The Priest's fingers spit out holy water, which sizzles on the walls. He circles the living room chanting useless words from a book. The Victim is sitting on the sofa, rocking, smelling like sweat and death. And I am waiting unseen on the ceiling.
"Begone demon!" The Priest yelled.
The demand makes me smile. Weak Priest. The Victim is mine. And they will have their endless nightmares, blood-letting scratches, and my wicked whispers. They will see the images of my twisted, contorted, vile body.
I am their Hell, Priest.
I won't leave...
because I'm still rotting in the basement.
About the Creator
K. Kocheryan
I write, delete, write, and on most days, delete again.
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A Letter to The Next One
"The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own." That is what you will believe at first and maybe until the very last moment. So, as I write this letter sitting in front of the mirror you came across, I think of two things: the first moment my eyes laid upon my reflection and the second, the realization of a strange truth that the mirror holds. And as I listen to the slow creaking footsteps behind me, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder…
By K. Kocheryanabout a year ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Wow that last line really sealed it. Nicely done!