July 30, 1938


The steps led to a wide foyer and death.

I’m not quite sure how many young men were in that room or how many instructors, only that there were a hell of a lot of them, and they weren’t afraid.

Not of me, not of my guns, and not of death itself.

Which is a shame because they should have been.

I didn’t waste any time speaking. Nor did they, for that matter.

As they scrambled out of their seats, I drew both Colts and opened fire.

The instructors called out commands, and the students obeyed, and so I killed every adult I could see.

The last round split the head of the last instructor, but it didn’t matter at that point.

The students were already upon me.

I’ve been in brutal fights before, but not one so intense or prolonged.

I retreated into a small alcove, my back against the wall as I clubbed those too close to me with the butts of the Colts. For a split second, my enemies gave me time to breathe, and when there’s time to breathe, there’s time to draw another weapon.

The Colts went back into their holsters, and I drew my knife.

There was no artistry to the killing. No deft maneuvers with the blade.

Only blood and death.

I could taste the sharp tang of iron on my tongue, smell it in my nose, and feel it splash hot against me.

The bodies piled up, and the students pulled the wounded and the dead away. Not to care for them, only to try and pry me from my fighting position.

I am no fool.

I’ve been fighting for nearly three hundred years, and I had no plans on dying.

Soon, they no longer dragged their fallen away, and I saw why.

There were perhaps twenty students remaining. Perhaps fewer.

The cries of the wounded and the dying were as sweet as bird song to my ears, and so I climbed over the corpses in front of me, and my enemies fell back.

I put the knife away, reloaded the Colts, and shot those still upright as they tried to run.

Slugs tore through their backs, and not a single shot was a killing one.

Those boys had lost their chance at a quick death.

I went around the room and locked doors and windows.

When I was done, I drew my knife once more and went to work.

I wanted to remind my mother what I could do.

#horror #fear #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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