Pueblecito of ill-met fame, whose people pay another's shame. Where day is long and life is short and death, is a singular and awful thought.
domingo, 19 de junio de 2011
Meet Father DiMatteo - He's new...
Vomit sprayed against the white-painted wall, creating a decorative effect of brown and green.
The girl tied to the bed arched her body up, straining against the cords which held her at wrist and ankle.
Her voice deepened, the echo of a multitude of tormented souls resounding chillingly round the room. A rank stench crept out from the emaciated figure as wounds formed, rotted and burst into putrescent life on her exposed skin. She writhed her hips seductively and blew a kiss at the figure hunched at the foot of her stained mattress.
“YOU KNOW YOU WANT ME...”
The slap of wood against flesh drew a horrific scream. It was ignored, the only response the monotone repetition of unintelligible words, which ended in a roar.
“THAT DIDN’T WORK LAST TIME...AND IT WON’T DO SO NOW!” With a wrench the girl’s right hand was free. It tore at the restraining straps, shredding the cord in manic frenzy. Now the figure moved. A man rose from his kneeling position, flicking the sleeves of his robe away as he unclasped his hands.
“I am sorry, my child,” he murmured.
Two sharp cracks interrupted the cursing girl’s movements, stopping her in mid-leap in a welter of blood and brain-matter.
Father Alfonso DiMatteo stared intensely, focusing his eyes past the smoking pistol barrel onto the remains of the girl’s skull. Lambent light looked back.
“DO YOU THINK THIS A VICTORY, PRIEST? I WILL BE BACK. WATCH FOR ME WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. I WILL NOT...”
The gun spoke again. DiMatteo had heard it all before.