October 17, 1937

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He made a hell of a racket.

I had made my way into the newest of the buildings on the Miskatonic Cross campus, and I was looking for Michael Dunwich. He was the newest nightwatchman, and his name was on the list of those who needed killing.

I had asked around a bit, sent out a few letters here and there, and the information had come in with the order of ammunition from the Schlacters in Connecticut. One of their suppliers had served with Dunwich in the Marine Corps, and he was well-aware of the man.

Dunwich was a murder. He had been discovered in a French villa at the end of the Great War, and he had enjoyed himself with the corpses of several women he had gutted one night.

The Marines hadn’t been able to prove he had done the killing, although he bragged about it after he was drummed out of the Corps. The Schlacters’ supplier warned that the man was dangerous and that he had left a trail of dead men from Tallahassee to Boston.

Dead men weren’t the only ones there’d been more women too.

I wasn’t surprised that he’d found a home at the university or that he’d had a part in the murder of the orphans.

Standing in a stairwell, hidden in shadows, I listened as the man walked through the lower hall toward me. He was whistling, and when I caught sight of him, his mind was not on his job.

I wasn’t kind.

As he passed me by, I stepped out of the shadow, knife in hand, and punched the blade deep into his ribs. Bones cracked as he let out a shuddering breath, the emergency plug-in phone dropping from his hand and clattering to the floor.

I twisted the knife, and he gasped. With my free hand, I dug a thumb into his right eye and scooped it out, the orb tearing away from the nerve and bouncing with a wet smack against the wall.

As he tried to scream, I drove him across the hallway, smashing him into the wall before freeing the knife and slamming it down into his shoulder. I drove him down to the floor, where he gazed up at me, horror on his face.

“I didn’t say you could look at me,” I told him, and I gouged out his remaining eye before I went to work on his heart.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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