Mortuus stood in the kitchen doorway and attempted to reload his revolver before the Hallows attacked. With the barrel still open, a Hallow's clawed hand burst through the wood door. The wood splintered outward and threw bits of sharp wood into his face.
Mortuus covered his face, but it was too late to shield himself from the sharp bits of wood that cut all along the side of his face and tore little holes in his bandages. Even as the first was attempting to reach him, more Hallows attempted to also.
Several lissome arms reached through the door, their shadowy limbs seemingly merging with each other and thrashing like the tentacles of a Kraken. While their limbs were an amalgamation of shadows and darkness, the outlines seemed to struggle with maintaining their singular and individual form.
They managed to grab Mortuus by the shirt and pull him through the door, throwing him across the room. He slid down the old floorboards, the back of his trenchcoat getting slightly cut. He slid down until his head hit the wall across from the door with a loud thud.
The impact of Mortuus's head sent a cloud of drywall dust and black mold spores into the air. He wasn't even provided with half a second to process the hit before the Hallows were once again upon him. Two Hallows held him down while the remaining few tore across his chest.
Mortuus could only watch as the dreadful Hallows ripped his still-beating heart from his chest. The one clutching his heart sank its teeth into it. Thick, warm blood squirted out of valves and tooth holes as the Hallow's jaw applied pressure.
He wanted to hurl as he watched it tear into him, but his stomach was already torn open and leaking acid into his wounds. Mortuus's throat closed up as his mind wandered into a familiar state. His head went foggy, and the floor beneath him sank away like wet sand.
He felt his mind wander into a far more horrific time, a time from which his body still couldn't recover. His eyes met with the sown-closed and bleeding eyes of an old friend... He was back in the moment his life halted.
He was acutely aware of every sensation unfolding around him, his ribs contorting backward akin to the majestic span of angelic wings. The crimson spray of blood erupted from torn ligaments, his lungs struggling to draw breath; one of them collapsed, a grotesque gash cleaving its length.
The vicious claws pierced his heart valves with surgical precision, effortlessly cleaving through like hot butter before embedding into his scapula. The creature's sinister visage, adorned with shimmering iron along its pitch-black lips, was an unmistakable harbinger of terror.
Despite his desperate attempts to scream, his throat was but a shredded remnant, a casualty of his ordeal with The Stitcher. Its cacophony of voices reverberated violently in his mind, drowning out even the agony resonating from within its own tortured being.
The Stitcher's talons mercilessly gouged into the remnants of his flesh, trailing rivulets of crimson in their wake as they tore through sinew and muscle. Numbness engulfed his lower body, rendering his screams mute echoes as a blinding light heralded his descent into oblivion.
This time, he didn't open his eyes to the quiet doctor or scared paramedic, and he knew he definitely wasn't in the freezing tank. He opened his eyes and realized he was staring at the ceiling of the foyer, but something felt off.
Instead of the room being very apparent and every shadow, nook, or cranny being visible, Mortuus's vision was reduced to a mere one hundred eighty degrees of sight. With a shaky hand, Mortuus felt for the bandages that normally covered his eyes.
His fear was only met with horror as he pulled his covered hand back to view blood drenching it and sticky skin that peeled off from the condensation on his hands. His hands were still neatly wrapped with medical tape around the knuckles, but the Hallows had torn bandages from his face.
Gulping nervously, Mortuus reached into his pocket and removed the knife. He slowly raised it to light and looked at his reflection. Those horrible, ghastly features stared back at him with bright, vibrant green eyes that didn't match the disfigurement in any way and almost seemed to look photoshopped at first glance.
"We're... a... monster..." He slowly uttered in remembrance of that moment when he recognized his past. Now, with that face staring back into his, all he could do was remember the events leading up to killing The Stitcher.
Mortuus sighed and sat up, sticking the knife into his shoulder before leaning against his knee to help him balance. He then looked around and sighed when he noticed that the Hallows had shredded the bandages. If he were going to get to Jason, he would be doing it while virtually blind.
Mortuus jolted and fumbled his revolver as he felt a bony hand on his shoulder. It only took a moment for him to realize it was merely Death, calming his fear a bit. "Oh... It's just you." he mumbled.
Death nodded in solemn understanding as he seemed to sense Mortuus's distress. "Perhaps thou should not venture further." Death finally said after observing how Mortuus was standing. He clearly had a lot of nervous energy based on how he was leaning his weight on one leg and switching between them.
With a slow nod, Mortuus turned around and began heading for an exit of some sort. He didn't really care what kind. A window or a door would work, just as long as it got him out of the house just fine.
He just needed to escape the house and, preferably, before another Hallow attack or hallucination. With his revolver tightly gripped in hand so hard that his knuckles were turning white and shaking, Mortuus ran for the closet exit, the back door.
He grabbed hold of the doorknob and threw open the door, running into a white mist.
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