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El Diablo

By MatthewRings All Rights Reserved ©

Mystery / Horror

Untitled Chapter

  Creeeak… Creeeeeak…  The floorboards made eerie noises as the man shifted his weight to the right. A shaky pale hand dipped a flat tipped brush into the rusty grey can. Nothing was felt on the brush but a few drops of liquid. He peered down with red eyes that would make anyone inwardly cringe, to see that he had run out of red. Quietly growling, he slammed his brush down onto the wooden stool that stood to the left of him and looked back up at his portrait.

  Skilled but revolting drawings of locusts covered the canvas. He smiled to himself, sporting nasty chipped teeth that were once unnaturally sharp. Hobbling his way through the large, dim, dusty basement and making his way to a corner in the very back. Heavy but shaky breathing and whispers of “El Diablo…” were heard coming from the barley lit corner. There sat a young Hispanic girl, maybe ten or eleven, wearing a brown dress that was caked with dried blood. Her right arm and ankles were bent in all the wrong places. Blood was running messily down her left arm. There was a deep gash starting from her shoulder that went down to the crease of her elbow. Pure pain contorted her tan, filthy face. A heavy yet quiet sob escaped her lips as fresh tears began to flow down her face, mixing with the dirt and grime. “El Diablo!” she screeched at the top of her lungs one last time before breaking down and filling the room with her misery filled cries.

  The albino looking old man just frowned down at her. “Keep that shit up and the whole damn village will hear you now wont they…” he spoke in a deep, throaty, contorted voice. His neck twitched as he reached for a new can. The girl saw what he was doing in between screeches and instantly began slamming herself against the wooden wall behind her in a pathetic attempt to get farther from the old man no one trusted; the man they called the devil himself. Her screams of fear and agony only increased in volume until she felt she couldn’t breathe anymore.

  She reached out her snapped right arm in an attempt to stop him, but it was too late. The gash in her arm was ripped open farther as the can was placed at the bottom of the torn flesh to catch its spilling, crimson, contents. Feeling as there was no more air left in her to breathe and no more screams left in her to scream, her vision became blurred. The young girl felt herself falling into nothing more than darkness as the man’s horrid laugh filled her ears until not even that was left. He stood up, leaving the girl’s body behind, and walked over to his gruesome painting. It looked to be finished but only he would know that it wasn’t. Picking up the newly filled can and flat tipped brush, he messily dipped it in. In the top left corner of the painting, he began to spell out:


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