"I'll find her," he said. "I'll find that b**ch that killed Susan. And I'll kill her." He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black and red- checked shirt and faded, mud-stained levis. His face was covered a bushy, wiry reddish-brown beard. The man, who's name was Henry DeMoose, was standing in the middle of a forest clearing, a piece of pink stationary clutched in his left fist and an enormous shotgun in his right. He was staring at the remains of a campfire. It was a clear Canadian morning, the air sweet and clean, but he didn't even notice. His eyes followed the tracks leading into the jumble of pines and maples before him.

He looked down at the sheet of paper and read once again what was written upon it.

"And so the queen looketh into thy mirror, and doth said "Mirror, mirror, on thy wall, is thine not thy fairest maid of all?" And thy mirror replieth "'Tis Snow White, my lady." But thy mirror's reply doth dismay thy queen. She calleth for a huntsman, whom she sent to kill this fair maiden and bringith her heart on thy spit."

After this, the message changed. It was no longer the luxuriant, elegant script that this except was written in, but a quick and messy scrawl.

"If I can not posses beauty, neither can anyone else."

This was the note he had found laying upon the breast of his dead lover when he returned home from a day of cutting trees. She had been lying in their bed, he face horribly scarred, a look of eternal agony on her ruined features. Her face had been doused in gasoline and lit afire. He had buried the body in the garden, tears streaming down his wide and normally jovial face. And then he had followed. The tracks of the killer led into the forest behind the house. He was an expert hunter, and he had no trouble following he path.

He followed. And when he found her, he would kill her.

Miles down the trail, a woman of around 35, clothed in a daisy-yellow tank top and tan shorts skipped down the trail, her brown hair tied behind her in a ponytail. She was shapely, attractive... until your eyes reached her face. More than half was a mangled mess of scars and sores, the mouth a gaping hole in the monstrous reddish-black mass of tissue that covered her skull. On her back there was a flowered back pack that an elementary school girl would have used. Inside were four things. A battered old picturebook entitled "Snow White", a pad of pink stationary, a black ink pen, a bottle of lighter fluid... and a book of matches.

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