Echo's Hellhole

Delmer regrets opening his eyes. He can move them, but not the rest of his body.

It's pinned in whatever awkward position his sleeping self got contorted into, but every muscle and joint is rigid.

Sleep paralysis. An old enemy has reared its ugly head again. Lord help him, his body seems not to have learned from the numerous spans of time dealing with this throughout his life.

The horrible beast looking upon him is unfamiliar. It has the maw of a wolf, but in place of paws there are furry, gnarled hands with pointed nails digging into his chest. He can feel each sharp point, cold leeching into his body from each. The beast is sitting on his chest, heavy and restricting breathing as his heart struggles to beat faster.

Then, as if it wasn't bad enough, he hears that damnable laughter. Her voice so smooth despite the rot that must surely lie beneath her armor. That damn butcher is laughing.

Delmer forces his eyes to the right, tracking the sound, and there she is. She's staring right at... it. No, it cannot be real.

At least, that's what Delmer tries to convince himself. Both her and it and hallucinations, and in a few minutes at most, they will be gone.

The Laughing Butcher is approaching.

Delmer refuses to learn any other name of hers. Too familiar, too humanizing for such demonic filth. Her facade of beauty from a distance does not deceive him. Her black compound eyes give little indication of where exactly she is looking, but the human sockets they reside in, especially with her eyelids, betray enough. She's staring at it so intensely, almost radiating malice despite her laughter.

Each step is light, nearly silent. If there was a slight breeze, she would be nearly impossible to hear coming. Her hands reach out towards the demon crushing Delmer's chest. In a flash, she snatches it by the head, sharp claws digging divots into the fur as she lifts it.

Up and up it goes, until she is at her full height and the weight on Delmer's chest vanishes. They're real.

He scrambles to his feet, rushing backwards and snatching his gun into his hands, racking it as he gasps for air. "It's real, God in fucking heaven!"

Before he can fire, the most foul squelching and screeching curses his ears. The Butcher's hands are prying apart the maw of the wolf thing as it screams, the cries of anguish a mixture of a man and a wolf caught in a trap.

A sickening crack and pop make him flinch, the wailing piercing his ears now as the jaw is slowly ripped from the skull, flesh peeling down in the Butcher's unrelenting grip. Its screaming turns to gargling as its neck is peeled in the final rip like stacks of wet paper. Biting cold blood splatters across Delmer's entire body and he frantically tries to wipe it off, shivers coursing through him as he retches and coughs.

Dry heaving overtakes him as his eyes remain glued to the sight. The demon spasms, hands grasping at the armor covering the Butcher's arms. Keratin scrapes metal in a shrill scrape that quickly becomes futile. She drops it, and before the flailing has even calmed, she grabs the massive crescent blade from her back.

It resembles a mezzaluna, a tool that the Italians in the choir recognized readily. It differs in that the handles do not attach perpendicularly, but instead run alone the body of the blade and follow the inward curvature. It also an additional grip carved out the body of the blade so she can hold it more like a sword.

Delmer shuffles back further upon remembering how much more reach that gives her with it. Even worse, it is also as tall as a child 8 years of age. He takes aim at the Butcher, hands quickly steadying his hands only to wince as she slams her weapon to the ground, bisecting the demon.

Delmer fires, ears ringing slightly due to his current lack of ear protection. He strikes true, but his only reward is a viscous spurt of the vile, honey-like substance that must serve for the Butcher's blood. A hole is ripped in her tabbard, which soaks up the substance.

Her gaze is lifted, the pointed probiscis on the mask covering the lower half of her face pointing right at him. There's no question where she's looking now.

She tilts her head, the moment much too sudden and jarring. Delmer reloads as quickly as he can, not wanting his eyes off of her for long. His heart is pounding in his ears, prayers being muttered under his breath between swears until he looks up to find empty space.

He frantically searches for a trace of her aside from footprints. A shine of her armor between the rust, the mustard yellow of her tabbard, the loose and oily blond curls of her hair, the shine of the silver barbed wire she weaves into it, anything. But she is gone. Vanished like a ghost.