by Willow Rose
He knocked again, this time harder, almost hammering. "Pastor Gotfredsen?"
But still no answer. He grabbed the handle and realized the door wasn't locked. He walked inside. "Pastor?"
The sound of his voice bounced off the brick walls, but no pastor. This couldn't be? If he wasn't in the church, the pastor was always, always in his house.
"Pastor Gotfredsen? Are you all right?"
The clerk suddenly had an eerie feeling and ran upstairs to where he knew the pastor had his bedroom. He knocked carefully on the door before opening it. The clerk stopped. He cupped his mouth, but it was too late. Vomit spurted out all over his hand and floor. The clerk whimpered and sobbed while looking at the gruesome sight of his pastor on the bed, smeared in his own blood, his chest cut open.
"Oh dear Lord," the clerk said, then closed the door again. He stood for a while trying to catch his breath, trying to calm himself down and not hyperventilate. He felt dizzy, it was like the entire hallway was spinning around him. He couldn't believe what he had just seen. Whatever had taken place in there couldn't be human. No human was capable of such cruelty. Were they? None he knew of. He had heard of evil in the world, but never ever thought he would encounter anything remotely like this.
The clerk stormed downstairs, crying, screaming, then stopped in the kitchen to look for the pastor's phone. He found it on the table and picked it up, trying to figure out what to say. He had never had to call for help before.
"Oh, God, you have to help me here, please help me."
As he opened the phone, the clerk suddenly heard a sound. He gasped and looked up. It was like a knocking, and now there were voices, too? Was someone in the house? The clerk gasped. Could it be the killer? Was the killer still in the house, maybe waiting for his next victim?
"Who's there?" he yelled.
He heard a bump, more voices, banging, someone yelling. What was that? The clerk stepped forward. He glanced at the kitchen knives on the table and grabbed one in his hand. He held it out in front of him as he walked closer.
"Identify yourself, please," he said.
Another sound. Someone hammering on something, like a door, muffled yelling. What was that? What could it be? Had he walked into some sort of trap? Was an entire flock of killers in here waiting for him to come close enough, and then jump him? If so, where were they? Who were they? The clerk gulped and backed up slightly. There it was again. There was that sound once again. It didn't sound like a killer or anyone who wanted to harm him, it sounded more like ... more like ... like people? People yelling? People trying to attract his attention.
The clerk looked down and noticed a hatch underneath him. One of those built into houses during the war to keep people safe during attacks. Most houses on the island had them. Small shelters or bunkers under their houses either inside or in their yard.
"Hello?" he said and lifted up the hatch.
Hundreds of eyes greeted him, crying faces, torn faces, men, women, and children. The clerk gasped and opened the hatch entirely to help them out.
Then he started to cry.
END OF EXCERPT
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