by John Xero
Screams, the emergency call said, screams of terror, cut short.
When the police arrived the only sounds were the sweet strains of a violin stirring the frigid, winter air. The front door was unlocked and they followed the strings to the music room, to a slaughterhouse.
The child prodigy sat on a stool by the piano, calmly playing his Stradivarius. His parents and two older sisters were spread about the room, quite dead, in spatters of red and tatters of flesh.
The child prodigy played on, a serene smile on his face, his mother's entrails still tangled in his laces.