The Haunting Stare Of The Dead
Asher's grip tightened around Lenny's throat, his blazing skeletal fingers sinking deeper as his hollow eyes glowed brighter, pulling Lenny deeper into a nightmare—a nightmare crafted from the darkest corners of his mind.
Lenny's screams faded as the world around him twisted and warped, dissolving into a landscape from his past.
He was a boy again, barely ten years old, standing in a small clearing near his family's large estate. The sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden light over the lush grass.
But his attention was fixated on a small bird lying on the ground in front of him, its tiny body twitching weakly. Its wing was broken, feathers ragged and bloodied. Lenny had spent days tormenting it, enjoying the way it squirmed under his fingers, the way it helplessly cried out.
But then he heard it—her voice.
"Lenny?"