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  • Everything In The House Was Dead...

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        Saturday, May 19, 2007

    Everything In The House Was Dead...

    ...and only one thing moved. From corpse to corpse, feeding, drinking its fill, and moving to and fro, like a confused person at a large buffet table.

    Outside, car tires crunched on the drive, and headlights sluiced across the walls, and the creature snarled, red vines of the blood of others dangling from its chin like the fell tentacles of some Cthulic nightmare. As the headlights went off, its slitted eyes widened again to show blood red, soulless balls, and as it heard the car door open, and a man's boots step out one by one, the creature sprang to its favorite ambush position, and waited, silent, except for the occasional drip of blood from the abattoir of its mouth that spattered down to the floor.

    The man came up to the door, unawares, and jingling his keys, the grocery sack in one arm crackling with paper noise, he fidgeted the keys until he found the proper one, slid it into the lock and bumped it just so, and swung the door open and stepped into Hell...

    The creature (had it a living heart, it would have been beating an excited, brilliant tattoo) braced up there against the ceiling to the upper left of the door in the corner, waited for the door to swing all the way closed, and it leapt as it heard the latch click true...

    The man fired his silenced pistol through the sack with his left hand, and the bag exploded into large confetti and even silenced, the blast seemed to suck all the air from the room, then fired again, both rounds impacting the hips of the thing, and it spun in the air hissing and fell clawing at the sodden carpet with taloned fingernails. The man split open its skull with two more don't want to do that when something is above you...and it began to jitter and jump on the floor, and to reassemble.

    "Oh no you don't..." and the man snapped off a leg from an overturned coffee table and pinned the monster to the floor through whatever remained of its heart, and now only the heels drummed. He slid out his short British machete from the scabbard mounted behind his neck and down his back, and the inlaid silver holy words gleamed in the ambient light from outside for a moment, until he lopped off its head, and flicked it across the room with the tip of the blade.

    He unslung a wineskin full of diesel and naphtha from under his coat, cleaned his blade with a rag soaked in it, dried it with another, and returned his tool to the scabbard. Then he went methodically around the room, kicking a hole in a wall here and there, squirting in a goodly portion of the brew, and then dropping in a pre-timed igniter pen.

    He saved the last to pour on the head and body of the murderer, shoving an igniter into its fang-filled mouth, and flipping another down to stick into its chest.

    "Have a little fire, Scarecrow..." he whispered, and snickered to himself. Then, perhaps chastened by the innocent death surrounding him, he turned to leave. At the door, he opened it, and took the booties off his boots one at a time, stepping out onto the porch and tossing each bloody one back inside. The carpet was a swamp of human ichor, as he had known it would be.

    He drove backwards down the driveway, and pulled up on the edge of the country lane. These beasts loved the country. He waited until he saw the first cheery glow shine through the windows of the dead house. Yes, fire would cleanse this place. To be sure, he waited until the glow brightened again, and then yet again, and satisfied, he drove away.