October 19, 1937


He should have run.

I went back to the university this morning, Colts riding low and easy on my hips. I’d been in a funk the day before, and the dog had helped me shake it.

There was killing to be done, and I had best be about it.

The police were called as soon as I passed by the watchmen, but I could hear the laughter from the other end of the line. The police knew why I was there, and they approved.

I saw a few students, none of whom I was looking for, and so I made my way to the farthest building. It was a small gymnasium, and when one particular scholar of Miskatonic was not actively attempting to return some version of my mother to Cross, he could be found keeping himself in fighting trim.

I’d dealt with Alexander Rylant before, and he’d left the conversation with a pair of black eyes and a right ear that was permanently misshapen.

He’d only been at the campus for two years, though, and he didn’t quite believe I was the threat people made me out to be.

I don’t doubt that he suspected I was the one behind the deaths of several of his colleagues or that he knew I had killed the assassins sent after me.

He just didn’t care.

He believed himself to be untouchable. Above whatever rough justice I might seek to meet out.

When I stepped into the gymnasium, and the raw odor of sweat slipped around me, I saw Rylant with a weighted ball. He glanced at me, sneered, and continued his workout. As I drew closer to him, he let the ball fall to the floor, where it landed on the mats with a dull thud. He turned his back on me and picked up a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“What do you want, Blood?” he asked his tone one of lazy contempt.

I punched him in the back of the head, sending him crashing to his hands and knees. He struggled to get to his feet, but I kicked him hard enough in the groin to lift him off the mat. Gasping, he rolled onto his side and vomited.

 I dropped down onto my knees, straddled him, and used his towel to wipe the vomit from his face as he sought to free himself. When he was suitably clean, I tossed the towel aside, placed my hand over his nose and mouth, and watched him die.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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