October 10, 1937


They were alone in the building.

I made my way to the Cross campus of Miskatonic University this evening. It is where I’m going to find most, if not all, of those I’m hunting.

According to the list of persons I obtained from the assassin who had ambushed me outside of the First National Stores, the conspirators could be found in the Department of Music. He had given me a list of 15 names, although I suspect there were more he could have told me had he not bled out too soon.

I never had an issue with trimming the student population down either. There were few kind-hearted souls who sought an education from Miskatonic.

The Department of Music is located at the top of a building it shared with the Department of Foreign Languages, and as such, there was always a great deal of traffic.

I slipped in through the back stairs and crept up to the top floor, which was brightly lit and smelled faintly of fresh roses. I could hear voices from behind several of the doors, but I was looking for one office in particular.

That of Doctor Jared Bradley.

When I came to it, I took hold of the doorknob, drew a Colt, and let myself into the room.

A pair of women sat behind a large table and looked at me in surprise. The doctor, I saw, was not in the room.

“Where is he?” I asked.

There was no hesitation from the women, and I admire them for that.

Their hands came up from below the desk, each of them holding a revolver.

But my Colt was already in my hand, and it roared in the small room.

The first slug caught the woman on the right square in the temple, passing through her skull and blowing bones and brains out the other side as the bullet crashed through the glass, shattering it.

The dead woman’s compatriot flinched at the noise and the blood splatter, and her shot went wild.

My second shot took her beneath the right eye, the pressure sending the orb exploding out and leaving it dangling on her cheek as she slid down.

As the building erupted in panic, I holstered the Colt, went forward, and cut out their hearts.

The butcher’s bill was due, and I needed to pay it down.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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