Unholy

Don’t pretend he was special because he died... He was nothing more than a human; a fool who made the wrong decision. Why did I listen to those words? The woman in the long black dinner-gown with sparkling sequins – more formal attire then something you should wear to a funeral. I stood only a few feet away, listening to those words; I believed the words. Why? Only God could tell you. This brings us to the day where that woman’s cold words echo throughout my mind: a place of God, the church where the funeral service took place.

Crouching behind the stone altar, I didn’t dare peek over the top or to the side. Something was out there: I could hear the footsteps pouncing off the wooden floorboards like a cat chasing a mouse. My breath struggled through the gateway of my tightly squeezed lips, creating a cloud of mist as the heat condensed. I slapped woollen-gloved hands over my mouth, hoping that no more would rise. It was too late. The elegant pouncing morphed into obsessed scrambling – the predator found its prey.

I leapt into the long wooden pews, hoping the person running to the front of the church didn’t see me. My eyes darted to every corner of the room, looking for a chance to escape; there was none. Sweat began to drip down my pale face in steady drops, my breathing increasing as the person shuffled around the church.

A footstep; I flinched. The altar collapsed to the floor; I squirmed. The light shone in my direction; I cried out. Getting to my feet again, I ran toward the door, hoping with all my heart that I could just get outside and escape. I turned around, the face of the woman staring back so familiar: the one from the funeral. She was dressed more appropriately with a grand fur coat that covered most of her body. The only two things you could see were her face and her hands. In her tanned face (how could one be so tanned in winter time?) I could see the obsessive, perverted glare of a murderer – more so in her emerald eyes than anything else. In the fur gloved hands, she held a wooden stake, the point as sharp as a knife.

I turned, trying to escape this woman using all my might but to no avail. She caught up with me, pressing me against the wall with the stake at my heart.

“You... You were the one who killed him!” I somehow blurted out in one wavy-toned cry. Drops of water began to cascade down my face as small crystals of dread.

“I had to before he struck again,” She pushed back some of my ruffled hair, revealing the two holes that penetrated my neck. With that, I gave her a smirk, grabbing both arms and pushing her against the wall. Two fangs glared at her, mocking as they drew in. The prey had hunted the predator.