Vendetta - Horror Short Story
He couldn't resist the spirit in the gun, no matter how hard he tried.
Greetings once again, dear reader, and welcome to Original Worlds.
Today, I bring you the story, “Vendetta.”
This story was born out of a “what if” sort of game I played. What if a weapon was imbued with the spirit of the last person to hold it? And what if that spirit had a singular vendetta to fulfil?
David will soon discover the cost of failure is more than blood.
I hope you enjoy the story.
David realized he had no choice but to follow through with what the spirit said, but the gravity of it all was overwhelming.
“Do it.” The words echoed through his mind, flowing and ebbing with a throb.
The gun in his hand was shaking slightly. He fought to regain control over his hand again, knowing, if he just pulled the trigger, this would all be over.
The man before him was shaking as well, with tears flowing down his dirty face. David wondered if his knees were bleeding from the concrete below them.
The week started out like any other for David. he got up early to go to work, sitting in his little cubicle as any of the other hundred proles surrounding him did. The data flowing through his fingers into the computer system was no different than it always was.
The fact the medical industry was as bulbous and overreaching as it was ensured he would have a job for many years to come.
His day took a turn, though, when, one the way home, he stopped in his tracks at the window of a pawn shop.
Never before had David considered buying a gun. Indeed, he did not like the idea of them existing at all, let alone harboring any subconscious thoughts that he needed one.
Yet, as he looked at this one in the display window at the front of the building, he could not help but acknowledge its beauty, as it sat in a small felt-lined box. The cold edges of it shone in the sunlight as it streamed through the pane of glass, sparkles reflecting into his eyes.
It was old, as evidenced by the way it was made, as was the box it rested in. How old, David could not tell, but, regardless, it would be deadly in the right – or wrong – hands.
Five minutes passed as he watched the machine of death in the window. Another two passed before he set his feet into motion and walked through the door.
The process of buying it was easy and completed before David even realized what he was doing. He was already going back through the door before he stopped himself, staring down into the brown bag he held in his hands and looked at the wood of the box straddled within.
He should turn around and return the item to the shop he had just walked from, but something inside caused him to stay his course.
As soon as he walked through his front door, he sat the bag with the box on the coffee table in front of his couch and collapsed into his seat. The exhaustion which he felt was abnormal; even working an extended shift never left him so jet-lagged.
He stared at the bag for some time, wondering exactly why he brought it home. It was so unlike his normal state of being. He was not a spontaneous man, preferring to keep himself as organized as he could, with little left to chance. His desire to keep his life as pre-planned and the opportunity for change was so strong, it was one of the reasons he had remained single for most of his adult life.
Yet, here he was, sitting on his couch with a bag from a pawn shop before him, containing a gun he would have never wanted to own, and he could explain none of it, even to his darkest, most secretive part of his soul.
He leaned forward, pulling the top of the bag open; removing the box from the bag was easy, though it was a little heavy to do one-handed. The box thumped to the lacquered finish of the table, and he set the bag aside.
The wood grain of the box was rough. Only the age of it gave it any sense of a soft finish. David thought if he touched it in the wrong way, the edges of the grain would splinter away and gouge into his fingers.
Only a small latch kept it closed tightly, which David unhooked. A small, thin shriek of the tiny hinges came to his ears as he pried open the box, and he let the lid slap down to the table behind the bottom of the box.
The black felt of the interior absorbed all light which hit it, leaving only the gun, resting inside, to have the honor of being central in his vision.
David sat back on the couch, keeping his eyes on the gun. It was a large caliber revolver, and, according to the owner of the pawn shop, who exuberantly droned on about the nature of the pistol, it was well over seventy years old. There were six bullets embedded in the felt, each given its own place to rest until the moment they would be used.
It had, according to the owner, not been fired in a long time, but was still in perfect working order.
David felt nervous even having it in his home, but again felt an uncontrollable urge to keep it close by. This did not surprise him as much as the shock which grew inside as he reached out to grasp the pistol.
He pulled it from the box, and, as he held it in his hand, he twisted it side-to-side, looking at it in the dim light of his living room. Small glowing pools of reflected light entered his vision, shining from the rounded, dark metal. He wondered if the weight of it was due to the gun itself, or the way he felt about it as he held it before him.
“Find him.”
The voice echoed across his mind, subtle but clear.
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