The Witness
They chose him as the witness, as the harbinger of their will, but who are they? Malevolent spirits? Intergalactic Overlords? The Fair Folk? Read on to find out more!
TW: Kidnapping, violence, disturbing imagery, mention of a mass casualty event. (more as requested)
The man retrieved his raincoat and departed for the park with little more than a minute to go. On arrival, he picked a bench too tall for him, but he didn’t mind; he liked to swing his legs back and forth, crinkling the plastic of his raincoat and drawing glares from the people around him. They didn’t make eye contact; they knew better than that. Plus, they didn’t know what to do with a middle-aged man wearing a raincoat on a sunny day. Perhaps they thought he was innocuous, some parent watching his children romp around on the playground. Of course, he didn’t have children, but they didn’t know that. They should have recognized it for what it was, what he was—a warning; a harbinger.
He wiped a smile from his face and checked his watch. Fifty seconds left. He’d better limber up before it started. He took a deep breath and stretched, drawing a few laughs but nothing more. His smile widened as people came flooding into the park, as if he hadn’t spent the last several months warning people to stay clear on this particular day. But everybody loves a picnic.
Another glance at his watch.
Forty-seven, forty-six—
He’d waited nearly three months for their arrival; he could wait a few more seconds.
A shade of royal purple spread across the horizon like a blindfold deadening the fading rays of the setting sun. The day ended, and the rest of the festival attendants arrived. A tour bus pulled up then and honked its horn as festively dressed partygoers poured out and onto the sidewalk. Raucous college students, most drunk from an afternoon of pre-gaming, filed down the street towards the park. There, they briefly collided with a ball of rowdy neighborhood teens careening about the border of the park, bullying people.
In short, everyone he wanted to be there was there. All the rabble rousers, all the miscreants; everyone who annoyed him in a town of five hundred was there. And even better, there were some of those annoying winery tourists.
Thirty-five seconds. Thirty-four—
He had to trust that the technology they’d use would prove effective, though he’d never seen them, never once even heard one of their voices. There was only one time they had communicated to him—parameters, a date and time, and a rather bloody drawing of what they intended to do, complete with a stick figure representing him standing amongst the carnage.
The music started, and the crowd converged on the vast field filled with tarpaulin-roofed stalls. It was nearing the time. The man giggled as he jumped off the bench and walked through the crowd, playing a game—who would they take first? The obnoxiously guffawing drunkard? Or perhaps the mean-spirited teen boy bullying his sister? No, it had to be one of the college students, the one with his arm draped over the shoulder of a girl who shifted uncomfortably.
A boy no older than five ran by the man, laughing, causing him to freeze. Children shouldn’t be here, he thought with alarm. He gave chase to the now crying child, eventually pulling the boy into his arms. He thrashed, calling for his mom, who was already sprinting toward their direction.
She tore the boy from his arms and slapped the man, rendering him speechless as she marched away with her son in her arms. Had she really thought he was going to hurt the boy? Far from it. He meant to save him. But by then, the boy and his mother were far away. The man stood, panting and processing, with his hands on his hips before it occurred to him—he couldn’t save every young one, just the ones who wanted to be saved. That made him feel better.
He checked his watch again.
Fifteen, fourteen—
There wasn’t enough time to scour the park for children anyway. He shrugged. He had tried his best.
Ten, nine, eight—
He wondered how it’d happen. Would they take them one by one or en masse?
Six, five, four—
He figured en masse since there were quite a lot of people to move through.
Three, two, one. And go…
But nothing happened. No jets of brilliant light as laser fire peppered the crowd. No screams as people realized it was not a light show—just silence. Then the man thought he saw something. A sliver of light in the night sky streamed down toward the field. Next came a slight tremor in the air, as if power were being shunted from one dimension to this one in preparation for something requiring a massive amount of energy. The man pulled the clear raincoat hood over his face, perfectly framing a wide smile and feverish eyes.
It was time.
Thunder echoed across the cloudless firmament, then faded into a silence so deep it made the earth stand still. It was from this silence that they came, unseen and unforgiving. As they had promised, they attacked, but not with broad sweeps felling multiple people at once; no, they chose to kill one by one directly in front of the man, as if each death was a performance for his eyes only. Arterial spray from freshly opened throats coated the man’s face in layers of coagulating blood like the layers of a geode. The rest of the man’s body was perfectly dry because of the raincoat. Pleased with how things were progressing, he smiled so wide his lip cracked, his blood joined with that of his victims. But not for long; what couldn’t be lapped up was wiped with a sleeve, and he continued, leaving a line of bodies in his wake. His pace was casual, his mood calm, and his eyes roved, looking for the next victim, then the next one, and the next. He reveled in the joy of being chosen as a Witness. The killing went on for an indeterminate amount of time—who keeps track when they’re having fun? When he regained consciousness, over half the people in the field lay motionless on the ground; the others milled about the perimeter, looking for a way out.
There wasn’t one.
Every person ran from him, their eyes wide with terror. But it didn’t matter how fast they ran or how strong they were—the Overlords would find them all.
Or that’s what the man thought. Instead, it all stopped abruptly with him breathing heavily in the middle of a field. Chaos reigned all around him, people screamed and moaned in pain, but none of that could distract him from wondering about all the blood on his hands.
This is the submission for DAY THREE of Bradley Ramsey’s Halls of Pandemonium prompt competition. The competition’s scoring is based on reader engagement. If you think I should get a top spot because of my writing, please like, comment, and restack this story to show your support.
Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!
AMB
well played sir, well played indeed, i was sucked right into the story. ✨🦋