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Ill Omen
#HalloweenHorrorChallenge #RAMcKinnley #WriterVsWriterChallenge #Horror #Halloween #Abuse #authorsofinstagram #author #shortstory #story
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Ill Omen
The streetlights were dim tonight, nothing new. The cities power grid had been awful for years now and the church was in an older part of town.
Father John Martin made the trek back to his Parish from the shelter he had been volunteering tonight. The stench of stale bread and body odor soaked into his vestments like blood into an old carpet. Walking up the steps leading to his rectory he noticed the lights had been shut off. He didn't remember switching them off and the power seemed to be on, albeit faint.
He tugged on the door open; it creaked and moaned open revealing a dark void. No color, no objectivity. Father Martin navigated the room through familiar instinct. Enroute to his sleeping chambers he passed his office, a quaint little place to catch up on paperwork and plan that weeks sermon. He has walked past it a million times before, lumbering the same tired shuffle...the enthusiasm lost years ago. Yet tonight the air seemed heavier, almost as if he was moving through a dense fog.
Straight to bed...none of the normal, habitual hygienic pleasantries tonight. No, this was a man far too exhausted to worry about such menial tasks. For tonight at least.
The fathers rest was short lived as the smell of smoke filled his nose like waves crashing in the ocean. He jumped out of bed, running desperately to escape the sweltering inferno. With each step he took, he could feel the air being drained from his lungs. Falling to the floor he peered a blurry gaze around him...no fire, no ash...not even a bit of smoke. Father Martin stood up, visibly baffled by the events that had just transpired.
Room to room he searched, checked, ventured. looking aimlessly, hopelessly for a shred of logic or reason. Perhaps he was merely having a dream that bled into his waking mind and confused him...yes, yes that must be it. Simply a dream.
Walking back toward his chambers, the priest glanced over into his office again. To his shock and fright, a small shadowed figure of a child sat on his desk, tapping her heels against the aged walnut. She appeared to be no older than 8 or 9 years old and her features became more noticeable as he entered the room. Her long blonde hair was pulled tightly into a braid, porcelain skin was tainted by the spatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks...her eyes were a color he had...
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Ill Omen
The streetlights were dim tonight, nothing new. The cities power grid had been awful for years now and the church was in an older part of town.
Father John Martin made the trek back to his Parish from the shelter he had been volunteering tonight. The stench of stale bread and body odor soaked into his vestments like blood into an old carpet. Walking up the steps leading to his rectory he noticed the lights had been shut off. He didn't remember switching them off and the power seemed to be on, albeit faint.
He tugged on the door open; it creaked and moaned open revealing a dark void. No color, no objectivity. Father Martin navigated the room through familiar instinct. Enroute to his sleeping chambers he passed his office, a quaint little place to catch up on paperwork and plan that weeks sermon. He has walked past it a million times before, lumbering the same tired shuffle...the enthusiasm lost years ago. Yet tonight the air seemed heavier, almost as if he was moving through a dense fog.
Straight to bed...none of the normal, habitual hygienic pleasantries tonight. No, this was a man far too exhausted to worry about such menial tasks. For tonight at least.
The fathers rest was short lived as the smell of smoke filled his nose like waves crashing in the ocean. He jumped out of bed, running desperately to escape the sweltering inferno. With each step he took, he could feel the air being drained from his lungs. Falling to the floor he peered a blurry gaze around him...no fire, no ash...not even a bit of smoke. Father Martin stood up, visibly baffled by the events that had just transpired.
Room to room he searched, checked, ventured. looking aimlessly, hopelessly for a shred of logic or reason. Perhaps he was merely having a dream that bled into his waking mind and confused him...yes, yes that must be it. Simply a dream.
Walking back toward his chambers, the priest glanced over into his office again. To his shock and fright, a small shadowed figure of a child sat on his desk, tapping her heels against the aged walnut. She appeared to be no older than 8 or 9 years old and her features became more noticeable as he entered the room. Her long blonde hair was pulled tightly into a braid, porcelain skin was tainted by the spatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks...her eyes were a color he had...
