Happy Halloween everyone!
I don't know what's more frightening: the gothic streak I tried to - badly - imitate in my plot or just me trying to write something in English.
Anyway! I re-vamped this story - erased a couple of mistakes, added some things, deleted others... Hope I'm gonna make you squirm ;)
He dashed through the forest, his figure nothing but a black blur speeding between the trees, jumping above their thick, gnarled roots, fleeing like the wind. Dead twigs and dried leaves snapped and scrunched under his feet. His breath escaped his lungs in sharp, frozen puffs that hanged mid-air in the cold night. His red, angry eyes darted back and forth, taking in their surroundings, looking for the threat – the monster, the thing that wanted him dead.
Escape.
That's something he rarely ever did.
But this time he fled, no waiting for it to react, not hanging around to let it strike.
Speed. Reactivity.
That's what has kept him alive so far.
He bolted.
His foot got caught in a knot of roots. Fists of rough bark were rushing at him, trying to knock him down. Wooden hands and clawed branches and snarling trunks – they were out for him, trying to hold him back, eager to sink into his flesh and feast on his blood.
He tore himself free.
He kept on.
His dark, spiky black hairs were sticking to his temples, heavy with leaves, dust and half dried blood. A thick, foul smelling substance was coating his skin and he winced at the smell of his own sweat – a strong, heady stench of fear, anger and desperation.
The wind clawed at his face, trying to blind him, to make him stop. But he won't. Not for anything in the world. His eyes burned. He pushed himself to go faster, faster, so fast that his muscles were tearing angrily under his skin. His legs were shaking with pain, begging him to stop. For a moment he thought that they would buckle and let him fall. But they didn't, and he went on, his figure now invisible to the naked eye and the harsh, cold wind he left in his wake the only clue of his presence to the passerby. But there was no one. No one but him and the thing. And between them, a trail of blood.
His blood.
A loud, hoarse roar echoed in the distance. Strong, heavy footsteps were slowly approaching. It was taking its time, enjoying the chase.
Run, run little one, it was saying. For I'll soon catch you. And then…
Trees were crashing down around him, their rough bark cracking then weeping as it fell on the ground. He heard claws, monstrous claws ripping through harsh wood. Strong barks were snapping like twigs under its weigh, its brawny limbs stomping on them like they were nothing.
It was coming.
The fool breath of the beast was already seeping through the trees, reaching his sensitive nostrils like a cloud of foul poison. It reeked of decay and warm, festering flesh, swollen with gas and dead fluids.
Another tree fell, and this time he narrowly escaped the canopy of leaves that crashed close – too close to him. He felt the coarse, grainy leaves scratch his skin, the shaking of the ground as it collapsed on the frozen earth and the sudden rush of the wind that seemed to cower before the impending threat.
Red, glowing eyes. A huge mouth, sharp fangs, and a long, snaky tongue that curled and lashed like a whip seemed to grin at him. It rolled its chops, baring its fangs for his eyes to see, indistinct figure still concealed in the darkness. It came forth, then slowed down, playing with him, testing the waters. It enjoyed the thrill of a good game. The prey would soon become skittish, then terror would sip in. It would bolt and stop thinking. Fear would devour everything else, hurling it right into his claws. Just. There. Where death was awaiting it. He was death. He liked it.
Run, little one. Run. For I'll soon catch you. And then…
Red eyes and spiky hairs, tattered with blood. Pale face, carved cheeks and lean limbs. His bones so delicate, so easy to break. One little shove and it would be ruined.
He bolted.
The beast was setting off every one of his instincts. He rode on a rush of sheer fright, drunk on the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Nothing felt better than the burning of his exhausted limbs, the harshness of his breathing, the loud thumping of his heart.
Closer, closer.
He could almost taste it, the rancid taste of its fear. It smelt like sweat and blood and despair. Its legs were burning. It smelled like fresh blood. Panic. He liked this scent.
It gave a small cry. It felt him. So close, so dangerous. There was nothing it could do. Tick, tack. Tick, tack. The game was drawing to an end. He raised his claws. One strike, that's all it took. It fell with a gasp, its back strained with blood. Warm, red blood. It bathed the fallen leaves, tainted the barren ground and dripped from his trembling hands.
Ecstasy.
He rode the wave, savored the feeling.
It trembled. A gurgling sound rose from its throat. A soft sob came, then it stopped moving. It was dead.
He howled.
Red, angry eyes rested upon the fallen prey. Spiky black hair swayed in the cold wind. His ragged breathing calmed, his heart slowed under his ribs. The rush died down. It was over.
With a last glance over his shoulder, he remembered red glowing eyes in the dark, deadly chops and heavy paws. Then he thrust his bloody hands in his pockets and stepped over the slowly cooling body.
Run, run little one. I tell you. For I'll soon catch you. And then…