True to her word, Erica spoke with her
mother privately about the children’s passion for horror stories and the
bonding they were sharing with their grandfather. Since there had been no nightmares, not even
a single request for a nightlight, the matriarch agreed to back down. Her husband did not gloat or even mention the
previous night’s outburst, knowing that she would either come to terms with it
or find suitable distractions during future telling. When it was finally time to resume the story,
the kids were nearly bursting with anticipation. A flying demon, gripping melted slave girls
in its claw, had left a lasting impression.
“Hmm, let’s see,” Grandpa muttered, recollecting his
thoughts. “In the dead of night, the
village square had been reduced to a smoldering pile of charred rubble. Burnt carcasses, melted flesh, splintered
bones and the festering sludge from the shattered cauldron replaced the
once-charming scenery. All night, the
villagers who had hidden remained under cover, none dared to venture out for
fear of being snatched up by the demon.
Even though they longed to sleep, all throughout the long night,
dreadful shrieks echoed on the wind. Thick leathery wings flapped overhead,
circling above the village in search of more souls to devour. Those with faith prayed, those with none sobbed
but by morning the village’s population had dwindled drastically. Through the early morning mist, the
decimating carnage appeared even more surreal backlit by a shimmery sunrise. 
No comments:
Post a Comment