Casually Cruel

I almost do

The robed figures stood still as statues. The only movement was the flickering light from the candles they held. 

"What. The. Actual. Hell." Jon's voice was gruff from lack of use. It petered out at the end of his sentence to something barely above a whisper. He needed a drink. He needed to get out of there. 

But the figures were still, unmoving as their candles burnt down. 

He could feel the panic rising in his chest. Who were these people? They varied in height - in size. positioned equidistant from each other. 

"Who are you?" he hissed. "What do you want."

Jon's head whipped around taking them all in. Then, he started counting them out loud - his voice gaining strength with each number. 

"one."

"two."

"three."

"four"

"five"

"six"

"seven"

"eight"

"nine"

"ten"

"eleven"

"twelve"

There were twelve of them. One for each month of the year. One for each year he'd lived in Los Angeles. One for each of Christ's disciples, each tribe of Israel, each egg in the carton in his fridge, each donut in the pink box on his kitchen island - probably covered in bugs by now. He could feel himself disintegrating while twelve sets of glittering eyes stared out at him from behind boned masks. Who were these people? Why were they doing this it him?

Then, the one directly in front of him - backlit by the door - cocked their head to the side.