16 - The Crimson Hands
On a bone chilling night with gusts of wind that rattled houses, a man was walking down the alley towards a house with old, rotting, walls. As the man arrived at the door, he gripped the knob with his wet, red hands. As he opened it he heard a dog yapping, you know what happened. He put the dog in the bathroom, he’s not that insane. The stairs creaked with every step, waking up a child. The child walked out and muttered “mama? Papa?” in a groggy voice. Unfortunately, he would never hear a response. His blade dripping with crimson liquid as he walked down the hallway. The parents room was bathed in silvery light through a window. And soon, it was also bathed in blood. In the puddle of blood you could make out his face. Slimy, scarred, eyes out of place, flesh practically melted off. Of course their eyes was filled with bloodlust that kept gaining each time he killed. Satisfied for that night, the killer departed, but not before yanking their hearts out of their chest, with an outburst of blood, crushing them with his bare hands. Every night he will keep killing, and killing, and killing, more innocent families, until the entirety of the world is drowning in blood. Then he will be satisfied. Unfortunately, I am rather sure that he needs Everyone's blood to do so.Soon those crimson hands will come for you. Soon the entirety of your existence shall perish, as if you never existed.