In front of the town hall a group of tourists stand in front of woman holding a speaker phone. “WELCOME!” The female shrieks as everyone winces. “Oops,” the woman softly said and adjusts the megaphone. With a wide grin the woman says, “Welcome to the Stoker Massacre Museum. Please follow me this way please.” The tourist group moves forward as phone or cameras flash taking pictures of the most nonsensical things such as the doors.

Some teenagers of the tourist group nudge each other eagerly as they approach the macabre display. Bloodied clothes are behind glass containers as are plain items such as pencils, scissors and other normal everyday items. The group peeks at the display as the woman importantly says, “The items on display are the clothing of the victims and the items used for the massacre. Unlike serial killers or other killers, the culprit went on a killing spree much like the Texas Chain Massacre. But unlike that event, the killer used any weapon found on hand, a pen, scissors, a fork, and many more everyday items. This museum houses only a few of the weapons used in the massacre. The rest are housed within the police department.”

The tour guide allows the group to study the items with morbid curiosity for several minutes. The less conscious members of the group, the teenagers pose with peace signs in front of several items on display. “Now, the names of the victims are engraved on a mass mural in front of the town hall. However, we have some of the victims’ names, photos and ages here on display,” The female tour guide pointed to the wall behind her.

The tourists move forward as a strange chill falls over them including the less empathic members. Some of the tourists pale and others shiver even the teenagers become withdrawn and silent as they read the names on the wall. The tourists are unable to bear reading the names on the wall and turn away. Some of the more sensitive members dab dry tears on their faces.

The female tour guide gently leads them to a picture on the wall. “Only fifteen years old, Alexandrina Ripperton became one of the few female serial killers in the world and the worst the world has ever seen without a doubt. To this date, the reason is still debated by the scientific community, but every scientific member of the mental health community agrees, that something went terribly wrong that day. A trigger of sorts happened,” The female guide pauses theatrically.

“Five years ago, at 8:13 a.m., a normal Wednesday morning, it was all quiet, when shouts began to be heard from the school. By the time anyone went to help, they too sucummed to the violence and death. The police were no different or anyone in the town for that matter. They were all doomed as the killer went from house to house until not a single living person was left in the town of Stoker,” The female guide creepily said as the tourists shiver.

The female guide straightens up and kindly says, “Though interesting to note for one reason or another, the killer did not flee. But waited an hour for the police in the next township over to arrive and detain her. Without bloodshed or any violence of any sort, Alexandrina Ripperton turned herself in. During the trial, it was proven that the massacre was not meditated or planned beforehand. It simply happened. As a result, the death penalty was taken off the table and a life sentence was placed on Alexandrina Ripperton to serve 750 years in a maximum secure prison.”

The tourist group lets out a sigh of relief they hadn’t known they were holding. The group members glance embarrassingly at each other and smile rather warily. The female guide says, “Alright, are there any questions, before we move on?”

A gray-haired woman wearing a black cap and sunglasses raises her hand. “Sorry, but does Sherriff Hadfield still reside within the township?” The woman pointedly asked.

The tourist stares at the woman with the purple sparkly unicorn bag pack. The bag pack gets weird looks as the teenagers snicker loudly. The female tourist guide blinks blankly, before replying, “Yes, of course, he’s still the sheriff.” Seeing the blank gazes, the tour guide swiftly adds, “Sheriff Hadfield is the only still existing original town member of the Stoker Massacre having been away at the time of the massacre. NOW, are there any other questions?”

Several tourists ask stupid questions such as how much did the wounds hurt and how long it took for the victims to die? #017 sighs through her nose at the stupdity of humanity. Humanity had come such a long way, yet why did it feel as though they had taken a step back?

#17 snorts loudly again, before glanceing up at the image of her face. #017 glances at the dyed dark hair she once had and snorts. She shrugs and continues her study of her younger fifteen-year self. Her face was more innocent and tired, but her facial features are wrong on the image on the wall. The nose is longer and straighter, fuller lips, cheeks are rounder, and other small unnoticeable details. Nothing that is drastically different, but enough changes that if added together would cause her actual face to become unrecognizable. And only one person has access to that type of power, Atlas.

The female tour guide smiles and says, “Alright, onto the thumbprint wall. You can leave bloody thumbprints on the wall and take a commemorative picture.” The tourist group moves forward as #17 follows the tour guide out, while the rest of the group takes commemorative pictures. #17 studies Stoker town that seems out of a dream. For a moment, she can hear the distinct giggling laughter as she automatically steps back into time. #17 heart jumps into her mouth with a faint thread of impossible hope, she hastily turns around to nothing but an empty sidewalk before her.

#17 eyes flicker rapidly away and studies the town buildings that have been rebuilt. There are new additions to the town, mostly tourist traps. However, other than that the town was still as quiet as ever. With the incident largely forgotten within the new resident’s minds, merely becoming an old nightmare, a cautionary tale to tell children at night.

*

His shift ended, after work, Sheriff Hadfield carries a bouquet of white lilies for his wife, Mary and son, Gabe. His footsteps are muted on the yellow grass. The flowers flutter inside the plastic wrap as the still chilly spring wind blows. Sheriff Hadfield slows at seeing a figure standing in front of the two graves wearing a purple sparkly unicorn bag pack. Perplexed, he slows down as he nears. He stops a short distance away and says, “I notice that you’re paying your respects to wife and sons grave, but this is a private burial grounds. Can I help you?”

The figure is still for a moment, before deliberately taking off their sunglasses and hat, before turning around. “Hey Dad, long time no see,” #017 sheepishly answered.

Sheriff Hadfield drops the flowers and reaches for his gun. #017 smiles sadly and says, “If you’re going to shoot me, I suggest you do it now.” Sheriff Hadfield points his firearm at her as he struggles to pull the trigger. But no matter he tries, he finds he just can’t. Letting out a wretched cry, Sheriff Hadfield crumbles to the cold ground. “Why are you here? To mock me? WHY?!” Sheriff Hadfield roared.

#017 sighs and lightly says, “It’s a relief you didn’t shoot me, Dad. But should you need to use your firearm in the future, I feel I should warn you. I sort of messed with the firing pin during your lunch break, you may want to fix that.”

Sheriff Hadfield stares with disbelief at her, she was talking so casually as if she had gone away for a few years and had not been incarcerated for mass murder. #017 turns and glances at the two graves that have a bouquet of Snowdrops lain across their graves. “Did you know that Gabe loved Dandelions? It was sort of hard to find them this time of year so I used Snowdrop flowers in their stead. He used to call Dandelions, wishies. He thought that if you blow on them just hard enough and wished just as hard, your wish could come true,” #017 softly remarked.

Sheriff Hadfield stares blankly at her. He tries to open his mouth, but finds nothing can come out. #017 turns to stare at him and calmly says, “Dad, I am going to ask you a series of questions. Now I don’t know if you can answer them, but I need to do your best.”

Sheriff Hadfield seems bewildered not understanding this strange turn of events. “I know that you and mom, were EX-CIA. But you weren’t the only ones, everyone in Stoker was EX-SOMETHING. But what I need to know, did you know what mom had been involved with, Dad? And do you know who I was before I came to Stoker?” #17 beseechingly asked as her eyes plead with him.

Sheriff Hadfield opens his mouth and closes it unable to make a sound. After several tries he finally croaks, “What does it matter now? They’re all dead, you killed them.”

#017 glances down and softly answers, “I know that I am responsible for their deaths, but I’m not the only one that is. I wasn’t born like this, Dad, this was done to me. I know you hate me, but please try to remember.”

Sheriff Hadfield wipes the tears streaming down his face and sniffs. He glances at the graves of his dead wife and son, yet a strange feeling of peace comes over him. One he hadn’t felt since their deaths. He wipes the tears from his face and climbs onto his feet. “Not here. I’ll see you at the cabin,” Sheriff Hadfield gruffly stated, before walking away with the lily bouquet still in hand.

#017 puts back on her sunglasses and hat. “Thanks mom,” she softly said, before touching her hand to her lips and onto the cold gravestone that read, “Mary Hadfield, Loving Mother, Wonderful Wife and Best Friend.”

#017 pauses and places a gentle kiss on the cold, smaller gravestone. “Gabriel Hadfield, three years old. Loving angel, may you always smile and know that you are deeply loved.” “See you later, buddy,” she whispered before turning away.

The Snowdrop flowers petals dance in the wind as if waving goodbye from beyond the grave. The petals stop waving, but a mischievously wind carries a couple petals on the cheerful spring wind. The petals fly towards their destination, before gently coming to rest on the passenger seat of the open car door of #017.