She let the curtain fall back against the glass and stood staring at the garish patterns on the fabric as if after all these years she was only just realizing they were atrocious.

But the patterns weren’t her problem. Mrs. Madsen was her problem. Her mind roiled and churned, all sorts of wicked thoughts spun dizzily in her head.

She’s a slut. A whorish, wanton slut chasing after those boys with her little skirts and robes so thin you can see her nipples.

Her chest began to heave and her cheeks flushed as she began to imagine the nasty, evil things Mrs. Madsen would do to the boy.

There she goes, pulling another one into her house, probably going to seduce him and force herself on that poor young man who doesn’t know any better. Turn him into a hooligan and then he’ll be hanging around here like a dog waiting for scraps. The foul slut.

Anne Trapnel, eyes burning with righteous anger, grabbed the bat she kept by the front door and marched outside, determined to put a stop to it once and for all.