October 11, 1937

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The M1 Garand packs a hell of a kick.

Doctor Jared Bradley was holed up in his house, on the top floor, and waiting for me.

Where he managed to get his hands on a Garand, I don’t know.

I do know that he used it well and that the first round he fired passed through the bedroom door and into my shoulder, taking most of the muscle with it.

I don’t like to lose my temper, but this time, well, I surely did lose it.

I have a dim memory of kicking the door in and storming into the room as he put a shot close enough to take my left ear clean off my head.

It was too late for him by then.

Perhaps he hoped to injure me enough to affect an escape. Perhaps it was nothing more than an attempt to quicken his own passing.

Neither of these occurred.

I tore the Garand out of his hands with my good arm and threw it across the room. As he struggled to rise from his chair, I punched him hard enough to break bones in my hand and collapse the left side of his face.

Blood and teeth splattered onto the floor, and as he fell, I stomped on his chest, shattering ribs. His sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he tried to crawl away from me, moaning and whimpering as he did so.

But the man had ordered the killing of children, and there was no mercy in me.

As he tried to move to safety, a cold and bitter calm settled over me. I walked around him, alternately kicking and driving the heel of my boots into him.

By the time I was finished, he lay on the floor, barely breathing.

The bones in my hand had healed, the injured shoulder had stitched itself back together, and my ear had returned.

Squatting down beside him, I drew my knife, flipped him onto his back and cut his suit and vest and shirt away from his shattered chest.

Despite the damage he had suffered, he still managed a squeal of pain as I made the first cut beneath the sternum.

I took my time digging his heart out.

As I said, I’d lost my temper.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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