The Dark Sire Issue 1 (Fall 2019) | Page 89

chubby cheeks and her red eyes fading to blue. Sara was Sara again. She was human again. She was peaceful, but she was dead. I threw the hammer in my bag, wiped my hands, and picked up my journal to add: Sara Holstadtler, 13, Transylvanian, 13 Dec 2010 STAKED I jammed the pen back into the journal, shoved it in my bag, and walked to Mr. Holstadtler with the bag in hand. “A word, please.” I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. I left the room as is and waited for Mr. Holstadtler on the other side of the door. After exiting Sara’s bedroom, I carefully closed the door behind me and then threw my bag down to the night-soaked carpet. The hallway was dark, difficult to see. The plush carpet beneath my feet may not have been red, but that’s all I could see. To me, everything was blood red: the carpet, the cherry oak table lined with white lace, the antiqued mercury glass pedestal bowl with various laven- der and crème roses, purple hydrangea and chrysanthe- mums, red orchids, and burgundy dahlias. The sweet smell of flowers was sickening mixed with the smell of blood and death. I grabbed the edge of the oak table and squeezed. It moaned in my grasp, as Sara did when I held her neck mercilessly. The veins in my neck popped and my teeth clenched as I wrenched forward and then I caught sound of the bedroom door opening. “Mr. Kade?” 87