They found me.
Or, rather, I found them.
I was moving through a gully, the faint hint of tobacco on the breeze telling me that my prey was near. I could hear whispering in French, the click and hum of a field-telephone. When I came in around the corner, I saw them.
One man asleep at the far end, one close to me on the field-telephone, and another five gathered around a periscope.
I heard my name whispered on their lips, and they bent to their task once more.
There are monsters in the Hollow, and I am one of them.
When they saw me, they went for their weapons.
I dragged the man on the telephone to his feet, the bullets of his comrades striking him instead of myself. Fury drove me forward, and I hurled the freshly made corpse at the gathered men. The sleeper struggled to his feet as I clawed my way through his comrades.
The bones in my hands broke as I crushed skulls within their helmets, collapsed orbital sockets and gouged out eyes. Men drowned in their own blood as I tore throats out with my teeth.
I was awash in the blood of my enemies, and I rejoiced in the cold brutality of it.
The sleeper raised his rifle, took aim, saw the last of his comrades collapse, and tried to flee.
I sprang upon, grasped his thick hair with a hand newly mended and still slick with blood, and drove his head into the earth. I pressed his face deep into the loom until I felt his forehead give way, his brains spill out onto the ground.
Behind me, the others gasped out their last, and I was alone with the dead.
A small fire sprang up among the leaves, ignited by a dropped cigarette. As the flames grew, I took my leave of the dead.
In my mouth, I tasted the coppery tang of their blood, and it was good.
#horror #fear #art #christmas
