Written by manen_lyset

Mrs. Ippy was our town weirdo and a stranger to everyone, despite having lived here her whole life. She spent her days sitting in the rocking chair on her porch, silently watching as we walked by. Always alone and older than anyone could remember, people often whispered rumors about her being a witch. Despite this, she was considered harmless. That is, until they found Melissa Bigley's body hanging in the woods behind her house, with Mrs. Ippy holding the end of the rope in her bony fingers. We all watched as Brooks, the girl’s father, squeezed the life out of Mrs. Ippy in a fit of rage, and then strung her up like his daughter before her. And then the next day, we were shocked to find Mrs. Ippy back on her porch, wearing the exact same clothes, rocking in her chair as though nothing had happened.

No one knew how she’d survived. It was assumed the grief-stricken Brooks had misjudged her level of “dead” and the tightness of the rope he’d used to hang her corpse. To see her sitting there, as though mocking Brooks for his incompetence, awoke something in us all: outrage, and a burning desire for justice.

If you’ve never seen a mob in action, count yourself lucky. A mob – that is, a real mob, not the peaceful protesters police like to gun down with pepper spray for no good reason on TV – is a terrifying sight both to those participating and to those watching. They become a wildfire, and whether you like it or not, you get caught in the swell. Bloodlust replaces wisdom, and bestial instinct replaces humanity. You no longer have friends, family, or neighbors: you have an inferno that won’t be snuffed out until everything is burned to the ground. You become a whole. A single-minded entity with one goal. In our case, the goal was clear: revenge.

I can’t remember if I did any of it myself. I remember the rage burning in my chest, I remember the sensation of warm blood splattering on my skin, and I remember screaming until my voice crackled and gave out. Whether or not I was one of the people who cut off Mrs. Ippy’s limbs, I was part of the whole, which makes me just as guilty as everyone else.

When it was over, all that was left of Mrs. Ippy was a pool of blood and pieces of her body strewn about her yard, left there for the dogs to eat. And, once the mob disbanded, a collective wave of shock snuffed out the embers or our wildfire. There were no whispers as we started to return home, and the reality of what we’d done sank in. I felt drained, as though I’d run a marathon in under ten minutes. I think everyone else felt the same, because we all took lethargic steps away, somehow both in a rush, but unable to rush.

We might not have heard it if shock hadn’t muted us, but from behind us came the strangest sloshing noise, like someone chewing gum made of molasses. Brooks was the first to turn around, and the guttural scream that came out of him made my stomach feel as though it were tumbling down a hillside. How could I not look? Just like it’s impossible not to push a button labelled “do not push”, I had to turn around and see for myself despite the warning from both Brooks and my guts.

Strange spires were emerging from Mrs. Ippy’s lawn. Spires made of pulsing red material slowly building into arching shapes. Each had a single beige spot at different locations, and it wasn’t until the beige began to spread out that I realized what they were: pieces of Mrs. Ippy. Her skin stretched out over the growing forms, until they were entirely covered in her flesh. Then, they molded into her shape, with any excess skin melting down and hardening as though to give the illusion of sagging skin.

With a knot in my throat, I started counting: one Mrs. Ippy…two Mrs. Ippy…three Mrs. Ippy…four Mrs. Ippy…five Mrs. Ippy…and more kept growing. Twelve Mrs. Ippy…thirteen Mrs. Ippy…there was no end to them.

I didn’t know what to expect. It was all so surreal. Were they going to form a mob of their own and rip us apart? I didn’t have the energy to run, even if I wasn’t too scared to move. I stood there in terrified anticipation, trying to keep the fear from spilling out of me. Trying to stay in control. Like a child about to get scolded by her parents, I braced myself for whatever was to come.

Mrs. Ippy. That is, the thirty-or-so Mrs. Ippys all standing in different parts of the lawn and porch, slowly raised their right arms and stretched out their index fingers, all pointed towards the same person: Brooks. She…they said nothing, merely looked at him with accusing eyes. He tripped as he tried to back away, his face draining of color. I think we all knew what Mrs. Ippy was trying to say, although no one wanted to admit it. To admit the truth was to admit our own guilt. As long as it remained unspoken, we could justify our own actions as “justice”, but if we admitted we were wrong, then…

They took a single step forward.

Brooks held his head in his trembling hands.

He was surrounded now. Mrs. Ippys on one side, the disbanded mob on the other, and his shaking form at the center. It was hard to read what everyone else was feeling. In the mob, we’d been single-minded, but now, I could see a mix of concern, confusion, and loathing, but beneath the surface emotions, I think we all had a twinge of fear and guilt running through us.

Brooks cracked. “I did it!” he shouted, “It was me!”

The horde of Mrs. Ippys took another few steps towards him.

Brooks crawled towards his wife standing nearby, wrapped his arms around her leg, and groveled like a child. “It was an accident! You know how she got. Always disobeying us! I was just trying to teach her a lesson…but then I went too far,” he choked up, tears streaming down the sides of his face, “I-I didn’t want you to hate me. I had to blame someone.”

Brooks had been purposely loud that day, so we had all seen Mrs. Ippy holding the end of the rope. We just hadn’t realized she intended to untie it. We hadn’t realized he’d been trying to frame her.

“She’s old,” cried Brooks, “no one would have missed her! No one batted an eye!”

He was right. No one had come to her defense or insisted on a fair trial. We’d stood by and watched the so-called grieving father squeeze the life out of an innocent old woman, and then we turned on her when we thought she’d somehow survived and wanted to mock us.

Brooks’ wife let out a gasp and kicked her leg back to try and knock him off as he begged for forgiveness.

“It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”

The crowd of Mrs. Ippys closed in on him. And, just like we hadn’t stopped him from killing her, no one stopped her from dragging him away. No one kept the thirty-something Mrs. Ippys from tearing him limb from limb in front of us, not even his wife.

We just kind of slowly returned home at our own pace, trying to forget the horrors we’d seen.

Today, Mrs. Ippy still sits on the porch and watches us as we walk into town. I’m not sure what happened to all the other Mrs. Ippys, though. My best guess is they re-assembled at some point, but I don’t think I’ll ever know.

I’m not brave enough to ask her.