Burned

Johnny Cash once sang a song that said, "Love is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring." That couldn't be more accurate. My name is Mary Nichols. When my publisher suggested I write about this terrible event, it made me wanna punch him. I now realize that I should let the world be warned.

It all started twenty years ago. What I'm writing now is an account of what I had learned from our town's elder: Sally Harold. She had lived here longer than anyone, and knew more than everybody. Everyone knew her, and before she died, she helped me by telling this story. On April 1, 1991, in Ferris, Indiana, my grandmother, Barbra Nichols, came home to the worst April Fools Day Joke ever. A burning home.

Eric Larson, one of the firefighters, was the first to respond. He wasn't the most respected firefighter, but he did his job. He had been investigated by the Indiana State Police multiple times for murder. No hard evidence was found against him. Anyway, when he got there, Grandma told him that my Uncle Kyle was still inside the home. To make a long story short, Larson went in for him, but came out without him. The roof was collapsed on Kyle before Larson arrived. Grandma accused him of killing Uncle Kyle, and said she saw him do it. The judge ruled otherwise.

Fast forward a week. Grandma murdered him. She burned him alive. No one had proof but our town's elder, who saw it happen. She never told anyone though. She kept quiet.

If you're still reading after this, don't say I didn't warn you.