Evening, September 9, 1880

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It was a hell of a fight.

They’re relentless, and I can appreciate that.

They just shouldn’t have been relentless with me. It cost them.

The townsfolk planned to flush me out, but that didn’t work.

I was in a good position with plenty of ammunition and patience to spare. I reloaded the Berdan and kept an eye on the people making their way towards me. One woman, standing a little off to the left, called out orders and one of the men near her translated into Russian.

They were both prime targets.

As she directed her people to spread out, I put a bullet through her left eye and appreciated the expression of shocked horror that appeared on the translator’s face. It mingled well with her blood.

Those unaffected by the shot scrambled for cover.

The translator wiped his face, blinked, and seemed to realize the position he had left himself in. By the time he started moving, I’d already reloaded.

The bullet took him in the small of the back, clipping his spine and dropping him like a sack of barley.

His screams punctured the evening air.

People yelled to one another in the strange language, and someone in Russian hollered back they couldn’t understand a damned thing being said.

A young man popped his head up to see if he could spot me, and I took the top of his head off for his trouble. His corpse encouraged the others to remain behind cover.

Keeping an eye on them, I backed out of my position and spotted a large swath of forest nearby. Without turning my back on the town, I retreated to the forest and settled down into a new position.

From my new position, I watched as a unit of troops moved in from the far end of town, an orthodox priest at the head of the column. Several of the townspeople stood up, and when I didn’t blow their brains out, they searched the buildings. One of them found the dead woman, and a collective wail of dismay rose up.

She was carried out and placed with the others I had slain.

They brought the bodies to the priest, and he spoke over them, his words lost to the wind.

That was fine, though.

There’d be plenty more opportunities for me to hear him speak.

Of that, I was certain.

#horrorstories #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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