"Ohoho… damn, this body is a mess." He coughed up blood.
Remy collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. The magnificent clothes he'd worn only moments ago receded into drifting smoke, folding back into the tattered rags from before.
The frogs croaked in the darkness. The night chill spread, and the twin moons slid out from behind their veil, a single star clinging close to them. Their silver light spilt across the earth, casting tall, skeletal shadows that swayed and danced as though they were alive.
"Ah… fuck… What happened to me?" Remy groaned, his voice raw. His skull throbbed with a splitting pain, as though it might tear free from his shoulders.
"My body… It's a wreck. Why does it hurt all over?"
As he forced his thoughts into order, the vivid memory of what had happened came flooding back, still vague and choppy; he could remember the slaughter, the unnatural strength, the dark smoke, but they all felt distant, like they were not even his.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the gloom, and a small relief passed over him—it was a place he knew.
His body felt like a hundred men were pressing down on him, but he pushed on with great effort. He pulled himself upright and limped toward the door.
"What's this… why's the handle sticky?" He murmured, raising his hand to the moonlight, though dim, he would see black goo oozing from it.
He pushed the door open with his remaining strength.
"Ma…? Ma, are you here?" he wailed.
He moved toward the paraffin lamp, finding the matchbox by touch.
Clap!
He struck the match, and it lit briefly before dying.
Clap!
He struck it once more, but that too died down quickly.
"Damn it, damn it, light you little f*ck."
Clap!
The scratch of the match flared in the dark, briefly illuminating his face before he lit the lamp. The sharp scent of paraffin spread instantly through the air.
And there it was—blood. A dark trail smeared across the floorboards, glistening faintly in the lamplight. The wood was gouged, scratched, and chipped, signs of a desperate struggle.
On the floor, curving from nails dragging against the floor stretched outside.
"Ma… Ma!" he called again, but the silence was unbroken.
He pushed deeper into the shack. Pots lay overturned. The small dining table was broken clean in half. Blood was splattered in sweeping arcs, trailing like a grotesque, badly drawn piece of art.
"No… no… no…" His voice shook as his eyes darted from wall to floor to doorway. But there was no sign of her. She was gone.
"Hey, answer me!" He roared to the entity within. "You took over my body. Tell me, do you know what happened here?"
Silence.
"Hey! You f*cker, I said f*cken answer me, you can't just go and come as you please using my body… hey?" His voice cracked with fury and desperation, but still nothing answered.
"Iyah!"
He hurled the lamp to the ground. Glass shattered, and fire rushed outward like a tide consuming the shore. The flames spread hungrily, smoke curling upward as if the shack itself were exhaling its last breath. A strange madness crept into his eyes, and the fire reflected in them like molten gold.
"Then I will kill us both, then, since you don't want to answer." Remy knew what had happened, but he was in so much grief that he just needed someone, anyone or anything to assure him that it was going to be okay.
But nothing brought such comfort, so he sat down and watched it all burn.
The pillars fell, parts of the shake folding against themselves.
"Ohoho, ahiii…" he coughed violently, getting choked by the smoke.
But then—
From outside, a voice came—low, cool, and unfamiliar.
"What then? Are you just going to kill yourself? What justice will that bring?"
"Have you truly despaired, or are you just a coward?"
The speaker emerged from the darkness—a man, perhaps in his early thirties. His hair was brown like polished oak; his eyes, an unnatural green, glinted with a faint crimson in the firelight.
A long, dark coat hung from his shoulders, over a flecked shirt with puffy sleeves and a loosely knotted scarf. A Top hat was perched gracefully on his head, and a monocle glimmered slightly on his left eye. His face was pale skin so thin he seemed almost cadaverous.