The Pale Man Comes In...
The long, thin, pale figure stood tall in the centre of the family home. His arms were high in the air in an outstretched pose, making him appear like a spectre of death when the moonlight shimmered through the well-polished windows. He swayed gently from side to side and then slowly slithered his bony hand towards the large hunting knife that was sheathed in slick black leather on his black suit trousers.
A father, a mother, and two children, ages ten and thirteen, were bound with zip ties on the large sofa. The Pale Man always entered his victims' homes just as they were getting ready for bed, coming in through their locked back door without smashing any windows or making any noise to draw attention from the family’s neighbours.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” The Pale Man spat at them, seemingly focused mostly on the little ten-year-old boy.
“Leave him alone!” retorted the pathetic father, trying to maintain a shred of dignity after already failing to take care of his family.
The Pale Man wrapped his fingers around the long, hard handle of the blade and felt it up and down as if it were his very own throbbing erection (or the one belonging to the father, depending on how the night went). He slowly pulled the knife out of the sheath and held it high in the air, reflecting light from the moon into a slice of light that shone in a strip across his glistening white eye, each surrounded by a moat of dead skin and burst capillaries.
He purposefully guided the knife towards the throat of the thirteen-year-old girl, and she half-screamed out as the tip of the blade slid smoothly through the skin on her throat and severed an artery, coating her wailing mother and the others in glugs of hot blood. This time, the father didn’t even find it in himself to object.
The Pale Man inhaled deeply, taking in the all-consuming scent of fresh blood and then slipping the wet blade into his mouth and licking away the blood. He then holstered the blade and caught the mother’s shivering head in his cold hands as quick as a bear trap, aiming his clawed thumbs towards her teary eyeballs and slowly forcing them back into her skull like a cork into a bottle of wine. She screeched as her sockets overfilled with blood and black fluid, covering her white nightgown in staggered streaks as she rattled. Soon, she fell to the ground with nothing more than a dying choke on the air left to say.
“Just a boys’ night in now,” said The Pale Man, throwing the daughter’s corpse to the ground and sitting on the sofa with them.
He wrapped his arm around the son’s throat in a tight hug and closed his eyes. Slowly, his anaconda-like grip tightened, and the boy shook, trying to break free. The father lunged forward but quickly fell through the glass coffee table, with his zip tie-bound knees and ankles bringing him down like an AT-AT.
The young boy’s neck crunched, and his corpse went limp. When The Pale Man dropped him, he fell forward and onto the father with a thud and a crunch of the glass shards that were crushed underneath their collective weight.
The Pale Man pulled the boy off of the father’s back and rolled him over, his face now covered in thin slices and decorated with shards of broken glass. The Pale Man pulled the knife from its sheath and dropped down on one knee, tracing down the father’s chest with one finger and then shoving the knife deep into his heart and holding it as blood poured out onto the floor and the father slowly died.
A crack of thunder rumbled through the black sky like an atonal, bellowing dirge.
A father, a mother, and two children, ages ten and thirteen, were bound with zip ties on the large sofa. The Pale Man always entered his victims' homes just as they were getting ready for bed, coming in through their locked back door without smashing any windows or making any noise to draw attention from the family’s neighbours.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” The Pale Man spat at them, seemingly focused mostly on the little ten-year-old boy.
“Leave him alone!” retorted the pathetic father, trying to maintain a shred of dignity after already failing to take care of his family.
The Pale Man wrapped his fingers around the long, hard handle of the blade and felt it up and down as if it were his very own throbbing erection (or the one belonging to the father, depending on how the night went). He slowly pulled the knife out of the sheath and held it high in the air, reflecting light from the moon into a slice of light that shone in a strip across his glistening white eye, each surrounded by a moat of dead skin and burst capillaries.
He purposefully guided the knife towards the throat of the thirteen-year-old girl, and she half-screamed out as the tip of the blade slid smoothly through the skin on her throat and severed an artery, coating her wailing mother and the others in glugs of hot blood. This time, the father didn’t even find it in himself to object.
The Pale Man inhaled deeply, taking in the all-consuming scent of fresh blood and then slipping the wet blade into his mouth and licking away the blood. He then holstered the blade and caught the mother’s shivering head in his cold hands as quick as a bear trap, aiming his clawed thumbs towards her teary eyeballs and slowly forcing them back into her skull like a cork into a bottle of wine. She screeched as her sockets overfilled with blood and black fluid, covering her white nightgown in staggered streaks as she rattled. Soon, she fell to the ground with nothing more than a dying choke on the air left to say.
“Just a boys’ night in now,” said The Pale Man, throwing the daughter’s corpse to the ground and sitting on the sofa with them.
He wrapped his arm around the son’s throat in a tight hug and closed his eyes. Slowly, his anaconda-like grip tightened, and the boy shook, trying to break free. The father lunged forward but quickly fell through the glass coffee table, with his zip tie-bound knees and ankles bringing him down like an AT-AT.
The young boy’s neck crunched, and his corpse went limp. When The Pale Man dropped him, he fell forward and onto the father with a thud and a crunch of the glass shards that were crushed underneath their collective weight.
The Pale Man pulled the boy off of the father’s back and rolled him over, his face now covered in thin slices and decorated with shards of broken glass. The Pale Man pulled the knife from its sheath and dropped down on one knee, tracing down the father’s chest with one finger and then shoving the knife deep into his heart and holding it as blood poured out onto the floor and the father slowly died.
A crack of thunder rumbled through the black sky like an atonal, bellowing dirge.
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