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Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Thriller/Suspense · #2077087
A cult has set loose a monster, the monster kills someone that won't stay dead. Revenge
The flames are roaring, and the heat is almost too much for a mere mortal to bear. A voice screams in the background. The men seated around the flames are more searing then the flames themselves. Screams surround the trio; cries of horror, of pain, of despair. Before the three men sits their newest member. He shall be a weapon to take the fight to their enemy. He shall be the blade that draws forth the blood. One of many; not all are weapons, but this one will be.
The air is dank and cold, just like the man with the knife. He stands, soaking in the shadows. He's watching someone else's wife make someone else's dinner. With an eagerness not often seen in a human, he quickly scales the wall of the house. Like a bloated spider, he hangs from the second story balcony, before easing up over the ledge. With a subtle grace, he slides the door open. It is unlocked. He can always tell which house he can intrude upon unhindered. He stands in the bedroom, where she always sleeps. He plucks a golden hair from the bed, before depositing it into his pocket. He deeply inhales, smelling her scent. As he imagines her in the bed, thoughts of her husband break in. It enrages him to think of someone else touching what he considers his. This task may have been given to him, but he takes to it wholeheartedly. She belongs to him now. His entire body starts to quiver with fury, and he doesn't even feel his hands tightening around the blade. He doesn't realize that he is holding the knife by its blade until the sound of blood dripping on the carpet finally brings him back. He glides over to the chest of drawers, and pulls out a particularly lacey pair of her panties. He ties it around his hand to staunch the bleeding. It delights him to stain such an intimate belonging with his blood. He takes the bloody garment and smears it across his mouth, the softness bringing him to the verge, bloody lips stained crimson. Then he begins to smile.
Headlights flashing as a car pulls up the driveway. The bastard, who had the audacity to marry the woman of his dreams, is home. As the man with the knife steps into the hallway, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks so normal. He always expects to see the real him; the one that lurks inside. He never can catch that other him, he's just too quick. He knows he is not normal, but why can't he just see the real him? He hears the husband come in, and descends the steps slowly, avoiding the third one from the top. He feels that it will creak. Coming to the dining room door, he hears them sit at the table. He wants to see the man who stands between this demon and his angel. He stands in the shadows cast by the door and can see the man. The husband is tall, over a foot taller than his wife, putting him at least 6 inches taller than the man with the knife. But he isn't huge; he is actually quite slender for his height putting him only slightly heavier than her husband. Often he doesn't just kill the husband right out; he loves to watch the pain he can inflict without ever touching someone. Sometimes he promises that if the woman pleases him well enough they will both be released. It makes the women try so much harder to please him, but they never seem to please him. Nothing ever pleases him. Something about the husband makes him think that it would be a serious mistake to toy with this man. The husband seems to have a very dangerous air about him, even when sitting still in that ridiculous Armani suit. He must kill him fast so he can enjoy the woman. He prepares himself to launch, every muscle taut with anticipation. He then propels himself with so much force it knocks the door from its hinges, slamming into the room so hard and fast neither person has time to do anything. With a quick dash he is standing directly behind the husband, and as the husband tries to rise, he grabs the husband by his hair, yanking his head back, and sliding the razor sharp knife along his throat. Blood flows outward like a crimson wave, splashing on the recently prepared food the husband's hands trying to act as a dam, but the dark lifeblood seeping through his fingers. As he collapses, the man with the knife grabs his angel. Now alone with the woman of his dreams his ghastly smile gets even more disturbing than it was before. Without hesitation, he drags her screaming upstairs to the bed they should have always shared…
This pain? What happened? Screaming? Who is screaming in my house? Dim at first, the sounds grow sharper, bringing my pain to focus. I try to stand, but I can't. Falling, I reach for anything to steady myself. Grasping the edge of the table with my right hand, I reach my left hand up towards the pain. I feel blood and more pain around my neck. J. Blood steadily pumps between my fingers. Her screams are reaching a new level. I force myself to stand, stumbling toward the stairs. As I reach them, I can hear the world tearing apart above me. I need the gun. Each step up the stairs squirts more blood from between my fingers. Finally I get to the last step. I open the closet where we keep the gun. I didn't want one, but she insisted. Why am I moving so slowly? I need to go faster. I get the gun down from the top shelf. It weighs so much. I stumble to the doorway… something is missing. Where are the screams? I come to a swaying stop, standing in the doorway to our bedroom. I can't see her; all I see is the side of a man. Raising the gun takes so much effort. This is the man who did this? He looks so normal. The man with the knife whips around even though I feel like I haven't made a sound. Pulling the trigger as I try keep the gun pointing at him. I'm falling, can't see anything, it's so dark, and the world is crushing me.
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