Written by P.L Cobb
Something intrinsic, an old instinct perhaps, something linked to her limbic system, caused her to turn around. There was not so much something to see as there was something to be felt. It was glorious and vile. Sharp pains ran down her right leg; a convoluted memory made an attempt at taking a hold on her, but she ignored it.
I’m ready for you, she thought. Just come on and end it already!
Something ancient, a thing older than the hills, a thing older than life itself lurked in the shadowy hallway. She knew it was watching her, waiting for the most opportune moment to show itself.
“You’re looking at it, aren’t you?” she said aloud, her voice mocking. “It must bother you to know that I still have it, attached to my body, and still working, doesn’t it?” It was the leg she was referring to. That was about all she could recall. It was the only reliable piece of evidence from that time, the rest was pure conjecture: a quick blur, cold air, and a heavy weight crushing her body. That could mean anything.
Something began to rustle down the length of the hall. A cool draft began to waft towards her. Just like the last time, a little voice said; her body tensed. The knife in her back pocket felt like a dead-weight. Slowly, very slowly her hand inched towards it, her fingers coiling around the handle like a snake. A switch blade. Someone had left it on the counter downstairs.
Now she began to wonder if it had been left out there on purpose, left there for her. Had the ordeal been orchestrated for this entire purpose? To even the score?
Someone used to live in this house! Were they killed too, all for this? What the hell?
A buzzing noise began to fill everything in the house; there was no corner, crack, or crevice that was safe. It slowly became a deafening roar. There was nothing but buzzing in her head, pushing her off the edge.
Very slowly, very carefully.
Anxiety gripped her. For a split second she froze, her hands halfway to her head, the knife lying useless on the ground. When the buzzing became her entire existence an old instinct kicked in, and she blacked out. Cold. Rushing water pummeling hard bodies into the ground. Flailing. Cold. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
(The switch blade found its way into her shoulder. Red blood coursed down her body.)
(Hands gripped, mangled, strangled . . .)
(Teeth. Teeth. Teeth and hot air. A tongue lashing out greedily, lapping up the blood.)
(The switch blade tore at her shirt as she wrenched it from her flesh. Red blood spurted out in a thick clotted mist.)
(Feet kicking. Her heel making contact with bone, or exoskeleton. A loud crunching.)
(Something squealing over the buzzing, squealing like a damn pig.)
(Guttural coughing. Something slapping her in retaliation.)
(“SHUT THE HELL UP!”)
(“SHUT THE HELL UP!”)
(The switch blade found its way into the creature’s hand. The thing recoiled from her.)
(The buzzing began to die. “Get the hell back!”)
(The buzzing became a miserable whimper.)
“STOP!” A loud shout rang out of nowhere, penetrating the doleful silence. Nothing happened, although she could have sworn that she heard a faint hiss.
The next time it would come for her head.