One could not help but cringe away, only to turn quickly back to witness the scene.
Daemon watched, scared, unable to abject the power filled, pale hands that tore at the crumbled body of his best friend, Leo. The look of angst on Leo’s face was unlike anything Daemon had ever seen. The unseeing eyes of pain scored into Daemon’s soul, begging him for help, longing to be rescued from the horrible fate. Daemon could not move.
No one would ever find this murderer. How could one identify a masked man in a haunted corn maze? No one would be able to pick this creature out. Who would come across Daemon silently watching Leo’s death? The answer: No one.
Daemon watched as Leo’s throat was crushed, the skin broken, blood draining, ever so quickly. Leo’s face changed, going whiter, his lips almost blue. It wouldn’t be long now until death came for this poor boy. Daemon breathed, absent mindedly trying to breathe for Leo too. Leo’s gaze met Daemon’s eyes. This time there was no call for help, only hate. “I’m sorry!” Daemon shouted at him, no longer caring to be turned upon. There was a brief spurt, as the last of Leo’s blood dripped out, and the boy tired to take a breath. His eyes became lighter, no emotion being displayed. Leo was dead. His body was dropped by the pale hands, now covered in blood. Daemon ran to Leo’s body, pulling at Leo’s shirt, ripping off the sleeve. What seemed like years had lasted only seconds. Seconds had taken Leo’s life. Daemon screamed, knowing it would be him that would be the next victim. He turned and ran, ran as fast as his legs would take him, knowing he was covered in the deceased’s blood.
Daemon gasped, taking in air as he awoke to a bright morning. It had been a frightening dream, full of gore, but yet hypnotic. Daemon felt a sense of unknown pride at the thought of his best friend’s tragic death, despite the shiver of cold that went through his shaking body. Daemon rolled over in is bed. It seemed moist. Sitting up, Daemon discovered he wasn’t simply in a cold sweat; his body was covered in a crimson cold blood. Flipping back the sheets, he noticed more blood, pools of blood. Daemon looked around to take in his surroundings. The room was also covered in blood, splats of it, a sparkling crimson. On the floor laid a piece of dark blue fabric, stained purple with blood. Daemon ran to it. There was no mistaking that small cloth. It was the sleeve of Leo’s shirt.
“That was not a dream.” Daemon’s mind shrieked to his body, “That was reality. Those pale hands were yours. Don’t you remember? You killed him in that stupid Haunted Maze. You killed him just to kill.” Reality set it. Daemon had killed his friend. He had picked the Haunted Maze so others wouldn’t suspect the screams to be anything but playful terror. If found, he would appear to be part of the attraction. He had done it. Daemon felt a surge of a new emotion: excitement.
A loud pounding on the door broke Daemon from his perverse thoughts. “Daemon Cantale! This is the Police!” the voice called, “We have you surrounded, come out with your hands up!” Daemon’s heart thumped. Perhaps an award for this grotesque accomplishment? Such excitement had been too short lived. There was nowhere for this cold blood killer to hide. Daemon opened the door.