Mortuus walked down the road, his eyes caught on the sign. He sighed with despair as he looked up at it. "Heaven's Gate, Dr." He mumbled. He wasn't happy to be returning to that street with all of the pain and tragedy connected to it.
He walked along the cracked sidewalk, his revolver grasped tightly in his fist. He hated going near Heaven's Gate Dr.; it was a horrid reminder of everything that happened, but especially of when he ended The Stitcher that fateful night.
As he neared the house, a dark feeling overwhelmed him. It felt like an ocean of evil had crashed into him. His breath felt heavy as if he were drowning in that feeling.
Mortuus stopped in front of the house, tears on the edge of his eyes, dampening his bandages. "Everything I do leads me back to you."
Death formed a cloud of smoke behind him, his scythe resting on his broad, bony shoulders. "If the walls of that house could speak, we would all know the evil of Crater Hollow, Mortuus." He said to Mortuus, his glowing eyes never leaving the door of the house.
Death knew Mortuus would become curious after hearing that, but it was too late to take it back. He paused, thinking of how to phrase his following sentence. "Even I, The Angel of Death, wish not to tell the tales."
Mortuus looked back at Death, confusion on his brow. "What do you mean, Death? What happened?"
Death twirled his scythe in his hand, deciding whether to explain, while Mortuus watched his every move with anticipation. After a bit, he figured it was best he didn't and instead vanished.
"Asshole," Mortuus mumbled to himself before shouting into the air. "YOU SUCK, YA KNOW!!" To his surprise, Death responded, "And you swallow."
Mortuus wanted to retort but, noticing the neighbors peeking out their doors, decided against it. He looked crazy enough, shouting at no one. Sometimes, it was incredibly infuriating that he was the only one who could see or hear Death.
Mortuus sighed and slowly made his way up the cracked stairs of the decrepit Morris house. The door was hanging loosely by a few measly screws. Its once white door was now peeling, and the window which was at the top had a large hole in it.
He stood on the porch, unsure if he wanted to go further. He jumped in fear as the old shutter to his right swung closed from the wind. "Relax, Mortuus. It's just a house." He reassured himself, "An old creepy house."
He slipped under the door and looked around. There was still furniture and even pictures hanging on the wall. Most of the furniture had white sheets draped over it like abandoned houses usually did. The only piece of furniture without a white sheet that he could see was an old, faded red armchair with wooden legs.
The chair was sitting in the middle of a walkway, completely undisturbed. Its red fabric was heavily faded from years of abandonment and just the usual wear and tear. It was as if the chair was silently judging him.
Mortuus looked away and focused on something else. He lifted a picture off a side table. It was of a bright-eyed young girl as if the Morris family had never left. He immediately recognized her as Maria, the ghost girl of his visions. He gently touched his hand to the picture.
He set the picture down and entered the living room. It was the same room he had killed The Stitcher in. The off-white walls were covered in splotches of black that had dried as they dripped down the peeling walls. It seems that when they collected The Stitcher's body, they never cleaned up the blood or anything else for that matter.
There on the floor, surrounded by black dried puddles, was the glimmering gold bullet that ended Micheal. The body had long since been gone, but Mortuus could still see where it had been.
It's something you tend to remember. Killing anyone is difficult, but killing the father of your deceased lover is a whole different kind of hard. He never wanted to kill Micheal, even before he knew he was The Stitcher. He just didn't believe in killing an innocent man, which Micheal was despite his actions.
Micheal Morris wasn't a bad guy, in Mortuus's opinion. He was simply a hurt and lost man trying to escape a prison of his own creation. If he could have, Mortuus would have saved him, but sometimes, you have to learn when someone can no longer be saved. As tough of a choice as it was, even Micheal knew his time was up.
He entered the kitchen, his boots making a loud sound on the hard tile. "Nothing much in here," He grumbled as his eyes met with a raccoon sitting on the counter. He turned around and made his way back through the living room, leaving the poor creature to himself.
"Willem? I've come to talk!" Mortuus called out, hoping for a response. He waited, listening for an answer: nothing, just the creaking of the house settling. Mortuus noticed the door of a room was cracked.
He slowly pushed it open and peered inside. Willem was there, sitting on the bed. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, just sort of staring off. He had that same cold and distant feeling that Micheal had while he was The Stitcher.
Mortuus walked over and sat on the opposite side of the bed; he sighed before speaking. "You know, even after all these years, we're still broken."
Willem sat there, his pack loudly breathing for him. He didn't respond to Mortuus, only stared forward with empty eyes. "You don't have to say anything for me to see your pain, Willem." Mortus said to him as he looked down at the cannabis pen that he fiddled with.
Mortuus moved closer, sitting next to Willem, who only offered a slight twitch of his hand in response. He gently touched his hand to Willem's. As he felt his cold hands, Mortuus felt himself falling into another hallucination.64Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpwD2Dm1Urw
