"Hey Mat, wasn't this door locked when we came in," Judy called out to her husband.

"What door," Mat asks rounding the corner. "Oh yeah, that door was closed tight."

"Should we go in," Judy asks inquisitively.

"I mean we rented the place for the weekend. It's ours," Mat said flinging the door open with a laugh.

The laugh was quickly wiped away as they got a glimpse of the room. Peeling wallpaper, a deep contrast from the modern insides of the home. The smell of mildew, mothballs and cigarettes. Decoration for the room consisted of graphic and erotic paintings spaced erratically along the walls. Three guns laid neatly in the center of the floor amidst the grungy carpet of the room. Strangest of all was a typewriter. Every key had been replaced with a tooth, a letter carved into each.

"What the fuck is this," Judy asked.

Mat didn't answer, he couldn't. He had already been subdued, held tightly by the butcher. He struggled but it did him no good. The arm across his windpipe slowly put him to sleep. When he awoke he would be living in a world of pain, not the one he had once knew.

"We said not to open the door," a woman's voice whispered into Judy's ear while sliding a cloth over her nose, and letting Judy drop to the ground.

Be careful of something that's just what you want it to be, a phrase Judy's mother had told her repeatedly played over and over again in her head. This seemed like the perfect romantic getaway. Now it'll be the last they take together. They won't be the last couple lured into this trap. They aren't the first either.

Blackport Butcher
Black Widow of Blackport

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