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Roylsden #309

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Lucy saw it.
Its hair was matted, filthy burial clothes spattered and smeared with mud fresh from its tomb, its arms hung limp and lifeless.
It slowly advanced, inexorably closer, revealing its features: face yellowed; lips taut, snarling; but those eyes! Black, sunken and soulless, sought only her. Lucy beheld eyes of hatred, the eyes of the dead who cannot rest, the eyes of innocence seeking terrible revenge.
In one swift movement, Lucy raised and fired rifle and pistol into the blackness of the window, her terrified scream accompanying the ferocity of the hot rain pouring through the shattering glass.

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