Ifeoma
Flashing a wicked smile, the killer turns away from me and moves toward the spiritualist.
She directs the mirror at him, chanting the words of an incantation. Ignoring the urge to run away, I pull back and watch; the killer has stopped in midstride, whining like a dog in pain. His skin begins to peel off and fall to the ground, revealing ugly scars.
The spiritualist closes the gap between them, and he drops to the ground. Just then his body begins to shrink and shrink, until nothing is left where he’d stood except for his shredded skin and the clothes he’d worn. Then she places the mirror upon the clothes, waves me over.
I ignore my instincts, which tells me to run away, and move towards her, my heart pounding violently.
“This is the most dangerous part,” she says, handing me the knife. She points to the mirror. “He’s in there. He’s very, very weak now. Strike hard. Shatter the mirror in the first attempt or you’ll awaken him, and all our efforts will be useless.”
I can’t keep my hand from trembling. “Please can you do it yourself?”
She shakes her head.
“Why?”
“The creator destroys her creation.”
“What?”
“Your potion created him. Only you can destroy him now.”
“Are you sure this-”
“Don’t worry, it’ll work.” She pats my shoulder. “Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t strike with fear.”
“Okay.” I suck in a deep breath and then let it hiss out slowly. I feel power bubbling within me as I steady my hand and clench the knife harder, determined to end this torment.
The spiritualist steps back. “Strike.”
I raise the knife and in one powerful move bring it down upon the mirror, smashing it with a loud clink. A body drops behind me. I turn around; the spiritualist lies on the ground, thrashing violently, gore rushing from a deep gash in her throat. I stare at her, confused, and just then someone laughs behind me. I spin around – the clothes, the shredded skin, the knife, the mirror, everything is gone.
“I tricked you fools,” the familiar voice says, although I can’t see anyone. “Now you’ve become what you always avoided. A killer.”
The spiritualist bursts into a fit of coughs. I whip around. She’s trying to say something.
I lean closer to her and catch the name on her lips before her body goes still.
Shola.
Footnote: This is the ninth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
*Click HERE for the next episode.
Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the tenth episode next Monday.
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