User blog comment:HumboldtLycanthrope/The 666 word pasta write off!/@comment-25073641-20160408053956

It all started that night. January 12, 2016, ten-thirty-four in the midnight.

Our small town which lay somewhere in the obscured edges of Humboldt County slept in thorough peace, the bright moon shedding its faintly light to us — the people sailing to the dreamlands — and the million stars glimmering in the galactic void. The streets were gloomy, somehow foreboding, the lampposts preventing it from falling into utter darkness, but thankfully no drunk vagrants or homeless children were creeping around the time; the social services did their job well. The cold wind blew forth, the trees and plants ruffling on its soft, gentle push. The lights inside the houses were switched off, which made the houses look empty instead of inhabited. But it was, only they were sleeping.

Ten-thirty-two. I heard a low rumbling noise.

I was awoken from my sleep. Disturbed from my deep slumber, feeling sleepy and estranged because I usually didn't wake up until late morning, I went to the window, looking back tentatively to my husband, who was on his own voyage to the dreamlands. I don't know why, it's just... I found it the perfect place where I could contemplate about my life and miseries. All that crap. But the faint grumble, like the belly of a beast, continued, so I was disturbed even more. It seemed like an earthquake, but the ground didn't tremble or open up some deep trench that went straight to hell. A non-destructive one, perhaps, but I had no means of telling.

Ten-thirty-three. The low rumbling noise stopped. I heard a woman's screamed instead.

The screamed, which echoed and sounded distant, woke me up from my dream-like stance of meditation. I glanced around, severely unnerved and partially curious, but found nothing of particular interest. What was that? People were rarely awake this time, and sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, our small town felt more like an abandoned radioactive city, like Chernobyl or something, than an actual town. So the scream coming from seemingly nowhere — and at this time — really sent shivers down to my spine.

I went to bed and tried to sleep, but found out I couldn't. I felt like some ominous deity was watching us from above. Not God, but something ancient, something malevolent. Rectal ramblings it might sound, but that's how I felt. I hugged my husband. With him close to me, I feel safer and sounder. This way I could join him on his voyage to the dreamlands. My arms wrapped around his chest, I closed my eyes.

Ten-thirty-four. Things happened too quickly.

My memories were hazy; somehow things looked like a dream, but I knew it wasn't. There were screams everywhere, only women and children. I was screaming too, I guess. Things here didn't look like the way they should be. I looked outside the window, and that's when I first saw the bloody chaos. Women and children ran across the streets like rats scurrying out of a sinking ship, crying and covered in blood. Mrs. Worthington glanced at me. Here left eye hung out of its socket and her fingers dwindled from her hands. Then she darted away.

I saw the men outside. But they weren't screaming. They were running, running in a frenzied fashion, like zombies chasing a fleeing survivor for flesh and blood. All wielded knives and machetes and hammers, all tainted with blood. They attacked the women and children with the objects they carried, and then people died. I saw a boy about the age of eleven get his head crushed under his father's hammer. I know that kid. Franklin, as I remember. And we called his father Mr. Funnybone.

The father of Franklin looked up to me, then I saw them. Those big, black eyes.

Then I sensed something plunge into my neck. I fell down crying, and saw my husband there in my blurry vision, carrying a screwdriver. His eyes shone black.

I woke up. I heard the rumbling noise.