The Night of the Dead by Laura Mahecha

This story is one of the October Writing Challenge entries chosen to be a featured story.

 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” his voice said. Even though the place was dark, the trees were lifeless, and our only companions were our shadows, his raspy accent was music to my ears.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he insisted. “There’s nothing to worry about.” So he’s saying that I shouldn’t worry that he, my best friend, is standing in front of his own father’s corpse, while drops of blood were slowly dripping on his face?

“Lauren, I swear,” Tom’s voice agitated. “It wasn’t me.”

Now it was my turn to speak. “Then who was it!? Who else is covered in blood around here?” But before he could answer, I detected something was near –someone.

My guess was right. From behind the shadows, a tall figure emerged. A man. Unlike him, I wasn’t a werewolf; I can’t smell people. Being half fallen angel and half banshee had its cons. Tom, on the other hand, looked more furious than scared. I saw how his jaw clenched and how his fists took shape. He was almost ready to attack Bradley, the man from the shadows, but unfortunately mortals have no chance against a werewolf; especially when it’s full moon during the Night of the Dead…especially when he’s an alpha.

I saw Bradley’s hands covered in blood. He had a scar on his cheek, but it quickly healed.

“It was him,” Tom whispered, and that was enough to open my wings, allowing me to drift through the air. Bradley didn’t think twice. In a matter of seconds his claws appeared, his teeth sharpened, his ears got a triangular shape, and his blue eyes turned the color of blood.

We were back to business. It was an endless fight between my specie and his, except that this time I’ll be the one who ends it.

Hybrids, like me, have something that werewolves have always wanted: twice the power. I don’t have only the strength of a fallen angel; Tom says my biggest weapon is my voice, for being a banshee allows you to scream probably six times louder than normal people, which is what I did.

The shriek made the ground tremble; the trees swerved, and Bradley’s body hit a trunk. I never screamed so loud in my 19 years of life.

I flew towards his direction, Tom following behind me. “Is he dead?” he asked.

When we heard him cough, blood escaping from his mouth and ears, I felt Tom’s hand in my arm, backing me up.

“You, stupid,” Bradley continued. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

After he gave his last breathe, the ground quivered again. Tom and I turned around only to see hands from all shapes and colors rising from the dirt, followed by filthy corpses in torn clothes. And that’s when I realized that banshees don’t only predict deaths, but they also bring them to life…

 

 

Laura Mahecha
17
Colombia
Germ Magazine guest author
… is a contributing guest author for Germ, which means the following criteria (and then some) have been met: possessor of a fresh, original voice; creator of fresh, original content; genius storyteller; superlative speller; fantastic dancer; expert joke teller; handy with a toolbox; brilliant at parties; loves us as much as we love them.

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