The Peculiar Mrs. Mayfield
The little village of Deerfield was quaint and liked to be left alone. From the outside, the small town was average with rows of cookie-cutter houses that were identical to their neighbors. The residents of the city were perfectly respectable with hard-working men and good housewives who had children who always behaved.
This was not the case with Mrs. Mayfield who lived at the corner of Prospect and Clinton in a bright purple house. The house was humble enough but was built in a Victorian style that gave the small house a sort of elegance. The bushes were always overgrown and spilled over with spring flowers and the nests of birds and animals. The grass was mowed in a zig-zag pattern and weed flowers lined the sidewalk leading up to the home. Mrs. Mayfield was just as peculiar as her house. She refused to conform to the traditional fashions and styles and always sported a wide brim beach hat of many different colors. She had lived there all her life, never married. She loved to sit in a velvet emerald chair on her front porch and watch as life unfolded before her.
It was here where she sat, motionless, blood flowing from a gaping hole in her head.
