July 22, 1938


I hate trap doors.

The damned floor gave out underneath me and dropped me into a hell of a spot.

There were at least a dozen men in the room, and while they weren’t packing any sort of firearms, they were soldiers, and they weren’t afraid.

Not of death, and not of me.

Which, I suppose, was fine because I wasn’t either.

It took me about a half-second to take stock of the situation. The men were young, healthy, and interrupted in the middle of several games of pool. A few of the soldiers held pool cues, and in the space of a single breath, the men acted.

They rushed me as I drew both Colts, some of the men pausing to snatch up pool balls or cues.

There was no false bravado from them. For a moment, all that was audible in the large room was the thud of footsteps on the floor.

But only for a moment.

The Colts roared, and some of the men went down while the others reached me. They swarmed over me even as I pulled the triggers, killing those closest to me. One man leaned in close as my right Colt went dry, and I bit the nose clean off his face.

Even then, the silence remained unbroken.

Pool cues were broken across my head and back, and one of the bastards managed to shove one clear through my stomach. I took hold of the blood-slick wood, held it, and gouged his eyes out before someone hit me upside the head with a ball. With my vision swimming, I dug my pruning knife out and set to work on anyone foolish enough to get too close.

At some point, I lost track of time, and before I knew it, I alone was alive in the room.

I pulled the broken stick from my belly and got to my feet. As my body stitched itself back together, I saw that more men had come to assist the first I had come upon.

I counted thirty-nine dead, and by the blood trails out of the room, there were more than a few wounded as well.

I wiped my guns down, reloaded them, and spit fragments of teeth onto the floor. Teeth took longer to grow back, and they hurt like hell when they did.

I confess I was in a bad mood, and so I went looking for the wounded.

I wanted them to know just how angry I was.

#horror #fear #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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