Saturday, 1 September 2018

Demon Food





Slashed by marks of demonic intent, and racked with pain, the parish priest trailed sticky ribbons of blood as he rolled over and faced approaching death.

Claws, extending and retracting, scraped the floor. The stench of torment and torture dripped, steadily, as it stalked him with brutal precision:  Black tongue flicking over yellowed teeth; tasting the scent of fear.

It’s maw widened into the gorge of doom, as it leapt.

Dog-like it shook him; bent and buckled him, then delicately, and slowly, butchered flesh from bone.  

His screaming self-diagnosis was correct; it would be a lingering bloody death.

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