Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one

Has he been asleep for long? He doesn’t quite recall falling asleep in the meadow either, come to think of it. A yawn passes his lips before he stretches across the rug. Rug. Where had that word come from? While he knows the word, knows that it means a material, soft, sprawling across the floor, he doesn’t know how he knows that word.

While Kult is not an idiot, he is not often perceived as an intelligent creature either. He is few in words, even less in displays of acknowledgement, his eyes bid nothing in reaction. Perhaps that is why many thought him slow, simple minded. Many would judge his book by its cover, many would falsely interpret him, it made no difference to Kult. He is not one to pine for acceptance, he simply was who he was, take it or leave it. A palm touches his shoulder, eliciting a feral reaction in return. He grabs the arm of whomever it is that is touching him, twisting the appendage, his fingers clasped tightly against the flesh. Fingers. He had been slow to rouse, now his dark eyes flicked open taking in the surroundings so unfamiliar.

The first thing that requires attention is the body to which he clings, turning the arm in an unsightly way. The protests are now filling his ears from the man which the part belonged to. Everything was slowly phasing into perspective now that he was conscious, waking. Somewhere out of focus a fire crackles in a hearth, giving light and warmth to whatever place this was. The edges of his sight unblur, followed by the clarity of his hearing humming into intelligible words. ”Kult..Kult, Kult. Can you hear me, gir’off me.” An impatient snapping of fingers, accentuated by uncomfortable groans, a man whom he did not know was trying for his attention. Perhaps man is an overstatement, a male, not a day over twenty stared at him through milky blue eyes. Uniform blue like a cloudless sky, they are perhaps the loveliest thing about him. His hair stuck out in uneven tufts from beneath his worn tan cap, as if he elected to cut his own hair with dull shears, rather than pay a barber.

His clothes are unkempt. A sleeved, dingy- white colored shirt with a button collar, and plain brown trousers an inch too short. He kept his slacks held up unnecessarily with suspenders, beneath a heavy oversized coat. Most of what he wore appeared to be hand me down, completing his homely look. Though he is perhaps considered a man of his time, he was still very boyish, with a round face, and nervous posture. His hands are rough from work, callused on the fingers and palms, and he was dirty. Peter, Peter Miller. The name came to his mind as if he knew this boy, had known him for a while now. It is while he is thinking on this fact, that his dark eyes trail up the arm, his arm, to his still clasped palm. He releases the boy’s wrist, staring down at his five fingers, flexing them as he turns the new extremity over and over.

Another body approaches in the firelight, this one is smaller, female. She is slight in stature, no more than 5 feet tall, shapely, with dark brown hair. The curls are pulled up and pinned to the back of her elegant head, with stray spirals falling about her face, pulling attention to her gentle hazel eyes. She smells of sweat, too much perfume and stale lager. When she smiles, her painted lips bring an uncommon whiteness to her even teeth. A delicate hand reaches for his cheek but he pulls away looking at her coldly. Her smile fades, the corners of her mouth pulling tightly to match the furrowed concern in the lines of her forehead. “Are you alright Kult? We need to pick a door, grab your coat.” She herself wears a plain, thistle-colored dress, belted at the waist, topped with a long coat that runs the length of her gown.

“Coat?” He questions looking at her flatly as she responds by pointing to a rack on the far wall. Catherine, Kate, that is what she is called. Kate. The woman takes a sidelong glance at Peter, who returns her concerned gaze with a shrug. Somehow they all knew each other, they sure seemed to know him, but not well enough. If they had really known him, they would have known not to touch him, would not have made any attempt to. He makes to cross the room, to retrieve this shock of fabric she called a ‘coat’, stumbling with his first step. What was wrong with his legs? Of course he finds that like the two others, he travels on his two hind legs, really the only legs he has now. Carefully he takes another step, feeling the adjustment, the placement of the weight he carries so awkwardly. His shoes are leather, worn but sound with life still in them. They are not pretty by any means, but they were a lot better than the slipper-like ones that Kate wore, or the too-tight loafers Peter shoved his own feet into.

Reaching the coat rack he lifts the only covering left. This one is deep brown and frayed at the seams but warm. He looks at it a moment, considering the wrapping before holding it aloft to place his arm inside the hole. Turning in a circle of a dance as he tries to put his coat on, he catches his reflection in a mirror on the wall. A pale face looks back at him through sunken dark eyes, rimmed with hard circles as if he had not slept in ages. His mane, no his hair fell to his shoulders in long greasy tendrils, something about him that could use a good washing. Grey hair was brushed across both his temples, adding age to his young, unlined face, which was sporting a five o’clock shadow. From the corner Kate clears her throat before speaking, “Kult, you need to choose a door.”

Choose a door Kult, choose a door, a door Did she ever shut up? He thought frowning in the mirror before knocking it to the floor, pieces shattering against the wood slats. Deftly fixing the buttons of his jacket, he turned stormily and grasped the red door, swinging it wide with force. He discovered that if he did not think to hard on how alien this body was, it was much easier to operate. “Choose” He smirked crookedly, gesturing with his free hand to the girl, ladies first. She gathers her purple dress in a now gloved hand, walking pointedly out the door, Peter follows tipping his head to Kult as he passes the frame. Rolling his vapid eyes, Kult follows, pulling the door shut behind them as they emerge onto a lamp-lit street.

Peter and Kate seem unphased by the fact that they have walked out into the night from a door inside a mansion. He knew that possibility was slim and none, some sort of something was going on here, and why he was the one that was not oblivious was pinching his temper. “Best walk Ms. Eddowes back to the lodging-house.” Peter suggested, taking Kate’s arm as they strolled down the cobbled streets. Kult followed, somehow he was associated with this party, and he was determined to find out why, and how.

Ms. Eddowes he called her, was far too cheery of a woman, laughing sweetly as they walked down the path. She sang time to time, still holding Peter’s arm, patting his shoulder with her free hand. They whispered to one another as well, smiling back at him , as if he too was in on their secrets. He didn’t like their smiles, either of them, they filled him with an uncertainty. Did he have amnesia? How long had he been here? Was this some sort of dream? All questions, all needing answers, and all while the two idiots sang songs and smiled. He isn’t sure why he would ever fall into the company of such imbeciles, honestly he isn’t sure he has. This is someone’s trick or better, someone’s game he convinces himself, as they all stop at the sound of footsteps. He finds nothing as he turns on the spot, squinting into the distance against the yellow lamp light. Peter and Kate begin whispering, Did you hear that? What was that? Mostly it is Kate’s broken voice excitedly asking hushed questions as she pulls at Peter’s sleeve. Grasping the rough cloth as if it will save her from the potential danger.

Kult only only smiles, he finds he likes the way she trembles much more than her singing voice. Shrugging off what they have just heard, he gestures forward once more, they might as well carry on. Peter’s milky eyes find his, he can tell the boy is afraid. He knows for sure he is afraid as he takes Kate’s arm, shushing her and leading her forward again. The set pace is much quicker now. So much so, that Kate has to use her free hand to hold her skirts, balling her first with fabric. The two pause, they need to turn right onto Church Passage, only thing is the street is sparsely lit and his companions cower at the dark. Kult grabs Peter’s elbow pulling him forward on to the unlit path, they were both being ridiculous and stalling. He was ready to be rid of the woman, one way or another, and if they could take her back to where they had found her- all the better.

It is not long before they hear the footsteps striking the stones behind them once more. This time Kate screams, filling Kult with unreasonable rage. Did the bitch not know how to be quiet? He wanted to know who was following them, wanted to know why. Did he want to play a game? His two companions were ruining his good fun he thought, snatching Kate by the back of her neck. Yanking downward so that the woman is looking up at him, back bent as she whimpered. She only struggled for a moment before he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Quiet.” He commanded before tossing her aside, his head tilting as he listened to their surroundings. A scraping noise interrupted the foot falls, like claws against the brick, or a knife. Knife That was more likely, especially if they were playing a game. He liked games, he liked to win games, and he would be damned if the two he was cursed with would keep him from winning.

He pushed Kate forward again, she threatened to cry out, but it seemed the girl had enough sense to not test his patience. He hurried them along, somehow guiding them across the cobbles, wishing his footwear was lighter. The knock against the stone was undesired, even as he made careful steps to best muffle the sound. The empty streets echoed each movement, magnifying their advancement, making Kate’s fall even louder. Stupid woman. Just as the lamp posts had begun to sprout up again, did their fragile female companion catch her ankle in a pot hole. Her shout was sweet agony against Kult’s eardrum, he stood taking in the beauty of her pain, forgetting for a moment that they were in the middle of a game. Her face contorted into a grimace as hot tears rolled down her rouged cheeks. She sniffled, sucking in snot, as she clasped her dainty gloved hand against her leg. Peter bent to the woman, placing his bare palm against her forehead, “You’re okay. We’re going to help you back, right Kult.” He looked up wide eyed, seeking pity which he nor the girl would receive. Not from him. Kult looked down at them both, his dark eyes lightless, regarding them both as if they were insects. “Goodbye Kate,” he said darkly, grabbing Peter’s arm.

He struggled, they all struggled, but they all fell victim to Kult’s grip in the end. He wound his fingers tightly around the young man’s arm, pulling him away from the sobbing woman. The scratch of their pursuer was growing louder and he would not be caught so easily. Let him have the girl, why not? He didn’t just want him to have the girl though, he wanted to know what happened to her when he caught her. He wanted to see. He marched his companion, his captive maybe, depending how you looked at it, through the darkness. Marched him mercilessly as pleas fell unheard against the starless night. Sweet, sweet sobs accentuated with choked out words, hurried, afraid. Promises, always promises, from the weak. They won’t tell anyone, never mention it again, as if those words held some unknown power over their assaulter. Their friend Kate had developed a stutter in their absence, gaining a croaking laugh from her deserter.

He circled them around until they came out a side street, one that led them back to where they had just come from. It wasn’t hard, he had merely followed the screams, until he emerged out an an alleyway and the scene lit up with soft lamp light. Kult pulled them against the corner of a building, melding them to the shadows as he observed the stalker. Kate gurgled now, her gentle hazel eyes wide as she shakily grabbed at her neck. Her lined gloves soak up the blood like sponges, the red wetness dripping from the corners of her mouth now too. He could see the meaty tissue inside, pink underneath as her skin peeled away from the edges of the cut. Peter jerks against Kult’s iron grip, only to be clasped tighter. Kult holds the lad’s mouth shut, muffling his sobs, catching the tears that slide down his face. Disgusting creature. he thinks, his other hand firmly against the man’s chest. His head cocks to the side, like a confused dog, their pursuer bends to his knees.

He doesn’t recognize the man, of course he couldn’t be expected to, only having view of his backside. He wore a black top hat, a long cloak that was clasped around his neck. He looked dressed every bit an english gentleman, not at all the type of attire one would expect. It was the perfect disguise, it reminded him fondly of Kirin, that was something he would do. That was how he would play the game. A flash of silver caught the lamp light, before he could distinctly hear the parting of her flesh. The body now collapsed against the stones, but the attacker did not yet flee. He seemed to be working carefully, jostling about her limp form while pulling long wet strands of innards from her stomach. Long lumpy strands of flesh still connected somewhere inside, flopping with splatter noises where they fell.The evening was soon filled with the metallic scent of blood, followed by what could only be fecal matter. The victim had likely defecated on herself during the ordeal, many animals did the same, and the breeze was just now wafting it their way. Shit- there was no way to mistake that smell. Peter retched, a weak stomached fool, ending the show much sooner than Kult would have liked.

The man turned, still crouched, looking back at them as he gnawed a fleshly blob. That helped coax what remained in Peter’s stomach to the surface, spilling chunks of food and bile on both of their shoes. Kult grasped his partner’s jacket pulling at him to leave, just as the killer rose and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “It’s Jack. Jack the Ripper.” Peter cried as they sprinted away, Kult still pulling at his coat. “Yes.” He replied knowingly, which had made the game much more interesting. Jack was a worthy opponent. Kult would take pride in winning, even if he had to drag along his loser ‘friend’. Turning the corner they collide with a stone wall, Peter helplessly striking his fists against the unyielding blockade. Kult growled, grabbing the boy by his ratty brown hair, causing the other to wince. “Climb” he spat, shoving Peter into the wall face. After several clumsy jumps with no success, he bent weaving his hands together to boost Peter to the top, snarling at the boys shortcomings. He manages to pull himself to the top just as Jack collides into Kult, knife still in hand.

Kult laughs, an out of place reaction, to this horrifying scenario. Scrapping with the murderer was probably the highlight of his evening, as they both tossed over the cobbles. Jack pinned him for a moment, giving Kult a good view of his attacker, an unremarkable middle aged man. He was so plainly ordinary, he could not help but to rattle with laughter. His assailant does not take kindly to his humor, swiping at his face with his blade. The metal dips into his flesh, slicing his earlobe like soft butter, the skin once connected now flopping freely. Blood flows from the cut, running down Kult’s neck, matting into his long greasy hair as he pushes against Jack’s knife hand. Digging into the man’s wrist, he relieves Jack of the knife, the weapon clattering blissfully against the ground. He manages to roll the man on his back, switching their positions, giving him the upper hand. Another sweet song of metal tinkles against the cobbles, a small, brass, skeleton key falling from Jack’s coat. Kult shoves his elbow into the man’s temple when he turns his head to look at his lost possession, knocking him out. He grabs the key before jumping up to climb the wall himself, surprisingly Peter has not deserted him. The boys stands frozen and pale, bottom lip quivering as Kult pulls himself over the top. They both lean over the ledge, staring down at a rousing Jack below, the man’s eyes fluttering open already.

“Run” Kult instructs, pulling back from the rocky ledge, stowing his trophy in his pocket. From below Jack snarls curses, his boots scraping against the wall as he too attempts to ascend the stone obstacle. Kult relishes in the exertion, his lungs huffing as they sprint across the London residential districts. He directs them in a weaving path, skidding around corners, balancing himself from a fall by catching the houses by their brick corners. It’s one particular alley they find themselves sprinting down that proves different from all the rest. The deserted path lit only by flickering lamp light, the all too familiar crashing steps somewhere behind them. At the end is a door, old wooden slats fitted together in fine carpentry. The handle is brass, ancient, with delicate filigree to adorn the backplate. Kult smirks, pulling from his pocket the matching skeleton key, rushing to shove it into the keyhole. It’s deteriorating, rusted inside, and he has to wiggle it vigorously while jiggling the knob. Jack is nearing closing in on them with his weapon of choice glinting at his side. Finally the lock clicks, the door swings open, and he shoves Peter through first- leaping through behind him. They escape through the convenient portal just in time to dodge a knife in the back.

Brynmor

"I will see."

It is a voice that awakes him from his slumber and he cannot help but to feel slightly disorientated. He had gotten used to the smell of the pine trees and needs a minute to realise that he indeed is no longer within the kingdom’s borders. They didn’t have a place for a blind male among their ranks and therefor he was send away. During the years he had lived in solitude – he had been dumped in a secluded corner of the kingdom after all – Brynmor had gotten used to both the darkness and loneliness that characterize his life. The only one that kept him company during all that time had been his friend, his buddy, that has been around him for as long as he remembers. If he only knew that the voice was only a default in his head to compromise the lonely feeling.

The graying male sits up before pushing himself into a standing position, his ears twisting around as he breathes in deeply. Brynmor desperately tries to find out where this ‘Missy’ is, before her words settle in. ”Play?” he repeats confused. He had never played before, or you had to count the strings the other’s played him with, but other than that he was unknown with the actual meaning of the word. ”What are you talking about?” he asks again as the tension rises. He’s confused and disorientated, and doesn’t know what is going on. Instead of getting answers Missy just continues her one sided conversation and all he can do is stand still and listen. She tells him his hooves are no good, like eyes on a bat. His eyes aren’t any good at all, all he sees is darkness, but apparently that doesn’t matter. He directs his head and dead gaze into the direction of where he thinks she stands, like she had asked him to look into the light. And then he can feel the changes starting.

At first his sight is unclear, but compared to the darkness he had only known thus far it’s an extreme difference. Slowly it even starts to get better. ”What’s happening?” He can hear the panic in his own voice and the fact that his hearing abilities got worse only highlights that panic even more. The first thing he sees are his hands, which he raises into his eyesight. Instead of hooves he had now hands and feet and he no longer stood upon four legs, two seemed enough to hold this strange body up. His dark but graying coat is gone and instead he finds himself draped in clothes. Lull-length trousers and a white dress shirt – but the matching black waistcoat was missing. His leather shoes are comfortable and shiny and the high heels make him look taller. If he would look in a mirror he would see a teenager or young adult, not too tall but neither short, with broad shoulders and pitch black hair. His human form’s skin is pale and his eyes are blue, just like his eyes would’ve been if he hadn’t been blind. He looks quite handsome, obviously descending from one of the better families and with a cocky air around him. It was like the eyesight had given is ego a boost.

His head is silent and there is only room for Brynmor’s own thoughts, but because of the impressions from the whole change he doesn’t notice the absence of his buddy. Missy’s words finally start to settle in and he turns to look at her with a cocky smile adorning his lips. ”Will you come to play with me?” he suggests, initiating something far more intimate. Yet he isn’t interested in her answer and instead his gaze shifts to the mansion and without waiting for her Brynmor starts to move himself towards it. ”You said to pick a door, right?” he mumbles out loud, more to himself than to Missy, as he looks at the two options. He had already forgotten what she had said about them – he had been too busy with taking in his own appearance. It is the red door that speaks to him, as the black one only reminds him of the everlasting black that has been his world until now. The red door is different, new, and therefor sparks his interest as he is intrigued by the color. Without hesitation he pushes the handle down and with one last glance – and a smirk – towards the Mistress he steps through it.

The first thing he notices when the door falls closed – and disappears – behind his back is the cool autumn breeze. He finds himself in a narrow street, that feels strangely known. Yet it is not possible for him to know the place, he simply has never been there before. ”We’re playing a strange game, Missy” he mumbles out loud before wondering what kind of game this would be. If he had only paid attention to her words, maybe then he would’ve known what Missy would’ve prepared for him. But Brynmor can’t find himself to care about it, games were meant to be fun so he guessed there wouldn’t be anything he should know, the rules of the game would be shown to him while he played along. Oh, if he only knew how wrong he was…

While he tucks his hands away in his pockets he starts to walk, turning right without knowing if it was the right way to go. The ally he found himself in was dark and in the luring shadows send an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He could hear voices in the distance, people chatting away, but also the advertising of shop owner to attract customers and the sound of rattling wheels and shoed hooves on the cobblestoned streets. It was a sound Brynmor knew and it sparked his interest, after all, it would be the first time for him to see how his natural form actually looked like. His steps are eager, because of the alley’s eerie feeling as well as his desire to lay his eyes upon someone from his own species. Yet the carefree, laidback and bright mood he finds himself in doesn’t push himself to hurry and instead he start whistling. The sound reminds him of the chirping of birds, a sound that he doesn’t hear in this strange city. He had barely stepped into the human world and their life already seemed so different, but at the same time it was as dynamic as his former home had been.

It takes Brynmor a while to notice the footsteps. First it had seem an echo of his own and far away. However, with ever step he takes it seems like they get closer and little by little they fall more out of rhythm with his own. The well build young man stops whistling, no longer finding comfort in the happy tune as he tries to focus on the sounds. It isn’t the first time that Brynmor curses the loss of his sensitive hearing. Because of his blindness he had been depended on his other senses and they had gotten better over the years. His human ears don’t even get close to the capacity of his equine ears, making it hard for him to make out the different sounds. When he feels a pair of eyes watching him his pace speeds up and he forces his legs to move faster. Just like his pace his heartbeat rises and Brynmor is utterly aware of its strong beating in his chest. He can hear the rush of his blood in his ears and it’s the thing that causes him to burst out in a sprint. With ever step he takes the sound of his footsteps echo through the alley and with every step the mismatched footsteps of the stranger get closer. He’s breathing through his mouth now, instantly causing his throat to dry, but making it able for him to breath in more oxygen at once. His lungs burn, both from the ice air and the lack of condition. There! A corner, and he can see light coming from whatever might be around it. And the voices and sounds he heard before are clearer now too. Almost! He’s almost there, just a bit further.

A loud animalistic screech startles him. Brynmor had been fighting the urge to look across his shoulder, but now he can no longer stop himself. All he can see is darkness, darkness he is so familiar with, but also the darkness that now somehow scares him. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a glimpse of movement in the shadow, but before he can focus his eyes he slips. ”Fuck” he curses out loud as the pain from the impact travels through his body. As he pushes himself of the ground again Brynmor tries to ignore the stinging pain in both his knee and face. He had to run, run if he wanted to make it out safely on the streets. Whatever was behind him screeched again, it sounded almost like it wanted to humour him. His hurried steps are uneven now, as he tries to unburden his hurt right knee. Blood starts to spill in his eye, the impact on the ground had made his forehead meet the cobblestoned streets in quite an unpleasant way and cut the skin above his left eye. He turns his head a little to the right, only relying on the sight that his right eye offered him as the left one was forced closed. He can see he’s almost there and that is what it takes to push him forward to cross the last distance.

”TRICK OR TREAT!” their voices shout out at the same time. The sudden surprise pulls a raw cry from his lips as he stumbles backwards. Only moments before he would disappear in the shadows of the ally again a pair of arms grab his shoulder and Brynmor’s eyes meet the laughing face of another male. ”Aawh, did we scare Brynnie so bad that he almost pied his pants?” It is the use of the nickname that makes Brynmor recognize the man in front of him and instantly he can feel anger risen. He still struggles to breath in enough air for his burning lungs and he can still feel his heartbeat up to his throat. ”God damnit, you ass!” he cursed out loud as he flung himself towards his friend, aiming his fist at the laughing man’s head. ”You should’ve seen your face, for the love of God, that was too brilliant” was the reply his friend gave him as he easily catches the flying fist. He isn’t a match for Brynmor, who was still panting hard and struggling to calm down his heart. Because of his blindness in his equine form the well build male had never walked harder than his slow step, running around was simply something he couldn’t do and therefor he had never build up a condition to run. ”Stop laughing you both!” he eventually muttered underneath his breath as he leans back against a wall, now for the first time looking at them. In front of him stood his childhood friend – the one that had accompanied him in the dark secluded corner of the kingdom he grew up in – and next to him a girl. Vaguely she reminded him of a lost lover, or someone who he held very close to his heart. ”Dera” he whispers breathlessly before pulling her close to his side. ”How have you been, beautiful? he asks her with a smile. Both of them are dressed up in fancy costumes. His buddy clearly going for an interpretation of Jack the Ripper, who has been the main subject in the newspapers for the last few weeks and Dera was dressed up all in white with fake blood making it look like she had gotten stabbed and was wounded. ”I’m better now you decided to show up” she answered him with a slight giggle as she stands up to press her delicate lips on his clean cheek. ”Now my costume is complete as you’re matches mine.” ”You should’ve heard here whine, like her attire wasn’t scary enough without you at her side. Her happy chiming and his teasing reply doesn’t reach him, as he suddenly feels the stinging in both his knee and head again. She had seen his outfit like a costume, yet instead his look was because of the haunting walk – run – through the alley. But he won’t tell them the truth, refusing to look like a scared kid in their eyes. Due to the surprise, commotion and teasing of their little trick he hadn’t heard the angry screech coming from the alley.

Halloween. It was Halloween. Groaning softly Brynmor wondered how he could’ve forgotten about that, but he doesn’t get the chance to trouble himself about the situation any longer as a hand playfully slaps his shoulder. ”Hey!” he voices out his complain as he throws a dirty look in the direction of his friend, who only shrugs his shoulders and blows him a raspberry. ”Just ignore him, Brynnie, he’s just jealous~” the soft voice of the girl at his side speaks up. With a grin he nods and brushes it away, but if they only knew how right those words were. As he turns to look at her he sees her smile and cannot stop himself from smiling back at her in return. ”You’re right.” They walk side to side – all though Dera was pressed close against him and he comfortably wrapped his arm around her waist – through the streets, looking at all the different decoration in awe. Out loud they discuss their plans for tonight. The sun would soon set and twilight would soon set in. Everywhere around them lights were put on, warming the streets with their warm lights and making the shadowed corners look even more thrilling. Kids ran around them, screaming and yelling loudly, excited for tonight when they were allowed to go from door to door to collect candy. ”So, where should we set ourselves up tonight? It is his buddy’s voice that pulls him from his thoughts this time and Brynmor cannot stop himself from grinning. ”We could hide in an alley and scare people by sneaking upon them from behind?” he suggests, looking at his friend for a second before switching his gaze towards Dera. Both are grinning and nodding eagerly, already enjoying the thrill.

By the time it’s really dark they move themselves towards the alley they had chosen, Brynmor still limping somewhat because of his wounded knee. Their voices are only hushed whispers and soft giggles now, trying to hide their plans from the very few they might cross before they reached their destination. ”This will be so much fun” he could hear Dera whisper and he smiles at her while nodding his head. Bringing his finger towards his lips he tells her to be silent and she does so with a soft set of giggles. He moves his free hand up to his left hip, feeling the cold material of the small dagger that he had tucked away there.

”Someone’s coming!” Instantly they are all silent. The only thing Brynmor hears is the beating of his own heart as Dera moves closer to his side and reaches out to grab his hand. In return he squeezes her hand lightly, unable to hide his grin. Oh this would be great. It would be exact the same way as his friend and Dera had scared him, making him feel like someone was haunting him. He had really thought that someone or something had been sneaking upon him from behind. Now he was the one who did the sneaking and the feeling was just euphoric. With loud screams a third victim escaped from the dark alley, having witnessed how a fake ‘Jack the Ripper’ killed a newlywed pair and feasted on their bodies, before fleeing with the same scary person now running after him.

Laughing loudly they moved back towards their hiding spot again and Brynmor had to place a hand on his stomach to ease the slight cramps from the laughing. ”Let’s make the next one the last, then we can go to party with the others.” The other two agreed with his suggestion and they silenced themselves as they heard footsteps coming again. The dark from passed them by and all three looked at the figure. He had really done a good job with dressing himself up, clearly another one that thought that Jack the Ripper would be a good and scary idea for a costume. ”Let’s go.”

Things turned out that were the hunted, and no longer those that scared other human beings. They had sneaked upon the dark figure, just like they had done by their other victims, and had managed to approach the stranger without much trouble. But when they made some noise to get their victim’s attention to start the hunt they met the face that made their blood run cold. Brynmor froze as he heard the screech that had haunted him before and instantly his pale skin got paler. He had thought of it as a trick his friends played on him, but now he was forced to realise that it all had been true. The few seconds that they stood frozen felt like hours, making it possible to take in every expect of monster. The creature in front of him looked human, but at the same time not. His skin was almost white and there wasn’t any hair upon his head. His eyes were big and black, nose flat and the creature’s lips moved to grin at them they could see it’s carnivorous teeth. His arms were long and his fingers ended in bloody claws. Instead of feet that were hidden in shoes Brynmor could see powerful paws and more claws that easily clawed into the cobblestone streets. The beast roared again. ”Fuck.” That was his friend and the curse was soon followed by Dera’s high pitched scream.

Brynmor’s shoes slipped on the cobblestone street, not being able to maintain balance as he stepped in something wet. There he laid on the ground for the second time that night, panic and pain both rushing through his body as the blood he lied in. He heard Dera’s scream and that caused his friend to turn around and rush back. Above him the creature threw his body into the air, but instead of a slightly human form it was all black fur now. Brynmor rolled to the right, feeling the power from the impact through the ground. Too slow for his liking he managed to get on his feet, but the beast was faster. It growled as a paw hit him in the side and send him into the alley’s wall with a loud thud. He groaned loudly and barely registered how Dera knelt next to him, shaking his arm as she begged him to get up. ”Please Brynnie, get up, get up” She was sobbing loudly and by the time Brynmor managed to get up she went almost limp in his arms. ”This way!” he yelled to his friend who tried to keep the beast distracted as he grabbed Dera’s arm and started dragging her away.

Four pair of footsteps echoed through the alley, the panting breath of three sounded and some loud cries from the fourth one that was one with the shadows again. Brynmor’s side burned and blood started to spill through his white dress shirt. All though Dera wasn’t badly hurt she wasn’t in a better state, tears staining her face and her hand and knees were slightly scratched from her tripping. Turning right before going left and then right again. They came to a halt, panting harshly, yet trying to keep themselves silent. The fourth pair of footsteps had disappeared and they had no longer heard the screeches. ”It’s gone” Dera cried, happy to notice that they had lost the predator. ”Still you stupid owl! It’s near.” A new series of sobs were pulled from the girl’s throat.

Running, running and running. And they couldn’t any longer. Muscles burned and wounds bled. They were broken, hurt and beyond panic. And the creature of the shadows was still hunting them down. ”We have to leave behind a bait.” Of course it was his friend who would say that, neither Brynmor or Dera would ever come up with the idea to abandon a friend. ”How could you?!” he angrily snapped back as he pulled the other male with him, moving away a little from Dera to not include her in the possible harmful conversation. When they got out of view he was directly pushed back against the wall, his head knocking against the hard surface which pulled another curse from his lips. ”Just think of it! It won’t let us get away without it feasting om something. It’s hungry and wants to eat” his friend snarled back before an angry gaze was shot into the direction of the girl. ”She’s slowing us down. There is now way we will get away when she clings to you, just think of it!” ”I’m not leaving her behind!” Brynmor almost screamed out, fury rushing through his wounded body as he tried to knock some sense into his friend. It was the stronger male who shook him. ”Just think! Don’t you trust me? Haven’t I’ve always been around you, in good and bad times. And who was it who helped you through it?!”

”What took you so long?” her soft, broken and anxious voice asked, as she moved closer to him and grabbed his arm. He felt strangely calm, emotionless, as he pulled her close, his lips ghosting across her cheek. ”I’m sorry dear, I’m here now” he mumbled back to her. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see his friend coming closer to them, gaze dark and urging him to hurry up. They could hear the sounds of the beast nearing them and Dera cried out harder. The girl pulled away to start running again, but it was Brynmor’s iron grip that stopped her. The knife burned in his hand as wide eyes looked up to him shocked. It was only when she stumbled backwards, her white dress getting more and more bloody with every second that passed, her hands pressed against her stomach. ”Wh- what have you done..?”

Before he could process what happened his friend pulled him away and not knowing what else to do Brynmor let himself be pulled away. ”Come on, hurry now. We cannot do a thing for her now.” They ran and ran, the knife lost somewhere on the ground. A door came into view, a wooden door to be exact, and it screamed to them. Somehow they were pulled towards it without knowing why. A skeleton key stuck out from the keyhole and his friend started to turn it around. With a soft click the door opened, and while Brynmor got pulled through it he turned around one last time. His eyes caught the sight of her broken body on the ground. The human like creature crouched over her. Even from this distance he could see a scene that made his stomach turn and twist. Her stomach was cut open and he could see how a claw dug into the still warm flesh to pull something out. Without hesitation the creature moved it towards his bloody mouth, glancing up to meet Brynmor’s eyes. It offered him a devilish smirk before he dug into his meal.

As the door closed behind him Brynmor fell down on both hand and knees. The sight of the creature feasting of Dera’s body had made him sick. He could smell the blood, and could imaginary feel the thick warmness sliding down his throat. ”It had to be done.” That was all that was needed to make him empty his stomach as tears came down his cheeks. ”I killed her." And he passes out cold on the floor.

"Through your secret."