The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

54
soon enough, but not his, and not the pure blood of
birth but the stale clotted blood of death.
It was the one part of the ritual he was not
looking forward to, though the poor dog’s tortured
eyes ran it close. Taking a deep breath he walked back
among the bleached mounds and hillocks, the voice a
hook in his brain pulling him on, feeling like one of
the black spirits he was about to summon forth.
He strode among the mourners, crackling with
power, brushing aside a few of the braver pensioners
who tried to bar his way; they were all so old and
decrepit, what kind of a send off was that? They had
tried to keep Gemma in a withered cage too. His eyes
stayed fixed on Mrs Keys’ pinched knuckle of a face,
alabaster behind its veil, her cold eyes still judging,
weighing, judging.
He stooped, barely breaking stride, to pluck a
rock from the path, smiling at its heft. above the sky
moaned, the sun darkening to a bloodball, hanging
like a viscous tumour.
Time to atone, Mrs Keys.
The voice echoed this sentiment, and at its
touch his mouth soured and twitched, his tongue
recoiling as if from a live battery. He was only slightly
aware that he was fully aroused as he descended upon
her.
With the first blow her skull cracked with
eggy aplomb. She let out a kitten cry, nothing more,
that was drowned out by the thunderous flap of the
stone angels flanking the grave as they stretched their
marble wings, rattling their sabres against the plinths.
He brought the rock down again and again,