He was born the seventh son, of a seventh son. On the seventh day of the seventh month. His parents knew the signs, had been coached in them for generations. On his newborn stomach, together they painted the runes and sigils to seal away the nameless horror. Trapping it inside the boy forever.
Or so they thought…
Frank stormed through his front door, slamming it behind him. His heredity did afford him certain benefits; his house was big, ancient even by the standards of the old neighborhood they lived in. It had gone a bit to ruin, worn down by the seasons. Weathered. Still, it was roomy. It gave him plenty of space to rage and rant. He'd managed to work himself up all over again.
"Fucking laughing at me. Me! I can't believe it." He stomped up the stairs towards his bedroom. His shrine. "Well, things are going to change around here." His parents were out, he knew. He was talking to himself - never a good sign. But then, he was never really alone, was he?
He stopped, lifting his shirt and tracing the black ink marks on his stomach. Even after almost two decades, the sigils inked into his skin at the moment of his birth still looked like the freshest of tattoos. In moments like this, when his emotions were running away with him, he could swear they were crawling...
Focus. He calmed himself back down. He hadn't fully thought out a plan, yet. he was just running on gut instinct. He passed through the kitchen, pulling a plastic bag filled with bright red liquid out of the refrigerator as he went. Handy living in an occult household; there was always some fresh blood around.
He worked swiftly. His parents had schooled him in these matters religiously, and it was second nature to draw the diagram on the smooth, polished wooden floor. Carefully, he pulled the effigy out and placed it in the middle. He wanted...well, her. What did he need most, right now? Where best to start?
Control. Teach her to obey, or else.
He closed his eyes, touching the doll and reaching out along the connection between it and her. It was a piece of her, and like calls to like. He felt her, there in the school. He reached out, calling to her, swaying her to come to him. Soon enough, she was approaching the house. He felt his rage burning deep in his guts again, and cooled it with an effort. No, it wouldn't do to rush this. He'd savor his revenge.
You're feeling...hot. Itchy. Clothes are stupid, aren't they? what's the point? It's all just pretense and posturing. not like you're ashamed of your body, right? You should take them off.
Submitted February 07, 2017 at 11:36PM by KreygasmDPP http://ift.tt/2kPcJrz dirtypenpals
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