tumbling down. I decided to go on a search - my thinking was that if I could find the heads, then I would be able to find a note that would explain who my saviour is. Of course the possibility that a mass murderer was potentially in my house (according to the will that my Mother and Father didn't know that I knew about) should scare me, but it's not like I was in the right frame of mind; no, I was far too giddy.
I wandered up the stairs, checking round the backs of the doors, just in case, half-expecting something and someone to jump out at me, making myself jump when I came across my reflection in the wall-length, floor-to-ceiling mirror in my parents' room.
I skipped lightly down the stairs and there, hanging on two, large iron nails were the heads of my parents, ghostly white, making pools of blood on the 'Welcome' mat.