• Chapter II


    He could hear the steps in the corridor. They were slow and heavy, approaching at an antagonizing pace. He pressed himself against the wall, shivers coursing up his spine. Each step he heard was closer to the small cupboard he had hidden himself in.

    He didn't know how long he had been in the small cupboard. All he knew was that he didn't want that thing to find him.

    Not once had he dared look back at them. For he didn't want to see, he didn't want to see their horrible faces and their disgusting bodies. And he didn't want to smell their scent that smelled like decayed dead bodies and moulded bread and expired milk.

    Oh, he knew what they looked like and he knew what they smelled like.

    For years they had screamed for him. For years they had begged him. Pleaded with him to help them, to set them free. And back then, during his foolish childhood years, their hideous faces and fearsome physique and their nauseating odours hadn't bothered him.

    He feared them, yes. But more than that, he had pitied them.

    Pity was a fearsome thing. Pity was what had landed him in the situation he was currently in, pity is what made him set these creatures lose on the world.

    And now they followed him, stalked him, haunted him. Wherever he went – they were there. They were everywhere; in his bedroom and in the streets, always – always watching him, with those large, shrivelled, rotten eyes; their long, saggy and dried out tongues hanging out of their smiling – Glasgow smiles – lips.

    And now they were coming – coming for him.