(45) Seemed To Have Backfired

Clayton crouched, panting, sweat dripping from his face. He reached down, pulling his dagger from the back of Clint’s head, where it met his neck, and wiped it on the man’s shirt. He sheathed it at his waist and, rising slowly, nudged the body into the alley’s shadows with his foot.

This was not a frequently-trafficked route, and most who used it would not look twice at a body in the shadows.

Can’t rat me out, now.

He had to do it, of course. Clint was behaving suspiciously. He constantly asked how Clayton was holding up, how he was feeling. He had never been so interested in Clayton’s well-being.

No, he was up to something. Probably took a plea deal. Offered to bring Clayton in if they granted him leniency. Well, that was not going to happen. Clayton was not some young pup prowling the backstreets.

He ran them.

Stalking through the back and side paths, his heart calmed, his breathing slowed. This was his territory. Nothing could frighten him in his domain—

He whipped around, the dust cloud kicked up by the motion trailing behind, as if delayed. He stared at the shadows—empty. The sun was just above the horizon, and its shadows were long and thick.

His bloodshot eyes were wide, ringed by dark circles, as he stared, unblinking. After several seconds of silence, he turned around slowly, continuing on his way.

His pace began to quicken, gait moving from relaxed to brisk and, eventually, to a jog. The darkness clawed at him, every shadow hiding motion, yet it was always gone when he glanced at it, slipping past his gaze like water on oil.

All around me. Watching. Waiting.

After a twitchy jog through town, he entered the alley that hid the door to his house. He had a front door, of course, but he used it only when he was comfortable being seen.

Slipping in the back door, he stopped, his feet frozen to the ground. His eyes were locked onto the glassy, distant gaze of the farm wife, hanging limply from the ceiling at the top of the stairs.

Sweat dripped down his back, yet he felt cold, as if the temperature had dropped dozens of degrees.

The back door opened into a hall with a staircase up to the second floor, where his bedroom was, while a door next to it led to the first floor, including the front door.

The stairs being out of the question, he opened the door to the kitchen, the only other door in this hall, and recoiled, his back hitting the door to the alley.

Before him stood the charred, eyeless corpse of the farm husband. He stood straight, though his head hung limply against his chest, yet somehow, Clayton could feel his gaze on him. It was as if his sockets were a void drawing his stare, his thoughts, his very soul, in.

Bursting through the back door, Clayton sprinted down the alley. He did not know where he was going, only where he could not go.

On the roof!

The farmer stared at him with empty sockets, and Clayton could hear his breath, rasping through a windpipe scoured by flames.

Alley!

The other farmer swung in the entrance to a side alley, staring at him. Accusing.

He sprinted through town, ducking into alleys, weaving through side streets, and even crossing main thoroughfares, much to the chagrin of passersby. None could see the corpses that tormented him. None could feel the threat breathing down his neck.

He was not sure where he was going, but he knew he was being shepherded, guided. The creatures constantly appeared to block his way, leaving him only one direction to run: toward his judgment, maybe his death.

His breath came in jagged gasps, though not from physical exertion. His body was slick with sweat, though not from running. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and circled by deep, dark rings.

He did not care how it ended, as long as it did.

————————————————

Baron Buchanan gazed upon the ruins of the Halfords’ farm, his expression grim. His guilt had not faded, even after several days. How had this happened on his watch, right under his nose?

What a failure.

A commotion drew his attention toward the road. His soldiers were mustering, gathering to block the path from the road to where he stood. Intending to spend time here investigating the arson, he had brought a full contingent of soldiers this time, and they now gathered in an intimidating display.

The noonday sun shone down brightly, and he had to cover his eyes with his arm to see a man kneeling before his soldiers, apparently screaming his head off.

This book’s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

As he approached, the baron began to notice rather striking details. The man was gaunt, his pallid skin sucked to his bones, despite what appeared to be agile musculature. His eyes were bloodshot and yellowed around the edges, and purple rings darkened his sockets.

His auburn hair, down to just below his ears, was a chaotic tangle, debris visible throughout. His clothes were disheveled and torn, as if he had crawled through the underbrush to get here.

“What is going on?” the baron boomed, now feet from the backline of his soldiers.

“Sir, this individual arrived at a sprint, screaming something about—” a soldier began, but he was interrupted by a guttural shout from the kneeling man.

“Please! It was me! I’m here! Make it stop!” he bellowed.