She turned to see what the noise was, letting out a sigh of relief. “I need to not stay at Allies anymore.” Quinn mumbled to herself. “She never stops with the horror stories.” Pushing back her hair she walked quickly. She needed to get home.
Just when she was but a few feet away from that particular alleyway, her senses were shocked into register what was to follow when a multitude of screams filled the brisk night air only to be silenced— partially— by the snap and crunch of bones breaking, the sick thud of skulls clashing against brick walls and the wet flap of torn flesh landing on the granite and asphalt beneath them all. The screams, which could make the pits of your stomach curdle just as bad as milk, eventually stopped only to have the passing train roar by and have all the street lights in that Narrow flicker on and off. As stray pieces of the New York Times fly by her, a silhouette is vaguely visible exiting said alleyway, nothing but a pitch black figure that’s eyes were absent of any pupils. Then the light came back and a bit more detail etched itself in on his frame. His complete lower jaw was engorged in a glossy red and so were his hands, he sported a raggedy, tattered and torn ended black trench coat that hung off him like a Reaper’s robe. His hair was long, gnarled mane of entangled dirty blonde while his body was about five hundred pounds of— as of late— sinewy Canadian wilderness, standing at a height of six foot six. Grinning from ear to proverbial ear, the man slicked back some hair with eagerly
(as well as bloodied)
wriggling, sharp-ended extremities on his right hand. His voice bellowed a sort of roar when he decided to call out to her. A Southern drawl in each syllable passing those lips of his.
”Evenin’ there, darlin’!”
