Demon in an Angel's Skin
La Fin
The slow rattle of bones and the pounding of long dead feet echoed too loudly for the so few there, the demon writhed in the agony and despair it had caused upon the earth, faster and faster the dancers span and more and more came to join the dance. The dead walked the earth once more; some only bleached bones now, others with tatters of rotten flesh, an blank misty eyeball here and there, freely revolving from the movement of it's dancing corpse.
And still the solo fiddle weaved it's sorrowful notes at the hands of Death, never any louder from when it was first played but somehow grew stronger with each passing note. The end was near for both Dance and Demon, and Death, having sensed the fading flicker of twisted life in the Demon, halted the music and as if on cut strings of a puppet, the Dead fell once more, no more than a pile of bones encasing tortured souls.
No more blood came to swallow the Demon, the one thing he truly wanted in the world was now feared, the taste, once so treasured, was now bitter in his mouth. As Death approached the Demon felt a spark of fear for the first time, once so confident now cowering in the shadow of the scythe-bearer. Looking up into the hollow eye-sockets which somehow reflected emotion of Death, there were stained with the once-craved crimson nectar and in that moment the demon knew;
He was not going to get out of this alive.
Fiery rage almost burnt the demons soul on contact, and remorse, sorrow or pity seemed unknown to Death, who now wielded, not a harmless fiddle but a scythe which glinted in the rapidly decreasing moonlight caused by overhanging mist, deciding the fate of the doomed Demon.
Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. ~Homer, Iliad
The scythe fell to the ground.
The mist which had covered the full moon passed and the Demon, who had tentatively breathed a sigh of relief, looked on in recognition and over-whelming horror. Standing ghostly yet defiant, were his victims.
Their forms were those of their last breath, among them a teenage girl in a stained hospital gown, a deep wound in her ribcage and a distant expression on her face as if she was day-dreaming and a small Mexican boy, and although pain was clearly seen on his chubby and young features, glee and excitement could be seen.
Why let Death kill the Demon when those who were killed by him can?
Not a word was spoken as Death strode through the almost legion of victims, just him picking up the small Mexican boy and embracing him like a long-lost son, taking him away from the imminent slaughter. The boy was too young and too innocent, which Death didn't intend to spoil even when he was dead. Death sat away from the ghosts cross-legged on the ground and from one of his billowing black robes, he pulled out a half-eaten sugar skull, slightly dusty but still edible, and handed it to the young boy who squealed in delight at the gift.
Now, as we all know, ghosts can't harm anyone they just pass through, right? Even a legion of ghosts would just go straight through the Demon. However, this was the night of El Dia De Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead and this was La Danse Macabre, the Dance of the Dead. The Dead don't dance but they have, so whose to say that ghosts can't be as solid as they were in life?
The moment the boy took the sugar skull, the wearisome ghosts reclaimed their form and were ready to give out their revenge on their killer.
I'll spare the details since they are not for the even the brave, never mind the squeamish; screams echoed in the air, desperate and tortured, eyes gouged out and a heart torn. And the blood stained ground never lost the red of the unearthly blood.
Locals made up horror stories about that place to tell on their Day of the Dead;
stories of revenge and blood and dancing corpses and slaughtered demons.
And still the solo fiddle weaved it's sorrowful notes at the hands of Death, never any louder from when it was first played but somehow grew stronger with each passing note. The end was near for both Dance and Demon, and Death, having sensed the fading flicker of twisted life in the Demon, halted the music and as if on cut strings of a puppet, the Dead fell once more, no more than a pile of bones encasing tortured souls.
No more blood came to swallow the Demon, the one thing he truly wanted in the world was now feared, the taste, once so treasured, was now bitter in his mouth. As Death approached the Demon felt a spark of fear for the first time, once so confident now cowering in the shadow of the scythe-bearer. Looking up into the hollow eye-sockets which somehow reflected emotion of Death, there were stained with the once-craved crimson nectar and in that moment the demon knew;
He was not going to get out of this alive.
Fiery rage almost burnt the demons soul on contact, and remorse, sorrow or pity seemed unknown to Death, who now wielded, not a harmless fiddle but a scythe which glinted in the rapidly decreasing moonlight caused by overhanging mist, deciding the fate of the doomed Demon.
Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. ~Homer, Iliad
The scythe fell to the ground.
The mist which had covered the full moon passed and the Demon, who had tentatively breathed a sigh of relief, looked on in recognition and over-whelming horror. Standing ghostly yet defiant, were his victims.
Their forms were those of their last breath, among them a teenage girl in a stained hospital gown, a deep wound in her ribcage and a distant expression on her face as if she was day-dreaming and a small Mexican boy, and although pain was clearly seen on his chubby and young features, glee and excitement could be seen.
Why let Death kill the Demon when those who were killed by him can?
Not a word was spoken as Death strode through the almost legion of victims, just him picking up the small Mexican boy and embracing him like a long-lost son, taking him away from the imminent slaughter. The boy was too young and too innocent, which Death didn't intend to spoil even when he was dead. Death sat away from the ghosts cross-legged on the ground and from one of his billowing black robes, he pulled out a half-eaten sugar skull, slightly dusty but still edible, and handed it to the young boy who squealed in delight at the gift.
Now, as we all know, ghosts can't harm anyone they just pass through, right? Even a legion of ghosts would just go straight through the Demon. However, this was the night of El Dia De Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead and this was La Danse Macabre, the Dance of the Dead. The Dead don't dance but they have, so whose to say that ghosts can't be as solid as they were in life?
The moment the boy took the sugar skull, the wearisome ghosts reclaimed their form and were ready to give out their revenge on their killer.
I'll spare the details since they are not for the even the brave, never mind the squeamish; screams echoed in the air, desperate and tortured, eyes gouged out and a heart torn. And the blood stained ground never lost the red of the unearthly blood.
Locals made up horror stories about that place to tell on their Day of the Dead;
stories of revenge and blood and dancing corpses and slaughtered demons.