Whisper of Evil

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She didn't know which was worse, the nausea or the terror. One threatened to choke her, while the other was a cold ache deeper than her bones.

There was so much blood.

How could one body hold so much blood?

She looked down and saw a ribbon of scarlet reaching slowly across the wooden floor for the toe of her pretty shoe. The floor was old and out of level, just enough. Just enough. That was the logical reason, of course, the mind's understanding that the blood wasn't actually reaching out for her, it was just flowing along the line of least resistance, downhill, and she happened to be in the path.

Her mind knew that.

But terror pushed aside logic and all understanding. The blood was a crimson finger curling toward her, searching for her, slow, accusing. It wanted to touch her, wanted to… mark her.

I did it. I did this.

The words echoed in her head as she stared at the accusing finger of blood. It was almost hypnotic, watching the blood inch toward her, waiting for it to touch her. It was almost preferable to looking at what else was in the room.

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