I dreamed he’d hid the bodies behind the designs, but I tricked him and got blood on his shirt. It was the end of the story, and who would have thought it was him? Beyond reproach, but I had watched carefully. The patterns were different, just so slightly. I put them side by side. Then they could see, not exactly the same. Who would pay attention to these little things or notice him putting the panels up after every murder?
Such was my dream, an experience in large part inexplainable. I returned, after other visions, to the place, the same place, and there was no fanfare, no memory of my brilliant work other than a vague recollection that I might help with fixing up the building. I suppose I was the one who had torn the panels down and got their handyman fired for being a serial killer. Then I saw their sins, like an army of ants, marching on the…and was it a school? Was I being taught something there?
Tale Told 