War: 8.11.1930


It is not unusual for Death to have a pretty face.

Nor is it unusual for most to be lulled into a sense of false security by such a face.

There are times when Death and I have walked shoulder to shoulder along a bright and well-lit road or crawled through darkness to slit some fool’s throat.

I am still not certain whether this woman was a Reaper or some other creature for whom I lack a name.

I know she was pretty, and that she called to all who passed by the small house she occupied. The fact that the house was still standing, unmarked by the war around it, should have been warning enough. The sight of the house caused my hackles to rise and for my hand to reach for my Bowie knife and not any of my firearms.

My instinct was that the creature within would not be harmed by something as mundane as a bullet.

No, the thing within would need cold steel, if anything, and not hot lead.

As I came close to the door, I considered whether or not I should pass the house by. If I should not leave the creature within alone.

And then, I thought of the creature coming into Cross, and I entered the home.

There were rifles in the hallway, cast off haversacks on the stairs, helmets piled on the landing of the second floor. I followed a trail of shirts and coats to a door at the far end of the hallway, and there, at the threshold, were piles of suspenders and belts, trousers off to one side.

They had undressed themselves for the creature in the room beyond.

The door was ajar, and I pushed it open with the tip of my knife. The hinges were silent, unlike the woman stretched out on the couch.

A soft, sweet song issued from her painted lips, but I knew she was death.

It took her only a moment to understand that I was not like the others, and in that moment, I crossed the room and took her by the hair. As she barred serrated teeth and clawed at me with talons disguised as fingers, I buried the knife to its hilt in her chest.

She vomited bright blood and died on the blade, the screams of a thousand victims exploding from her chest.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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