Sam pressed herself against the cold concrete wall, panting. Her breath had left her a couple of minutes ago. She noted her exhalations in the cold winter air, hovering like a small cloud of smoke before disappearing. It sure is cold as heck in here, she thought.

The creature had probably lost her exact location, so she had a moment to recollect the shattered thoughts that were her plan. She managed a dry swallow, patted some sand off her shoulder.

Her left hand was gripped tight, clinging to a rather old looking revolver. It was the last thing that could lead to their victory. “Come on Pat, please don’t leave me hanging here…” she stuttered, flipped the guns cylinder sideways as it swayed outwards to reveal the inside. Two out of six shots remaining. God fucking damn it.

She coughed up some more sand, her throat feeling like a dried out lake. That thing had almost gotten her. Luckily, Pat had distracted the beast, handing her the gun for self defense, before disappearing inside of the labyrinth of walls.

This abandoned building sure was massive, like someone had build it intentionally confusing so no one could navigate through it in an effective way. Also, she could have sworn it had looked smaller from the outside.

Heartbeat still fastened, she flipped the cylinder back in. With a jerking arm movement, she aimed at the wall, just to check if, by any chance, she would be able to hit something in this state. A silent sigh escaped her brittle lips.

The only option would be to move forward now. Step by step. One foot after another. She tried her best to ignore the pain which every step caused, clenching the cold metal grip of her revolver even harder.

Pat did move towards the back of the building. Maybe, if I just followed the corridor, I will meet him. And then… She didn’t know. Hopefully he’s fine.

Old, yellow lamps lit the corridors of the mansion, their class dirty and worn down. They were connected by cheap cable, dangling from lamp to lamp unhidden along the rather high up roof.

Half of them don’t even work… it is a surprise this building even has electricity.

“Fuck, maybe I should have stayed an electrician. Fixing cables was way easier than all of this monster hunting bullshit,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I need to end this. For my family. For Pat.”

Sam’s self talk got interrupted as she perceived something in the distance. It was silent, almost quiet – hard to hear even if she focused on it. She closed her eyes, tried to sharpen her senses.

Where does it come from?

It sounded like a gentle wind, humming in the distance like a mischievous song drawing someone closer. The winds… the sands… this must be it.

She picked up on speed. There was a point of orientation now. She needed to hurry.

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Pat felt warm, sandy blood stuck inside of his throat. He had been careless, not paying attention to its movements. Now he found himself close to a corner, his escape routes cut off. The sand storm whipped around furiously.

He couldn’t spot anything clearly. Narrow eyes against merciless desert. Short of breath. Every inhalation stung inside of his lungs.

Then, just for a split of a second, as the waves of sand moved into a lucky position, a vague humanoid shape inside of the sand could be pointed out.

A glint of hope... looks like I have a decision to make now, huh?

Loud, bursting sounds echoed through his head. Deafening winds blew mercilessly against all edges of the old mansion’s living room. Luckily there was no furniture left in here, otherwise I would have already been beheaded by a flying couch or some shit like that.

He had seen some weird shit in his career before, indeed. A lot of paranormal activities and, sure, some supernatural entities had been wiped of existence by his old, crumbly hands. He had thought, just for a short while, that perhaps he was invincible, the chosen one, something like that. Damn, I had been so sure that smoking would eventually kill me before these things would. Rather die by the own consequences than by these little shits.

Yet, he found himself in a near dead situation. The bruising sand pressuring him backwards, closer and closer to the corner. In front of him, the blurred lines of an entity – shaping and reshaping itself inside of the shadows like a flowing mass or form – stood inside of its hell. Something inside of the mass appeared to be pulsing and thumping, like a band of drums hitting a slow rhythm. Yet, it was impossible to spot anything besides shapes from Pat’s viewpoint.

Pat clenched his teeth. He put a finger inside of his throat, managed to vomit out most of the sand, enabling him to breath again. The taste of iron in his mouth had increased, his throat feeling like a sieve now.

A final smoke would have been nice now.

Screw it, I have a promise to keep.

His coal-like, dust covered hair locomoted in ever changing directions. The black leather jacket, which had protected him from all sorts of weather for years, was now more dirty than ever.

He stumbled in place, his left hand clenched onto a grenade: His last resort weapon.

This thing will blow up everything in a 10 metre radius, hopefully taking this thing with it. I can’t risk Sammy getting hurt. I won’t be as bad of a teacher as I have been a father so many years ago.

And his mind took him back to the past, deep inside, where memories of actions rested which he was now so ashamed off.

He had long forgotten the name of his child. The child he had left alone with its mother back then, abandoning his family soon after the kid’s birth.

Running away had seemed to be the only option to him back then. He had been so scared of the consequences – the consequences of his own actions – terrified of losing his freedom. He had justified it with being scared back then.

Now he knew better.

“Coward,” he heard himself mutter through the sounds of the blowing winds.

There was no time for being a coward now.

This would be his last resort.

His last approach.

His last push forward.

His final attack.

His final thought:

I will rip that thing apart and safe my disciple as well as take revenge for the people this sand fucker has killed.

Dry lips managed a sad smile.

He started pressing against the winds, cool skin against rough air, towards the sandy hell in front of him. Grenade in hand, ready to remove the pin which would end his life.

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