(Halloween special)

     The knife came down with enough force to sever the last of the dead man's fingers. A large pool of blood is still growing from over twenty stab wounds all over his torso and face. It was not a quick or painless death. He bled out while trying to drag himself out of the house.
     The little girl holding the knife stared down with disappointment. She came all this way, and there were only ten fingers in the house. That's her favorite part. The fingers. She has the first nine in her shoulder bag, but she looks at the tenth before bringing it to her mouth. She tears the flesh off like she's eating a chicken leg, eating around the bone.
      There's blood all over her shirt and pants from kneeling in the pool of blood. Her shoulder bag is similarly stained a darker red from the contents its carried for the last few months. Sometimes it was just fingers. Sometimes, she would take the  eyes as well. They were always a bit rubbery, but they collapsed with a satisfying pop in her mouth.
     The girl only remembers the name that the men with the white coats gave her: 511. She doesn't remember how many years she spent there, but it was long enough for her two grow two feet taller then she had been at age six. The men in white coats spent countless hours trying to figure what was wrong with her. They gave her medicine, but it only made her feel worse. It only made her feel fuzzy, and it quieted her hunger. 511 did not like the quiet, so she left. She left, and took the fingers of all the men in white coats.
     511 takes another finger to much on while she leaves the house. She walks down the dark street and into the woods right across the road. There's still time before sunrise. There's still time to find more snacks.