I had initially thought that the trek was a bad idea. I was reluctant to join in. However, my friends convinced me, and I am glad they did. They could not fathom my reluctance. They did not know that this place held bad memories for me.
I pushed those memories aside, and enjoyed the trek. As we we were departing, a fog settled in. Concealed in it, I could see a figure watching us. No, not us. It was watching me. She was watching me.
She lingered on, even after falling to her death, the last time I was here.
Pete hated the butcher for the public beating he had given Pete. Pete wanted vengeance. It was essential. He fetched a log from his bag, ignited it, and got ready to throw. The embers from the log found their way to his back. Pete instinctively let go of the log and dropped to the ground, dousing the fire. The log rolled into the bag, which contained a kerosene can. The explosion propelled the log forward with great force, lodging it into Pete’s waist.
The Witch’s revenge was now complete. Three trophies claimed.
Jon looked at the bottle of whiskey in adoration. It was a present from his partners in crime.
He took a swig. The amber liquid entered his body, warming up every part that it touched. Jon coughed. It was his first real drink. He took another swig. This time, the drink seemed to carry more weight inside his throat. In a gag reflex, he coughed, spraying drops of blood all over his sheet. Among the blood, he could see small wooden splinters. In an instant, Jon collapsed to the floor, clutching his throat.