Daily Writing #7: The Devils in the Words

What is the source?  Pete scanned the pages of the journal in a haste of inquisition. It has to be in here somewhere!  The sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, and the only illumination in the room was a lamp that sat on the desk where he sat.

Outside, multiple car doors slammed.  Pete, almost falling out of the chair in his anxiety, closed the door to the room and fastened the five deadbolts he had recently installed.  He opened the top drawer to his desk and removed a 1911 Sig Sauer .45 caliber pistol and tucked it into his belt.  Downstairs, doors were being kicked in, and furniture flipped.  Muffled voices traveled through the vents and floorboards as the intruders surveyed the building.

Pete held the journal to his chest.  The ancient leather binding began to crack and fall away as Pete tightened his grip on it.  He removed the pistol from his belt, and with a shaking arm, raised it towards the door.

“Lord forgive me, for I have sinned”

The footsteps climbed the stairs now, the voices more clear.

“Lord forgive me, for I have sinned.”

A failed attempt to open the door, followed by a swift kick rattled Pete.

“Pete?  What have you done with the journal?”

Pete, raising the gun higher to the area where he assumed the man’s head was, said, “It is too late.  I have discovered what we are not supposed to know.  God has abandoned us and left us with you.”

Another attempt at kicking the door in failed.

“Those words were not for you to see, Pete.  Do you know what must be done to resolve this situation now?”

Pete pulled the trigger and unloaded the clip into the door.  Beams of light stabbed through the newly formed holes.  Pete, still pointing the empty weapon at the door, continued to pull the trigger.

“Lord forgive me, for I have sinned.”

One of the beams of light protruding from the holes, cut out, and was replaced by a blood red eye that stared directly at Pete.  When Pete caught the gaze of it, his breathing skyrocketed, and he began to sweat profusely.  With one last prayer and gasp for air, Pete died.  The eye disappeared, along with the journal.

Author: My Life Sentenced

I am a 28-year-old aspiring screenwriter. I am tired of the "safe" job bullshit ​and am well on my way to dreams.

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