In Gods’ Hollow: May 30, 1912


She was sweet, pretty, and thirsty, and she nearly took an eye.

The young woman knocked on my door shortly after noon, her face flushed with the warmth of the day and a tired, apologetic smile on her face. She asked if she could trouble me for a glass of water, and I told her she could have one of milk if she was so inclined.

She flashed me a bright, easy smile, and told me she would very much appreciate one.

I led her into the study and bade her sit, and then I retreated to the kitchen for the promised glass of milk.

As attractive as she was, there was something strange about her. She had an accent I couldn’t quite place, and the pin on her label represented an organization I knew nothing of. A rarity for me.

On the floor above me, some of the boys were racing through the halls. They knew to stay away from certain rooms and to keep to only those places I had marked as safe. My home was dangerous. Perhaps not as dangerous as the hell from which I had rescued them, but it was a challenging place, nonetheless.

Pouring a beer for myself, I brought the drinks into the study and handed the milk to her. She waited until I took a seat to sip her beverage, and after I had taken a rather large drink of my beer, she smiled and asked, “Is your wife home?”

I shook my head. “I’m not married, Miss.”

“I thought I heard children,” she remarked, glancing at the ceiling.

I nodded. “You did. Some nephews are staying a bit.”

Her smile broadened, and she placed her glass on the table beside her. She smoothed out the pleats of her skirt, and then sprang from the chair.

I saw the knife in her hand at the last moment and was able to turn it aside.

The smile on her face remained fixed in place, even as she brought the knife slashing back toward me.

I caught her arm, twisted her wrist before she could switch the knife to her free hand, and drove the blade up under her chin and into her brain. She collapsed onto me and slid lifeless to the floor.

I sat still for a moment and stared at the glass in my hand.

She’d made me spill my beer.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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