Revenge of the Dead (Original Story)

I was slamming the door to the best of my ability, nearly grinning in the process as I saw my killer's fright while he fled upstairs, until I realized how ridiculous it was--we were just scaring him . . . all we were doing was scaring him. It would not prevent him from murdering someone else, because he had to kill: it was an illness he harbored. He needed to kill, just like other human beings needed to love.

Our revenge consisted of making noise and telling him who we were, but that wasn't enough. And it would never be enough. . . .

I released the door, and as if in a trance, began to walk towards the Killer, my eyes fixed solely on him, my feet barely brushing the floor as each step brought me closer. Behind me, I could hear Jamie calling after me, and Kensy shouting something, but it was beyond me.

My hands found the knife that was lying on his bedroom table out of their own accord, as if it was meant to be. They folded around it vigilantly, and surprisingly enough, it felt cool and solid in my grip--it felt right.

Puffs of air left my mouth. My Killer could see the knife now too, because his eyes bulged and sweat made his thinning hair stick to his forehead. He raised his hands and took a step back. "Please," he whispered.

"I trusted you," I choked, speaking in spite of the fact he couldn't hear me. "You were like the father I never had. I loved you."

"Please," he repeated, taking another step back. Ken said something again, her voice desperate, but my head was throbbing too painfully to understand.

"Why?" I asked him, ready to drop the knife. Resignation rushed through me and I shook my head, letting out a soft scoff. "You are unwell. They will catch you, someday. May you rot in jail." I stared at his feverish brown eyes, hazy and full of unspoken cruelties. With a last flare of spite, I added, "And Hell."

It was as if he had finally heard me. He shook violently and took another step back, which brought him too close to the glass window behind him. Ken, who now stood next to me, shared an alarmed look with me. My breath caught as he lost his balance--and in an attempt to regain it, took another step back.

I watched as his eyes grew wider, as he tried to find a good foothold. His arms flailed in the air as he tumbled back. There was a strange noise: a raw scream that left his throat as he realized that this was final. And then, his scream never fading, the glass broke and he disappeared from our sight.

I heard the snap of his bones and the shriek of death come to an abrupt, shocking end. Far away, a siren sounded . . . Perhaps someone had heard the noises in the house and then the Killer's tormented bawling.

Ken put her arm around my shoulders and we turned around slowly, facing the warm, lustrous radiance of our final dwelling. It was more of a feeling than a sight: gentle and loving, with a touch of emotions that I could not describe in any other way other than having a painting pallet full of colors, or a bottle of perfume that you could sniff, yet not determine what its contents were. It was like a child's laughter, flowers' petals, puppies and chocolate chip cookies and the sun's rays all in one. It was home.

"Come," she said. "It's time."