James Kinter remains, for me, an epic villain. There’s nothing particularly original about him. He’s like so many other killers, a disturbing mix of sophistication and psychopathy. But that’s part of why I like him.
Well, not HIM. Stories that feature him. He’s deplorable, but you can’t have horror without a good villain.
This one was especially fun as the closing line echoes the title of the first story I wrote about him, back when I wasn’t sure how I felt about being able to go so dark. Now I delight in it. Ain’t that a kick in the head?
If you like this little thing, be sure to check out the much longer original series, The Kinter House. It’s classic American horror.
Oh, and the piece below was written based on a prompt from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘lone’, ‘sanguine’, and ‘splay’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
He was sanguine, even as sirens sounded in the distance. They were a pack of rabid dogs on the hunt, but he didn’t care. He just smiled, depositing his tools on the table and taking off the heavy butcher’s apron.
His work was splayed across the room. “Rhapsody In Red” played on a lone speaker. “Love to feel it flood down to my soul…,” Garcia sang.
His soul felt light, sanctified by the sacrifice.
They would come, ready to dissect his masterpiece. But it didn’t matter.
He would simply wrap himself in the comfort of the memory of those screams.