Jeannette's Story - An Insane, Nonsensical Night of Horrors

The stranger lies cooling in the doorway, blood drying black in the grain of the floorboards. Then the wall takes up a heavy, rhythmic thudding, patient as a fist from the other side.

The back door opens wider on the cold night air. A man in an oil-stained coat steps into view, lantern low at his side, its light dragging long shadows across the threshold and over the corpse.

He does not look at the dead man. His gaze pins Jeannette Fortune instead, steady and hard, as if the library itself is only a thin skin over something else.

The lantern flame shivers. The Watchman remains in the doorway, waiting, while the blood on the threshold gleams wetly in the light.

Jeannette Fortune moves first. Her hand hooks the Watchman by the coat front and drags him off balance into the library, hard enough to slam the lantern against his hip.

He grunts, boots skidding on the blood-slick boards, and his shoulder clips the doorframe. The lantern swings wild, spilling feverish light across the corpse and the shelves.

Jeannette cinches the hold tight, turns with him, and opens his throat in one clean, wet line. His breath catches in a ruined hiss.

The Watchman claws at her forearm once, then twice, but his strength runs out in her grip. Blood jumps hot over her sleeve and the floor.

The lantern drops, bounces, and rolls sideways, throwing the room into wobbling shadows. A sharp stink of oil and blood fills the doorway.

Outside, the darkness stays listening. No shout follows, only the cold breathing in from the open door.

The Watchman sinks in Jeannette's arms, still and heavy, while the threshold keeps leaking red.