The other men went to their fallen comrade, trying vainly to staunch the bleeding. The drifter glanced at them and fired twice. One bullet apiece took them in the head, one brown haired and one blond, but now both dead. They fell to the floor.
He hadn’t stopped firing into the gathered crowd, turning a group of normal God-fearing people, into a mass of blood and meat. Their screams were quieting as they died, slumping against walls and chairs, falling on top of each other.
The blood from so many bodies spread across the floor, seeping through the wood and leeching into the ground.
Cackling, the stranger waded into the bloody mass of humanity and laid his guns carefully down on a table. He removed his clothes, grinning in the most lunatic fashion. Lying naked amongst the bodies, the drifter rolled back and forth, tittering. He scooped up handfuls of ichor and splashed it on his face and over his chest, reveling in the feel of the cooling blood.
But there was one person he had overlooked. The bartender, during the melee, had crawled across the floor and taken shelter behind the bar. He stood up then and pumped a shell into his double barrel shotgun, metal polished to a dark sheen, and fired upon the man. He hit him square in the face, shattering the delicate Maxilla and Mandible, and bursting his eyes in their sockets. The drifter did not die right away. He crawled off of the pile of bodies and stood momentarily on the floor. Blood and vitreous humor cascaded down his ruined face. A gurgling sound came from where his mouth should be. He raised his hands to cup his shattered face; stumbled forward a few steps then fell with a crash.
The bartender was the only one left alive. The only one left to tell the tale of blood and madness.
So was the gory history of Hallows Point and in modern days the town took advantage of its past. Every October the town was flooded with tourists, buying crafts and knickknacks of the darkest sort; dolls made to look like bloody corpses, candies in the shape of tombstones and bullets, and necklaces and rings that sported dancing skeletons and jack-o-lanterns. They paid a pretty penny to buy overpriced drinks in the bar, which stood on the original sight of the massacre. Burbling pumpkin juice laced with enough vodka to lay down a horse, beer dyed blood red and Washington Apples with sugar candied skulls floating inside, were among the most popular.
The bloody history served the residents of Hallow’s Point quite well, bringing in enough revenue to sustain them throughout the year.
Chapter One
Raven Wakes to Unpleasantness
Raven
Raven was woken from a sound sleep by someone banging at her door.
“What the fuck?” she murmured, rubbing her hands across her face. Looking at the clock she saw it was a little after four in the morning. Grumbling, she got out of bed. Her room was dark but she could make out the line of her dresser and mirror. Her window was closed and curtained to keep out the chill of the October evening. The red cotton curtains fluttered as she moved by them.
Raven lurched barefoot to her door, wearing black silk pajama bottoms and a maroon tank top. Blinking, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, pale blue like her mother’s. She had straight black hair that hung long and shining down her back and alabaster skin that was covered in brightly colored tattoos. Flowers were her favorite and Raven had all types, roses, tropical blooms, pansies, snap dragons and many more. Her arms had black tribal tattoo’s that she’d designed herself. The dark lines contrasted nicely with the bright blossoms.
The knocking sounded again and her dog barked, a deep and fierce sound.
“Hush, Rocky,” she spoke, patting his muscular head.
Rocky was a fawn colored American Staffordshire Terrier — a type of Pit Bull Terrier — with white feet and light brindle markings down his back. His eyes were the color of dark copper and his face was soulful.
Raven stumbled down her hallway yawning, navigating her way around the small pile of clutter that had escaped the closet. It held her mother’s clothes that she could never quite bring herself to give away. Her mother, Ann, had passed away last winter of a particularly virulent type of pancreatic cancer. Ann had left Raven this home and a fair amount of money. It had been enough at first that Raven hadn’t felt the need to find a job. She sat at home with her animals and grieved her mother’s passing for a few months then pulled herself together and found part time employment at the local nursery. At least she got great ideas for tattoos there.
The knocking grew louder and more frantic the closer she got to the door, rattling the wood in its frame.
Adrenaline spiked and woke her up a little more. Raven grabbed an axe from the wall. Her last boyfriend, who had gone the way of many of them, running after another younger piece of ass, had made her a wall mounted metal rack that held her novelty weapons, two sharp axes, an old-fashioned pick, and a knife the length of her forearm.
Rocky growled and walked by her side. She felt the solid weight of him against her leg.
She chose the shorter ax and took a moment to feel the weight of it in her hand. Reaching the door, Raven looked through her peephole and gasped.
Her younger brother, Henry, was standing outside, looking desperate and frightened.
“Raven,” he whispered. “Open the damn door.” He looked furtively over his shoulder.
Raven couldn’t see
