Chapter Eleven

"The Lady in White"

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The night was cold and a short bout of rain had cast a thick gray mist over Honeywell. I sprinted through the labyrinth of alleys towards the butcher's shop with the kitchen knife bundled inside my cloak. I kept one eye trained on the log entries, praying the butcher would turn back.

[Walter's Log: Let's put a stop to this...]

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Walter lumbered down the stairs, stepping as lightly as his heavy-set body would allow, careful not to wake his wife. His shop was located on the ground level of the building, while he and his wife, Marcia, lived above. 

On the wall of the shop hung a rack carrying the butcher's knives. Business had been slow this past few weeks, but fortunately that gave him plenty of time to sharpen his blades.

Walter grabbed his cleaver off the rack. It was the tool of his trade and it felt easy in his hands. Made him feel safe. It would be more than enough to scare off this rat of a man.

For the past few days, he had seen the man skulking around his shop. At first, the butcher paid him no mind, but lately his presence made him more and more uneasy. Whether it was his unnaturally pale hair, or the way he didn't even pretend to look away when they made eye contact, something about the man unsettled him. And with the demonic attacks and the public executions, Walter wasn't willing to take any chances.

As Walter approached the door, he found his hand trembling. He was a gruff, bear of a man, but he didn't have an aggressive heart. Ever since he was a boy, he preferred to avoid a fight rather than pick one.

But that changed when he met his wife. She had all the courage he lacked and he found that, when needed, he simply had to imitate her. Walter steadied his heart, gripped the handle of the cleaver tightly, then stormed out of the shop.

"Hey, you dirty, sneaky bastard—"

The stranger seemed to have abandoned their post. 

Walter wandered down the street, searching for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Was it possible that he had sensed the approaching confrontation and turned tail? He hoped that might be the case. 

Walter began to return to his shop, when he noticed something at the end of the street. The rain that night had made it quite misty, so he couldn't see very far. But the moonlight lit up the floating particles and he could make out the silhouette of a person, standing far at the end of the street.

It must be the stalker, Walter thought. He puffed out his chest, making himself as large as he could, then marched towards the figure. 

"This is the end of this, ya hear me?" Walter shouted at the figure, waving his cleaver wildly. "If I see you again, I'll... I'll lop off that hand of yours!"

Walter's voice cracked. He wasn't used to such language, but he didn't waver.

The figure in the mist didn't respond. Walter started to wonder if it was perhaps only a trick of the light. Maybe he didn't need to pick a fight after all?

In the stillness, the butcher's adrenaline started to fade. The temporary courage gave way to his true, pacifist nature. Still, he held the cleaver up in a show of force. 

"C'mon, then! You're not so tough are ya?! I'll let ya off with just a warning—"

Walter's body froze. The mist started to clear, and he saw that the figure was not the stranger, but a tall woman in a flowing white dress, so light and immaterial that it could have been woven from moonlight itself.

A soft voice emerged from the mist, as faint as the whistling of the wind. "Have you seen him?" she asked.

The butcher's mouth went dry like sandpaper. A chill passed over him, making his hair rise. The cleaver trembled in his hands.

"S-Seen who?" he stammered.

"I'm looking for a boy. Could you help me find him? His name is Walter. "

"W-Walter?" he repeated. His own name on his tongue suddenly felt so unnatural.

"Have you seen him?" the woman asked. 

Walter gulped, and shook his head. "I-I haven't..."

Then, a shrill cackle emerged from the mist. With a rigid, almost puppet-like gait, the figure teetered closer, and now the butcher could see her true form. Her eyes were pure black. Her skin, pale as snow. Black wiry hair fell down to her waist.

Her lips, a crimson red, curled towards her eyes in a frightening grin. "You're lying."

Walter's blood turned cold. He turned and ran as fast his legs could carry him. But in his haste, his feet slipped against the wet cobblestones. His body hit the ground with a thud and the cleaver slipped out of his hands, clattering away. 

Walter touched his finger to his head and saw blood on his fingers. A large gash had split his forehead. He desperately reached for the cleaver, when a chill spread through his body. He felt a hand touching his shoulder. It was cold as ice. 

A voice, smooth as velvet, whispered into his ear, "Tell me... What was your name?"

In a fit of courage, the butcher dived for the cleaver. His fingers wrapped around the wooden handle he knew so well, and swung it as hard as he possibly could. He felt the familiar resistance of flesh. 

But when he opened his eyes...

... he found only his wife standing before him—the cleaver buried into her chest.

"M-Marcia?" he stammered. "What are you doing here?"

"H-Honey..." she croaked, her eyes wandering in a frenzy, not quite aware of what has happened. "I... I was just... seeing where you had gone..."

The life drained from her body and she slumped into Walter's arms. Blood spilled feely out her chest. He didn't know what to say. His brain couldn't process what his eyes were seeing. 

The woman loomed over him, her dark eyes gazing sadly upon the scene. "Oh no... What have you done, Walter?"

The woman bent over and dipped her finger into Marcia's blood pooling on the ground. She held it up high to observe it. The thick blood glistened under the moonlight as it dripped down in thick globules.

Walter, still in shock, muttered to the demon, "Stop... Get away from her..."

The woman ignored him as she brought the blood to her lips, licking it, savoring its taste. "Ah... delicious." She then turned to the butcher, "I'm sorry, Walter. It's nothing against you..."

Walter rose to his feet, mostly on autopilot and adrenaline. He swung the cleaver, listlessly, but just as it was about to make contact, she vanished into the mist.

He spun around wildly, searching for her, his boots splashing against the puddles in the uneven cobblestones. He was alone with his wife's body in this empty street. 

Then a voice whispered, "... But that's what kindness gets you sometimes."

Walter turned hot with anger and swung the cleaver at the woman's neck, but this time it landed with a loud CLANG. Somehow, blood had pooled over the skin around her neck and hardened to create a protective coating. 

He pulled the cleaver back and swung again, this time at the woman's waist. But the blood on her neck instantly moved to protect her, creating a hard barrier that stopped the blade halfway through its arc. He gritted his teeth, trying to wrest the cleaver free, but the blade was stuck inside the blood-formed shell.

"Oh, Walter. You're just as I thought you'd be. Too innocent for this world." 

With a flick of her wrist, the blood on the ground shot upwards, forming a razor-sharp spear. It stabbed Walter in the back. He gasped in pain, wondering if he was going to die.

"Don't worry," the woman said. "It's not your time. Not yet."  

The woman slid her finger across the blood-born spear, collecting the fresh blood. She licked it, then blanched at the taste. "Ugh. Too much salt."

Walter glanced down and saw Marcia's lifeless eyes gazing up at him. Although weak from the blood loss, he summoned the energy to lift his hand and close her eyes.

The woman bent over so they were face to face, just inches away from each other. His sorrow over Marcia's death quickly gave way to unmitigated rage. He wanted to kill this demon, rip those damn black eyes out of her skull. But he had no energy left. He couldn't even lift a finger.

The woman's crimson lips curled into a grin. "I hope you enjoyed the show."

"W-What do you mean?" he said, his consciousness just barely hanging on. 

"Not you, Walter. I'm talking to our friend..." 

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[Walter's Log: The woman's speaking directly to me, "... our little spy."]

I stopped in my tracks when I saw the words on the display. 

Is she... talking to me?