THE NIGHT was cold and the air murky. Samantha's blood was dark and still warm as it poured out onto the cool pavement from beneath her shoulder blades.
Neil Hunter was afraid.
He couldn't quite remember what had happened . . . here, it's heavy. It takes two hands just to lift it . . . but the results were plainly obvious. Samantha was now dead.
Relax. Hold it down. Expose the neck. That's it. Good, Neil. Good boy.
Samantha's head rested on the alley floor about two feet away from her body. Burning tears welled in Neil's eyes. What had happened to her? And why couldn't he remember it?
Well he could remember it.
Good, son. Don't lose your grip. Lift the axe, aim and drop. Quickly.
He remembered seeing her head rolling away from her body. And hearing the echoes of her screams bouncing off the alley walls.
Something else echoed there, too. Laughter?
Look at them fluttering helplessly about the yard. It's funny, but not funny. It's somehow pitiful. And the worst thing is that I can't help but watch and laugh.
Neil bowed over and released the contents of his stomach onto the cool pavement, beside the fresh crimson liquid pooling on the alley floor.
Steam slowly rose from the pair of liquids.
Beside him, her headless body twitched.
He looked up at the decapitated head through the blur of tears.
"Help me," her lips seemed to say as her mouth moved.
Dad. They won't stop running around. Do they even know they're dead?
And her eyes. They were vacant and staring.
For sometimes her eyes seemed to move, seemed to be following his own movements.
It's nervous twitching, Neil. They'll stop. Funny how they flutter about even after they are dead, isn't it? But we both know that it's really just nervous twitching. Nothing more.
Neil knelt by Samantha's head, the taste of bile still strong in his throat. Although his stomach continued to churn and his heart continued to ache, he could no longer throw up or cry.
He was beyond all that.
Nothing more than nervous twitching. Keep watching son. They'll stop.
Shivering in the cool night air, he picked up her head, the left cheek matted with blood, now cold, and cradled it in his arms.
He could feel her lips working against his chest.
Sort of funny how they twitch. But they're not stopping, Dad. They're not stopping!
-- END --
YOU ARE READING
One Hand ScreamingHorror
* A bookstore that keeps more than dusty old tomes on its shelves * A phantom limb that can reach into the next world * A comic that colors people's lives with terror * Graves unable to hold their wares * A collector of haunted artifacts who gets mo...