Thank you 
And its the weekend!
Hurrah for the weekend freewrite challenge! This challenge involves three prompts. So each part of the story is informed by the next prompt.
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He was anxious for everyone to go to bed. He washed his hands and cleaned his knife.
"Do you have to do that?" his dead mother asked. Henry put his knife down carefully.
"I wish you wouldn't creep up on me, mother dear," he said. "Not when I have a sharp knife in my hands. It might cause a nasty accident."
His mother - or rather the ghostly outline of his mother shrugged.
"I thought I brought you up better than this, that's all," she said.
"You did," Henry said. "Look, I'm washing my hands before dinner, like a good boy. And," he picked up the knife and held it to the light in front of his phantom mothers face. "I am keeping my tools clean, just like Daddy taught me to."
His mother scowled. Or at least Henry thought that was what she was doing. It was hard to be sure.
"Why do you have to kill so many people?" she asked. "I am sure I brought you up NOT to kill people. I remember expressly telling you when you stabbed me - thirty seven times I believe - don't kill people, Henry! It's not nice!"
...
I was unsure of her motivation for changing that pattern, Henry thought looking at the strange shapes on the ghost dress his deceased mother wore.
"Silly boy," his mother whispered in his ear. "What you see is not the colours and shapes on the fabric of my dress, but blood stains and slashes and cuts of the knife. That knife," she said pointing a faded finger at the clean blade. "Why do you insist on cleaning your blade first?"
Henry smiled.
"I don't want to contaminate the meat," he said. His mother frowned.
"It is not nice to think of people like food, dear," she said. "Why don't you take up a nice hobby. Like knitting, or sailing?"
Henry decided it was time to see if the others were preparing for bed, yet. He had left them in the living room, whilst he attended to the washing up. And cleaned and prepared the knife. He could feel his mother's spirit gliding close behind him.
"Please give me some space, mother!" he said.
...
"Are you sick?" Megan asked, as Henry walked into the living room.
"Sick?" Henry said, stuffing the knife into the waistband of his trousers behind his back.
"You look a little hot," she said. "And I noticed you didn't eat any of your dinner. And now you seem to be talking to yourself."
Henry smiled.
"No," he said, trying to smile a I'm not a cannibalistic sadistic killer about to disembowel you and fry your liver up with your eyeballs kind of smile. If it was successful, it didn't appear to reassure Megan.
"I think I might go to bed," she said. She nodded at Heather and Tim. "We have decided it might be better if you sleep down here, and we sleep in the same room." She looked a little nervous, Henry thought. "If you're sick, that is," she said.
Henry nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Perhaps that is for the best. He watched as the three people he had met earlier gathered up their belongings. He noticed Tim pick up a poker from the fire, and try to carry it, hoping he wouldn't see.
That was alright.
Henry liked it if his food put up a fight.
It helped whet his appetite.