The Rot of Annie Dawson Part 3

She'll make all your pain go away.

*Warning graphic language*

“Put him down,” Josh ordered Stone as he stood over the man. He rolled around in the dirt with a bullet in his belly. A bullet fried by Stone as the gunfight blasted to a quick haul. He knew his father was fast with the draw, and he guessed Jeremiah knew how to handle himself just as well, but not at the speed of a gunshot. The shot rang out, making Stone jump for a second. He pulled his pistol free, not thinking, reacting, and fired.

               When his hand stopped shaking, he saw all the men lying on the ground, dead, but one.

               “Damn, son,” Jeremiah said, kicking the man over,” get it over with.”

               Stone stepped up to the man pointing the gun at his chest, he pulled back the hammer, but he couldn’t shoot him. He wanted to, feeling the eyes on his father on him. His fingers didn’t move. His hand didn’t shake as he pointed the death dealer at the crying man. Tears rolled down the hard face of some poor husband and father who worked on some farm. He was too old to be in the war, and Stone had been sure one of this man’s son was overseas right now, killing the enemy.

               But Stone didn’t understand why he was the enemy. This man had done nothing to him, nothing wrong, and now, he had to end his life. Why?

               The belly shot would have finished him off sooner rather than later, but Josh blew the back of his head out.

               He growled at Stone saying nothing. He walked back to the car, grabbing the shotgun heading for the single burning light off in the dark.

               “Stay behind me,” Josh said, storming off into the dark. Stone watched him go looking back at the headlights of the car choking at the bodies in its pool. The dead blood was violating everything the light stood for in the dark. Stone stayed on the heels of his father, not understanding how a man of God could kill with such ease.

               He didn’t even ask them to forgive him.

               He never prayed for them.

               They stopped a yard from the door of the small house kneeling in the dark. Stone wanted to glance up to the stars to see them perfect in the night sky, but death waiting for them in the lonely lamp. A lamp never seems so wrong then sitting alone in the dark trying to fight back the Night.

               “Son,” Josh whispered.

               Stone looked over at his father’s face. He would never see the man the same again. He had seen his father killed, and it had changed the way he saw those dark eyes.

               Josh took a deep breath, “Believe nothing you hear or see in there, you understand me?”

               Stone nodded.

               Josh dashed forward, kicking in the door and Stone followed by him. He stepped into the house, being hit with the sweet smell of cookies baking, not just any cookies, his favorite cookies, peanut butter with a little chocolate in the center of it. He wanted to head for the kitchen. He almost went for the cookies but stopped himself.

               He stepped back, looking for his father but couldn’t find him in the fading dark. He glanced around, seeing odd markings on the floors, walls, and ceiling. Markings, he didn’t understand but knew they were evil. The ink alone was wrong.

               His legs moved without his knowledge pulling him farther into the house. His hand shook, holding the gun until he dropped it.

               “My poor boy,” a rich voice said, dripping with a sweetness deep than the chocolate of the cookies called to him. His body followed the lovely call. He looked down the hall to see a woman standing there. She had long red hair, eyes of green like pools after a Spring rain, and her skin pale as the stars on a moonless night. She smiled at him, begging him to come and take her. Her lips alone re-defined the very word sin as it grinned at him.

               His lust took a step forward, watching her removed all her clothes putting her arms around his neck. “It’s okay, my poor boy, I’m here to make all your worries go away.”

               “This is wrong,” he said.

               “Only a little,” she said.

               “Where is my father?” Stone asked, trying to look around, but his eyes wouldn’t leave her glaze.

               “Who cares,” she said, moving to kiss him.

               “No, no,” Stone said, wanting to fight back, but the lust had won out.

               “Stone,” Jeremiah shouted, “break out of it.”

               Stone looked for the voice. He didn’t notice the man had stepped into the dark only to be swallowed by it. He went with his father up to the house, not thinking about what happened to his friend. His mind was on the matter at hand. No, that was a lie; all he could think about was the bodies back in the pools light.

               “Stone,” Jeremiah hissed again. His large hand reached out of the dark bring with it a burning white. So bright it forced the women trying to kiss him to scream in pain. She shielded her eyes, and Stone went to do the same thing, but the light didn’t hurt him. Jeremiah pulled him out of the darkness, letting him fall backward out of the house. He landed on the ground, shaking his head.

               Seconds later, the women, clothed, and crying came flying out of the house. Her face bloody from the butt of a pistol. Jeremiah came storming out of the house, raising his gun, and for a horrible second, Stone thought it was at him he was going to shot, but the bullet nailed the women’s leg to the ground. She hollered in agony.

               “S**t, man,” Stone said, jumping away from her. “What the Hell is going on?”

               Jeremiah didn’t say a word. He slowly walked down the steps reloading his gun as he went keeping his eyes on the lovely woman with a lot of tattoos showing now.

               “F**k you, Twelve,” the woman snarled, holding on to her leg. The blood flowering up between her fingers. “I’ll gut you.”

               Jeremiah pointed the gun at her shaking his head. “No, you want witch.”

               “Wait,” Josh said, stumbling out of the house like he had been drinking all Night. “We kill her the old way.” He fell over his feet, and Stone went rushing to help him up. “We burn this sin from the world with the bodies of her goons.”

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or works on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A mess journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercise or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.