Every other hotel room, apartment, and house within a hundred-mile radius of the convention was booked. But somehow, the quaint little cottage with the bright blue door, tucked away in a quiet suburb a few miles from downtown, sat vacant amidst all the hubbub.
“So, what do you think?” Their realtor, Sara, asked after they’d completed the brief, unnecessary, tour. They would have rented it sight unseen. It was this or sleeping in a car outside the convention hall.
“I think it’s too good to be true,” Chris piped up before Meg could answer. “How come this place is vacant?” Sara lowered her face, shifting her eyes to the door.
“Is something wrong? You have to tell us.” Meg urged.
Sara sighed. “This home is where John Darden, that cannibal murderer, had his first kill.”
Sara turned away, shoulders slumped, resigned to the fact she would never unload this tainted property.
“Sara, wait!” Meg called after her. She looked at Chris, her mouth twisting into a hybrid of a grimace and a smile. “We’ll take it.”