Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
My name is Bree Walker. He calls me little mouse.
His name is Mikhail Smirnov. The man without a face. People see him as nothing but a ruthless monster but in him I find salvation.
You see I need the beast in him to feel, without it I am simply the walking dead.
Let the hunt begin.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Mikhail
Mom’s not screaming. She was a few moments ago. Now she’s making gasping sounds and keeps coughing and swallowing. It’s the same sound my dad made while mom cried and shrieked, so she must be dying.
I always thought people would yell into the void and bargain with anyone who would listen when they died. But it seems the last moments of life are like a terrible bout of pneumonia or bronchitis.
The smell of microwave popcorn still lingers in the air, mixed with something I’ve never smelled before. Maybe it’s fear or the urine now soaking my pants.
We were watching a movie on the couch when the bad people showed up at our small apartment. Mom put out a spread of all my favorites. Dad jumped up and went to the “Mik can’t touch” box and unlocked it. He pulled out a gun. I didn’t even know we owned one or that my father knew how to use it. But the way his hand worked it, he looked like one of the G.I. Joe cartoons I watch.
Mom tugged at my shirt. I told her I wanted to watch the movie, but she pulled until I had to go with her. I gazed longingly at the popcorn sitting on the chipped wooden coffee table.
She rushed me into the closet, piled every piece of clothing she could find on top of me and told me to be quiet.
So I’m here, silent and buried under a mountain of coats, scarves, and sweaters. All I want to do is yell, cry, or both, but Mom begged me not to make a sound, so I won’t. She was sad when she looked at me, and I didn’t want to make her sad. I like it when she’s smiling and happy.
It’s so dark here. I don’t like the dark. Mom usually lets me have a light on at night to keep the monsters away. But the monsters are here, in our apartment. I hear them breaking things. Yelling at each other with booming voices. They talk so loudly as if they don’t care about the neighbors. Mom says it’s rude not to care about other people. These men obviously don’t have a wonderful mom like mine. Someone to teach them good manners.
The skin around my eyes is tight as if it’s being stretched on all sides. Mom said if I closed my eyes with all my might, the monsters wouldn’t be able to find me. So I focus on the darkness and hope it’s not like the lies of Santa Claus she told me when I was younger.
Loud footsteps stop. I don’t dare peek to see if they’re on the other side of the small encasing of the closet. I focus on the darkness. It’s not as frightening as before because my fear of the dark is in my mind, whereas the fear of the men is in my soul. Fearing things in your imagination differs from fearing things in your reality. There is no night light to protect me now.
“They’ve got a kid.”
A shiver of dread runs down my spine at the icy-crisp voice. Mom warned me about men like them. She called them Devils and said we have to watch for them before they come to take our souls.
“Yes, a little boy. I think the file said he was nine.”
Ten. I’m ten. I had a birthday last week. Mom and Dad got me a cake, a new sweater, and dinner at McDonald's. I wanted an Xbox like Billy Montgomery down the hall, but money was tight, and my parents couldn’t swing it.
“He has to be here. They have no friends, no family. The kid wouldn’t be in school, and they have no money for extracurriculars. Look at this place. It’s a fuckin’ dump.”
It’s not a dump. It’s our home. A small voice in my mind tells me to be quiet, that it doesn’t matter what this guy says.
“Check under the beds, closets, under fuckin’ cupboards. Pull every floorboard for all I care. Fuck, burn the entire building to get this kid out if you have to.”
Burn the building? What about Billy and his little sister? They can’t burn the building. Mrs. Rogers down the hall is ninety. She won’t be able to run for her life. If they burn the building, they’ll kill me, but they’ll kill everyone else, too.
I push the clothes off me and get up as the closet door flies open, and a giant man with a long, jagged scar on his face looms over me. But it’s not his scar I focus on. It’s the hollow, moss green of his eyes.
The man barks a snide laugh before his hand curls around my shirt collar and he yanks me outside, where I see the blood-soaked carpet and my parents’ lifeless bodies on the floor.