1931: A Show


I stood and watched the show.

I had come upon a small balcony overlooking an operating theater.

New machinery, glistening and thrumming with the pure sounds of oiled parts, occupied a great deal of the room. Doctors and nurses hastened about the room, moving back and forth between a pair of patients. Around the periphery of the room stood a few men who were, without question, members of Miskatonic’s faculty.

They watched in fascinated silence.

I looked down at the two women in the beds. Neither of them was pregnant from what I could see, and if the concerns of the medical staff were to be believed, then the young women would die before the day was out.

The insemination, it appeared, had gone terribly wrong.

One woman, facing away from me, convulsed on her stretcher as the nurses and doctors tried to strap her down. She threw an arm with such violence that it tore from the socket and sailed across the room to strike the floor with a wet thud. As arterial blood sprayed up and out, showering down upon the staff, the young woman’s stomach beneath the sheet churned and convulsed.

A heartbeat later and her innards exploded out, showering down upon those around her and painting the walls with her blood.

The other patient fared better than her co-sufferer.

As a doctor leaned forward to check on the woman, she threw herself forward with enough strength to lift the gurney off the floor for a split second, and then her teeth sank into his neck. The doctor tried to wrench himself free but only succeeded in leaving a chunk of flesh in her mouth.

The doctor stumbled back, fell into the arms of a pair of nurses and was dragged out of the way as another doctor leapt forward to help secure the now shrieking woman to the gurney. Her body jumped and twisted violently, and when I heard her shoulder break, I drew the Colts.

The first slug took her in the temple and ended her misery.

I took my time with everyone else.

The thunderous roar of the Colts filled the operating theater, drowning out the screams of pain and horror issuing forth from those within the room.

I killed every last one of the bastards, and I was angry there weren’t more.

#paranormal #mystery

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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