The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

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behind. Her screams fill the world, fill the park, and,
from somewhere, I hear sirens. I curse as she cuts
around a tree, and I try to slow and cut her off, so
close, an arm’s length, but she is gone again, her rapid
gait out-pacing me. I am the Butcher. As she turns,
an idea strikes me then, and I pull back my arm, and
throw my hammer as hard as I can. It hits her in the
back, left of the shoulder, and she goes down. Triumph
soars, and I run to her, just she peels herself off the
ground.
With a knee to her side, she goes down, her
breath stolen from her, and I have her pined. She is
struggling, and I allow her to roll over, and I catch
the bare fear in her eyes, I can smell it, and I have
my hands on her throat, squeezing, crushing, clutching.
I look at her face, red, her eyes bulging, thin lips
pursing, gagging as I crush her windpipe. I am the
Butcher. This isn’t how I work, this isn’t what I do,
but it will have to suffice. The sirens are nearing now;
I can hear them, messengers of my demise. I squeeze
harder, the pain in my forearms and shoulders erupting,
on fire as I press her down into the dirt, grinding
her hair into the gravel. She lifts her hand up, fluttering,
weakly, like a bird, how quaint, how pathetic,
how-
My world is pain. I fall backward, clutching
at my eye, clutching as blood rolls. I can still feel her
nail, though it was in my socket for only a second, it
was a second of eternal pain. I hear her moving, gasping.
Getting away. I reach out blindly, reaching, clawing,
the hammer nearby, I know it. Nothing but grass
and dirt greets me, and, through my good eye, I see