Drip, Drop

The air had a slight chill. The leaves were turning from green to orange, red and yellow. The smell of the crisp air and campfire smoke filled the streets. Goose bumps appeared on every arm, if not hidden by a sweatshirt. The evil crows cawed. The aroma of apple spice was present in every house. No one was hidden because of the crunches of the dry leaves. It was October.
Before bed, Allison watched the Night News she listened to the news reporter tell about a serial killer that was loose. He was making random visits to random houses, doing puzzling acts of murder. One woman told about her daughter who she had found contorted, her limbs bent in all directions and all her bones cracked or completely broken, on the kitchen floor. The news stopped the crying mother from saying anymore gruesome details that couldn’t be said on television. Another woman told of her son who had said he had seen someone with a chainsaw walking around their neighborhood and he suspected it was him.

“This mysterious murder must be stopped from committing any more crimes that will harm anymore innocent people,” the reporter ended the segment. Allison pressed the power off button on the remote.
Later that night, she lay staring at her alarm clock restlessly and listening to the wind hit the glass pane of her window. She watched the numbers turn from 9:00 to 11:00; then from 11:00 to 1:00. Something was keeping her heavy eye lids from closing shut.
Finally, she realized that there was a faint drip drop noise coming from a faucet. It was a continuous annoying whine that was repeating every few seconds.
Allison’s cat, Gypsy, had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. It was a particularly strange cat. Every night the cat would follow her up the stairs. Then lay down under her bed in the corner next to the vent that would flow blissful cold air over the sides. It would meow until Allison slung her hand over the side of the bed so that her arm was practically on the floor. Gypsy would then give her slobbery licks, as if she were a mutt, whenever the cat thought that things were going to be okay.
That night, Allison reached her arm over the side of the bed to pet the meowing feline. Gypsy’s fur was as soft as sheep skin. She could feel the wet and slobbery licks…everything was going to be just fine.
“Drip, drop, drip, drop,” it was as if the drops were trying to get her attention.
Allison stood up on her tense muscles and began to listen to the dripping and dropping more carefully. She felt under her bed, and she felt Gypsy’s promising lick.
“Drip, drop, drip, drop.”
“What is making that noise?,” she wondered.
Allison was determined to find the source. She checked the kitchen sink. She made sure the garden hose wasn’t leaking. She made sure that the toilet wasn’t having issues. Allison checked every faucet that had a chance at being the source until there was only the shower left.
She walked swiftly up the stairs eager to end the noise. She made a stop at her room to feel the licks. They indicated she would be okay.
“Drip, drop, drip, drop,” the noise was getting increasingly louder.
She checked the sink. It was as dry. Her heart pounded. Alison closed her eyes.
“What could it be?” she questioned.
She inhaled a gulp of air then swallowed. She trembled while opening the shower curtain.
What she saw was truly horrific. Gypsy was hanging from the shower curtain by her bloody tail. Her mouth was dripping with bright red blood.
It was all too much for Allison to handle. She let out a high pitched scream as if she was being murdered. Tears swelled up in her eyes. Through the gloss of her tears she made out writing that was written in Gypsy’s fresh blood on the shower wall. It read:
NOT ONLY CATS CAN LICK
~THE MURDERER

By this time, Allison was in so much shock she couldn’t think.
“Why? Who would do such a thing?” Allison cried.
All she knew was that Gypsy was dead and that she had been killed by the same murder that the news reporter had been talking about.

Then, a chill ran up her spine. Her blood curdled. She stopped. Allison stared at the fresh blood that hadn’t dried and was still flowing down the wall. She had just felt those promising licks. The murderer was somewhere in the house…