8 kill! kill! kill! becoming the weasel
That evening, my dreams returned, more blood drenched and disturbing than before.
I could actually smell the aroma of burning bone as I used a Stihl saw to lop off the top of my mom’s head and extract her brain.
In the endless darkness of my nightmare, I saw the little girl with the pigtails from the bus, except she was burned really badly and had only wisps of hair left and no eyes, ears or nose.
In some places, you could also see bone where the skin had been destroyed completely.
“Why did you kill us?!” she shrieked, “you took our lives and now we’re lost in some kind of purgatory because we weren’t ready to die. You deserve to be punished!”
“It wasn’t me; it was the weasel!” I said, feeling the guilt infesting my person and making me experience immeasurable pain, like I was being scorched from the inside out, so much so that I doubled over and writhed on the floor in turmoil.
“Hahaha!” the little girl giggled, then her face was venomous, “you still don’t get it do you?
The weasel is you silly.” I heard shuffling in the shadows, then all the rest of the children staggered towards me like corpses that had been left out in the sun too long, all displaying varying degrees of burns.
The cherub faced boy reached for me, his teeth black as coal and the left side of his face completely melted off.
“My daddy kills weasels when he goes hunting. He says they’re vermin.
Maybe I should get his shot gun and blow your head off!
” I screamed like a man possessed and tried to scramble away from them, but like it always was in dreams when you were terrified, I felt like I was running in quicksand, and the zombie children were creeping ever closer.
“Bess! Bess! Where are you? I’m frightened!”
The children began to sing.
You killed us, but we’ll never leave, we’ll torture you forever. Shoot a bullet in your head, pop goes the weasel!