Tiny Horror

Jim stayed in his awkward crouch, his boots still skidding slightly across the damp grass as he fought to find his balance. His shoulder hit the cold, unyielding surface of the monument, and he stayed there, half-sitting and leaning against the granite for support. His chest heaved, and the world seemed to tilt with every ragged breath. He stared at her, then back at the stone; his mind refused to reconcile the grandmotherly woman who had shared tea and microfiche with the clinical figure standing before him now.

"It was you," Jim said, his voice a ragged whisper. He looked at the hooded windbreaker and saw her tilt her head at that same bird-like angle he'd seen in the middle of the night. The recognition hit him like a physical blow. "You were here the other night. What was that stuff? That wasn’t paint."

"Bovine blood, courtesy of Mr. Henderson, one of our local butchers," Mrs. Gable said, her voice smooth and devoid of its former warmth. "He is one of The Many. We serve and provide sustenance."

Jim stared at her, his gaze darting to the Nikon lying uselessly in the grass a few feet away. "Sustenance? For what?"

"You wouldn't understand," she replied simply.

She reached into the pocket of her windbreaker, and the sound of a spring-loaded blade clicking into place echoed through the clearing. She held a curved karambit knife, its dark blade reflecting the bruised purple of the twilight sky.

Jim finally tried to push away and scramble sideways, his boots sliding on the damp grass. "What are you doing?" he gasped, the word catching in his throat as he held up a trembling hand. "Please, Mrs. Gable, mercy. Just let me go. Please!"

He tried to swing his heavy camera bag between them as a pathetic shield, but Mrs. Gable moved with a sudden, predatory speed that defied her age. She was a shadow in the fog, her eyes locked on him with a chilling, singular intent.

The tale continues...