Blood Moon 2 (Haunted)

River Witch

The gentle trickle of the slow rain rippled through the puddles. He could hear his footsteps echo through the silent night. The clomp of his boots upon the wet blacktop and the luminescent reflection of the street lamps on the wet surface was the only things he could see or hear. Gunpowder filled the cold night, choking him.

He has been running from the shadows. The void. His hands tremble and his lungs ache. Blood drops caress his forearms and slowly streak downward. Like raindrops on a window pain, they leave tiny trails before falling from his fingertips.

This was a normal Monday for Kevin. At the edge of the bridge he pauses for a brief moment. Gasping for breath, He could feel the saliva drip from the roof of his mouth and pool on the large gap of his pink tongue.  His stomach and throat had the familiar burn he has grown to loathe. In large nasty chunks, the contents of his intestines splashed upon the ground.

Sirens. The loud sound of advancing justice whooped and whirred in the backsplash of his surreal nightmare.  No time to recover, Kevin picks up the black leather handbag filled with cash and reaches for his revolver. His shaking hands bump the solid steel in his pocket and he holds the weapon up to the light, examining it, worshipping it’s almighty destructive powers.

In a ritualistic manner he has come rely on in his line of work, he names the weapon after the victim. The sirens become louder and in a panic he tosses the gun over the bridge, watching it slowly sink to the bottom. Unnamed. NEVER has a man of his reputation veered from solid routine before. After all, that is why he was such a successful hit man. Kevin simply blamed his nerves and disappeared into the void as quickly as he came.

The revolver stirred the sand at the bottom of the river making the water murky. It lay motionless and still warm. From the depth’s, a wicked voice whispered a mans name. The sound of her voice permiated from nowhere and everywhere at once. An accent both familiar and frightening in this part of the Bayou.

“The River Witch” as she has been called. Half urban legend and half nightmarish reality. Only the foolish ever tested it. This was what Kevin feared the most. For the River Witch was the keeper of the souls, passing judgement on any evil deed that was unjustifiably carried out.

Death and life, A thin cycle that is as fluid as the river itself. It can be given and it can be taken away. Hoodoo, the simple instrument which balances the scales and keeps the Bayou just.

The whisper from the murky depths became a terrifying scream. Angered. The revolver vibrated and then disappeared completely. Breath was given to Roger Baltimore. The man the witch deemed innocent. His body was pale from blood loss and stained from tragedy, but life was granted once more. As he stood, he felt the cold metal of the revolver bang on his thigh.

Two single words came crawling out of the dead mans lips, suspended in the air.

“Revenge, Kevin, Revenge”

A steady thump upon the pavement, the corpse manoeuvred his way through the still night. His thirst for revenge unquenchable. His fist shattered the glass of the Townhouse, shredding the flesh and leaving shards protruding. Not a single drop of blood spilled.

The sound of glass shattering and the heavy thud of a body in his kitchen warned Kevin that someone was on to him. This was the moment he planned for. He knew, At some point in time, the authorities would catch up to him. From under the couch he branded a shotgun. Loaded and ready to fire, he heard the loud boom and watch a muzzle flash light the darkness. Vague. That was all he could think of. A shadow, THE shadow in the kitchen that he could vaguely see. Did he hit his mark?
Again. This time the echoing boom was replaced with the shattering sound of tiles and glassware. The shadow moved closer still. Unwaivering. Ten feet now. Twelve?  The shadow was close, he knew, the next shot would not miss.

Kevin opened fire once more. He saw the flash and heard the wet stamping sound of the spray of buckshot sinking into flesh. The bright flash revealed the intruder and horror chilled him to the bone.

“I KILLED YOU! I KILLED YOU DAMN IT.” He could hear the fear and anger in his own voice.
Another flash, not his own. A sharp pain and a cold wet numbness came over him. The shadows finally caught up to him.

That Monday was different. He lost. The revolver slowly sank to the bottom of the river once more, stirring up muck. A voice echoed softly. One that was both familiar and frightening in this part of the Bayou.

“Kevin Stanley…The killer of the innocent. You have been judged.”