Nightmares

Celestial Being - 1

"The pen that sculpts civilisation, the eye that observes the universe, the insighter of the trajectories of a thousand destinies, the eye of the secret star that lies dormant in the depths of the stars."

"When you are ready, you may call upon His name and He will hear you."

...

It wasn't until he heard the door to the morgue being slowly pushed open, the heavy metal door making a harsh dragging sound on the floor, that his attention was temporarily brought back.

The sound of two men talking in low voices followed.

"Hurry up and get rid of the body of that cult-fucking idiot, shit, you guys didn't mention that the police department was looking for this nutcase when you sent him over here！"

"How would I know, I saw him down there and thought he was a victim too ......"

"Cut the crap and get rid of it, your hands and feet need to be clean."

Hawthorne felt stray footsteps approaching and then the bag containing him was pushed violently to the floor. The impact of his head against the hard floor made him feel dizzy, followed by a sharp pain that overwhelmed his nerves.

Hawthorne drew a backward breath of pain.

How refreshing - he thought with a grimace, how many years had it been since he had felt pain?

He couldn't help but move, reaching out a finger and jamming it into the zip opening, sliding it downwards and opening the bag containing the body. Luckily, he hadn't completely forgotten how a human body was supposed to move. He was thinking this when he saw two humans looking down at him through the gap in the zip.

The two humans who had come to haul the bag of bodies away froze for a moment at first, both of them looking down and meeting Hawthorne's dark, cold eyes for a moment as if the pause button had been pressed.

Then their pupils quaked and an expression of utter horror crossed their faces.

"Shit!" One of the bald heads in a white coat took a step backwards, so frightened that his face was whiter than his clothes and his voice was trembling, "Am I fucking dreaming?"

The other punk in black also took a step back with an expletive under his breath, his face white as he watched Hawthorne unzip all the way and then stand up from the body bag.

He stepped out of the bag on long, slim legs and stood on the cold ground, obviously not quite tall, even a little thin, but somehow giving off an extremely strong sense of oppression, to the point of making people gasp for air.

" ...!"

Hawthorne glanced at the hands of his torso in this sentence and moved his fingers slightly.

They were still stiff from fear.

It wasn't clear if it was because of the stiffness of the corpse, or if he had become less accustomed to manipulating human bodies.

So the two poor humans watched as the fraudulent corpse before them rotated his wrists 360 degrees and twisted his fingers as if he had no bones, twisting them before they returned to their normal shape.

The sound of joints rubbing against bones was numbing to the ears.

A bunch of doomsday-themed horror games and horror movies immediately came to the young punk's mind, and he panicked and pulled out the gun on his waist, shivering and aiming it at Hawthorne: "You, don't you come over here!"

"Hit him in the head!" The bald head man wearing the white coat was practically pissing himself in fear, backing up and yelling at the same time, and copying a brace in his hand to hold it in front of himself.