#7 Rory

| November 9, 2010 | 0 Comments

It was finally over.

Tears collected in the purple corners of Rory’s eyes. Spilling over in a slow cascade ´╗┐down her flushed cheeks and tracing along her jawline, they dripped onto her white tank top in a discolored blob on her chest. Splotchy bruises plotted a course up her frail, feminine arms. Her hands a severe crimson, contrasting with the alabaster of her elbows and neck. She held an ornate dagger, its blade matching the red hue of the fingers that grasped it so tightly.

Rory wept fiercely, slumped into a corner of her cozy living room. The television blared white noise, its scrambled glow lit the nearby area. Black and white photos of her family looked down on her, less reassuring and more accusatory.

A body laid sprawled out on the floor. Human, mostly.

Its brown fur damp and matted with blood. The shirt on its body was torn and more resembled a frayed cape. Deep trenches were dug into the maplewood floor in jagged lines originating from thick, onyx claws. Its snout was swollen, dripping mucus formed a small puddle underneath a row of exposed feral teeth.

Frantic knocking at Rory’s front door broke the tense drone of her cries. Rory looked up at the door and drew in a breath, raising the dagger to her chest and squeezing it harder than before. The knocking turned into violent banging. Rory pulled her knees into her chest and peered at the small window at the top of the door. It was night, and she could see the moon beyond the trees. Perfectly round, a disc of ivory pocked with tiny slate divots — it seemed brighter than its older, yellow brother. She would stare at the familiar orb at night when her parents were away and sleep would escape her, finding security in its consistency.

Rory’s view of the moon was interrupted when rabid eyes met hers through the small window. They were golden and wild, yearning for her. The banging grew more intense. Small splinters erupted from the door with each slam. Sensing the urgency of the situation Rory rose to her feet and backed out of the room. She headed into the dark hallway, never looking away from the door. Eventually, her back bumped a wall and she leaned against it. She would have to fight again, she thought.

A drop of warm liquid fell onto her forehead, and Rory wiped it away casually. Another drop hit her in the same spot, this time accompanied by a moist, tepid breeze. She went to wipe her forehead again, but stopped when she realized. Her heart clenched and her face dropped. There was no wall behind her, only horror.

She could hear a dozen voices baying as rows of snarling teeth pierced her skin.

***

Category: Horror

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