I awoke again sticky with dark blood. It hadn’t yet dried but it was coagulated and congealed in clumps down the front of my apron. I sat up. My face felt funny, tight almost. My stomach was heavy, oddly, as I did not recall eating anything before I…I was back in my bed-sit. the nape of my neck tingled, why does this happen to me? I cursed the still and empty room with my sour thoughts. I knew they hadn’t left me. I could feel their eyes all over me. My skin prickled and raised like goose flesh.
I fetched for the mirror to see what made my face feel so peculiar and noticed a smeared red plate, a pot of what looked like blood, a quill and parchment on the bedside cabinet. I wasn’t even aware that I owned a writing station!
I peered into the mirror, the room was dark but I angled it so my face was illuminated by the white light of the moon. My stomach turned and threatened to burst as I realised it was dried up blood on my face. My stomach full. The bloody plate on the side…my head began to swim as saliva filled my open, drooling mouth. I dropped to my knees and noticed a crumpled piece of parchment beneath the table. I reached out and opened it whilst trying to keep the contents of my stomach from deserting me, whatever that may be…I think it best stay there.
the letter began. I started to read the opening line but the ink, or blood, had smeared. I could make out a few words though. One in particular that made me vomit blood…the letter was ruined all except one word. Right at the end like a signature in fact. One word, as chilling as the the night is black, a word that lives in infamy, a word that stalks the streets of Hell…