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his gun, a sense of relief came over him. The body
lay motionless—it didn’t breathe or twitch—there was no sign of
life.
    Minutes went by. Scott didn’t dare move on
the chance that it would come to, but it never did.
    He placed his gun back in his pants to free
his hands so he could call 911. Terrified of police involvement,
Scott nearly hung up when he received a dial tone. What will the
cops think? A dead female that appears to have been beaten, then
shot by my gun, and is now lying inside my home.
    There was hope that an autopsy of the black
sludge and internal and external damage would show that this thing
destroyed itself from the inside out, but he was being realistic;
police want an open and shut case, and they have Scott holding the
murder weapon. Case closed.
    The phone stopped ringing. “Hello?” There was
nobody there. “Hello? Is this police dispatch?” Scott asked.
    The line was scratchy due to the weak signal
brought by the storm
    “Luc—“ The line cut out. He listened closer
trying to make out what the dispatcher was saying.
    “Luci—” Someone said.
    “Lucille? I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard
time hearing you.”
    Taking a chance on the dispatcher hearing
him, Scott clearly stated his address and told the person that he
had shot an intruder.
    Then the voice came through clear: “Lucifer
hostis humani generis!”
    Startled, Scott looked at the body; it still
lay lifeless.
    “Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad
vitam!”
    The voice kept repeating the same phrase over
and over.
    Scott hung up the phone and looked at the
body, trying to think of a way to get around the evil corpse that
blocked his egress.
    The body was lying face down in a crumpled
mess of a position. Its hair covered its entire face, so he
couldn’t look for eye movement.
    A crackling sound exploded from the silence.
The head began to move, sliding the black matted hair across the
blood soaked floor. The head turned slowly, and continued turning
causing the vertebrae in its spine to snap loudly, as if someone
had stepped on an old dry tree branch.
    The head continued to turn until it faced the
ceiling, its body still belly-down. With its jaw hanging loosely,
it let out a deafening cry using a myriad of grotesque voices.
    Blood began to ooze from its eye-sockets,
ears, mouth, and nose, while the screaming continued.
    Covering his ears did no good; the power
behind the voices caused the living room window to crack, and
brought Scott to his knees.
    The screaming stopped. On his knees, Scott
stared at the horribly disfigured body. Then in an eerie voice he
had not yet heard, it quietly spoke one word, “Scott?” And then
like a sadistic clown, it began to chuckle.
    Drained of all energy, Scott fired two more
shots into its skull, silencing the madness.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER NINE
     
    Born on Friday the thirteenth, the number
thirteen was never an unlucky number for Scott, and he never bought
into silly superstitions. Raised in a home where the address is,
1300 Cape Way, seemed destiny.
    With an appetite for horror, his viewing diet
consisted of mostly scary films. Never a dark child with even a
hint of malice; Scott was just a child who enjoyed a good scare
from time to time. Oddly, he never scared easy, so the fascination
with horror was more of an outlet for a side of him rarely
seen.
    Art was a talent that presented itself in his
early drawings. Even in elementary school, Scott was accused of
tracing the images seen in his works. Images of cartoon witches,
goblins, vampires, and other various creatures of the night, flowed
from his number-two pencil with ease. Eventually, Scott was able to
look at paintings from his favorite fantasy artists, and sketch
their every detail with perfection.
    Then there was music. Drawn to the guitar at
age sixteen; Scott quickly learned his way to mastery of the
fingerboard. Haunting classical pieces from the likes of