Christopher clenched the crucifix that hung from the gold chain around his neck but failed to find the comfort he was looking for. It was as though the leaden sky had sealed heaven away from him, left him on his own to deal with this evil. Evil, the forest reeked of it, reeked of things risen from the grave and deeper.
A rumble that might have been thunder but wasn't told Christopher worse was yet to come. Worse. He felt it in his bones. Worse. He felt it on the back of his neck. Worse. He felt in the the cold of the metal within his fist.
Worse. He could not imagine it. Could not imagine worse than the funeral pyre he had left behind. The pyre that he himself had set alight. The blaze that he hoped had commended the souls of the twisted once-human things to the creator; saving them from an eternity of slipping wraith-like through the shadows.
No comments:
Post a Comment