out my log, a light brown hide journal in which I kept
information on each victim I came across. In it I wrote:
Sara Holstadtler, 13, Transylvanian, 13 Dec 2010
I put the black fountain pen inside the journal,
closed it, and set it on the table next to my bag. Julia
Holstadtler was still mourning her half-dead daughter,
leaning over the blood-drenched body, trying to adjust the
stained white nightgown so as not to show indecency. The
maids stood at their mistress’s side while David
Holstadtler knelt on one knee by the door, his face buried
in the corner, his right arm suspended overhead and
plastered to the wall, as his body hovered lifeless.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Holstadtler, but it’s time.”
Julia lifted her head, her eyes overrun with tears.
Her breathing quickened as she shrunk back from me.
“Wh-what is this? David?”
Mr. Holstadtler managed to stand but fell with his
back toward the door. His eyes reflected the man before
him who was holding a stake in one hand and a hammer in
the other.
I walked over to Sara’s lifeless body, placed the tip
of the stake over her heart and plunged the hammer down
hard. The ripping flesh, like the crackling sound of tearing
through meat, and the gush of blood, like a big splash of
paint against canvas, was deafening. Sara’s body seized, her
eyes forced opened with constricted pupils, her mouth
gaping with no sound escaping. Slowly, the young girl I
first met came back to us. Her skin thickened and grew
supple, youthful, with her pointed cheek bones melting to
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