He ran, half-blind in the mist, half-deaf from his rushing breaths and the encroaching laughter.

The slick air drained his energy, though the encroaching haze spurred him on, it seemed his plan had worked.

He slipped and fell in a food court then scrambled beneath a table.

He struggled for every shallow breath in the syrupy air – thin tendrils worming into his lungs to fill its sacs and strained his ears.

The gloom was all about him now, the creature was quieter now, less manic cheer, more mischievous play. It didn’t inspire his confidence.

Slow clicks sounded through the mist, and a pitch silhouette moved in the rainbow haze. He slinked off to one as silent as his racing heart would let him.

Could it see through the mist, could it hear its heart? Mensah ordered his frenetic thoughts. There was too much unknown, he’d have to guess and hope his way through this.

It meandered through the seating, its voice rising and falling in a lyrical way as it nudged a table. Like a child sinning their part in a poorly made play – full of passion of joy, yet horrid to the listeners. He found a morbid beauty in it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He searched the court, keeping an eye on the creature. He found a discarded long knife and ran his finger along its edge.

Sharp, a bead of blood fell he felt it in the back of his head when it hit the floor. It would have to do.

He watched the wandering monster, it was playing? Tossing chairs and tables around. As happy as when it stabbed Summer. Was all this a game to it, did it even know it hurt them.

He willed his heart to slow, his tense muscles to relax. He stepped behind it, he couldn’t waver.

A scream interrupted the laughter, the thing cheered in victory.

A person scrambled on the ground, “Please! Help! Somebody!” Stace Mansha placed the desperate voice.

Mensah waited as the creature neared her and readied his knife.

With laughter, it leapt. A flash of cold washed over him, the creature reeled back. He didn’t understand what happened but didn’t let that stop him.

Mensha lunged, and the knife skidded across it with a dull scratch. He stabbed it again, and again, and again.

He was blind to its form all he knew was it laughed when he found a chink in its armour. That it was cool and hard when he tried to grapple it. That sting was painless and it fought like an over-enthusiastic great Dane.

When the venom told his muscles to relax, he told them otherwise when it reached its heart, he did the same. Struggling and stabbing all the while.

Laboured breaths, clicking and giggling, the mismatched chorus, to its play.

He stopped when he could push no further. He was riddled with so many holes that he couldn’t move.

It danced atop his fallen form, and all Mensha could do was desperately push his heart to beat and lungs to swell while the venom reached havoc in his body. The single thought he spared to question how he was doing any of this almost cost him his tenuous balance.

It dragged Mensha and an unconscious Stace, he didn’t have the spare attention to worry about where.