Janet Willoughby

Salvador Ct. was a truly unusual suburban empire. Though spanning only one cul-de-sac, it packed more oddities than any foreign suburbanite could think of.

Janet Willoughby sat pondering these things as her doorbell rang. She threw her squawling cat off her lap and headed for the door.

“Hello,” she said, staring at the small girl in front of her. “State your name and business.”

The girl at first looked surprised and apprehensive, but calmed down. “I’m Annabelle Koste, and I’m selling t-shirts for my—”

At the word “selling”, Janet hoisted a Winchester rifle up to chest-level, aiming it at the little girl.

As if the girl didn’t already have a reason to run.

Janet sighed and set the gun back down by the door for future use. Unlike her neighbors, she liked privacy, obsessively so, and favored its presence.

She sighed, swept back her hair, and settled down in her favorite armchair. The cat unfailingly leaped on her lap.

Life on Salvador Ct. proceeded as usual. Usual.


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