Ms. Linda Hanson had returned home early due to a certain troubling voicemail left by her son about an hour earlier. Seeing an unfamiliar Ford truck in the driveway worried her, panic seeming to quicken her steps as she rushed to the front door. She realized it was left unlocked and her heart rate sped up. She let the door creak open slowly, starting to fear for her son. The first thing she noticed was how her home smelled God awful. It was sickeningly sweet. Placing a hand over her mouth and nose, she slowly entered her home. Everything looked untouched, but one could see on her face that she knew something wasn't right.

Instead of exploring any further, she called the police, explaining what she's experienced, expressing her concerns of a break in and her son not responding. They told her not to worry and to not explore the house any further. Instead, go to a trusted neighbor. She nodded and hung up after telling them the address.

Ms. Linda Hanson was torn. She visibly wanted to explore her home, a place she thought would be safe, to find her son. She wanted to know, needed to know as the mother. The smell would crash into her in waves, drowning her in the stomach churning scent. She would fight to the surface only to be crashed down upon once more. With her hand on the door frame of the front door, she bent over and heaved, yet nothing came. She stood like that for a while, sweating profusely with a shirt almost a shade deeper than it initially was. That was when she made the decision to find her son. She needed to make sure he was safe; he was her world.

She stumbled her way into her once peaceful home, but now that home was a ship rocking on the ocean, swaying and about to be pulled under. She had fallen overboard, drowning in the increasingly intense smell. Lamp shades would fall to the edges of tables and then be right back where it was. Her world became a fuzzy mess, the room spun or was it her twirling around in circles? She fell to the ground, pain shooting up her wrists and knees. She didn't stop and continued to the stairs where the unholy smell only got worse. She climbed up the stairs on four limbs. Rotten meat and rotten eggs with a dash of cheap perfume only seemed to be served right under her nose.

When she got to the top, she sat back on her legs to understand what was going on. She then, through the twisting, dancing world saw red. Red coated her white bathroom and led to her son's room, or was it the other way around? She made the mistake of gasping, and then paid the price by doubling over and coughing. She managed to keep from backing up, because she knew she'd fall down the stairs. She forced herself to look up. She didn't see anyone in the red that repainted her bathroom. Crawling further to her son's room, the stench wouldn't allow her to come up for air. She gagged at the sight of someone in her son's bed. Someone whose toes were halfway across the room followed by their feet. Someone whose fingers were crumpled. Some whose limbs were bent backward. Someone whose chest was ripped open, the muscle exposed and torn through. Someone who looked like her son.

The scream that came from Ms. Linda Hanson was nothing short of heartbroken, destroyed. Her scream filled the room, echoing off of the walls like someone taunting her pain. She screamed despite that wretched smell, because that was her son, her baby. The scream that came from Ms. Linda Hanson was a scream that could only be described as pure agony, the scream that told everyone who heard her mental state has been smashed. It was the scream that only a mother could make. Her baby she saw grow up before her eyes into a young man was gone, and she knew it. She tried cradling her baby, to comfort him, but she smell was too overwhelming. She had to let him lie alone is his blood-drenched bed, his eyes glazed staring up at the ceiling... She couldn't even say goodbye.

The police came running up the stairs through the wretched smell to see a gagging, crying, middle-aged woman covered in blood. They discovered her sitting in the middle of the floor of a crime scene.

"Ma'am," one of the officers gagged. "Ma'am, are you the one that called?"

"He told me he knew who killed Kate. He knew," Linda didn't hear them, she was too busy. She was too busy wondering in her broken, deranged state if the demon her baby claimed killed her friend was real. If she was a fool to not believe him. It was the only explanation she could come up with.

"Ma'am," the police officer touched her shoulder. It was moist with sweat. Suddenly, Ms. Linda Hanson turned on him.

"He knew! He knew, and that's why he died!" She had her blood-stained hands wrapped around the officer's throat. The officer started to choke while looking down into her sorrowful eyes. His partner had to struggle to pull her off, or there may have been more than one dead body in that room. She backed away in a broken moan and muttering apologies as she seemed to stumble in place.

Ms. Linda Hanson left her once haven in handcuffs, leaving her baby behind in pieces.