Nameless

Don't you run, kids... don't you run...
The man with a baseball bat passed through the kitchen door. His eyes gazed upon the ceiling, one arm was turned back, the hand holding the bat before his head, the other just swinging, loosely. His body moved sluggishly, but his voice had some kind of dreadful determination, even though it sounded tired and husky. He walked slowly, each short step seemed to take a second to happen. Still, they were not risking to fight him face to face. There was something wrong with him, at the same time he looked warped to some other dimension, the eyes not focusing anywhere specifically, there was something that show he couldn't be anywhere other than there, hunting them.
Something very explicit perhaps, they saw what he did to Tommy... the lifeless body now decorated the kitchen floor. A knife was lying near it. He managed to grab a knife in the shelves and decided to stab the man in the back. Tommy was a fast runner, he was sure of that, whatever was in that man, he couldn't be prepared. The others had caught most of his attention, all he had to do was approach slowly and when he got close enough, run and make him bleed.
All good in theory.
As soon as he got close enough the man just turned around. Tommy saw his face, perhaps his real face. The others got surprised by his reaction, had they taken the chance, things could be different, but no one was waiting for it. They didn't see.
What kept Tommy running toward him was pure inertia, because as soon as he saw the face life got out of his body. His thoughts disappeared, the eyes got petrified. The slow man had then a face torn by a sick smile. The teeth, slightly yellow, appearing. The lips bleeding, as if he had just passed days in a desert, quietly, and now the dry lips were stretched albeit the pain. The eyes, which moments before were not entirely open, as someone who didn't sleep for days, were now opened, completely, focusing him, as if they could see more of him. Not like studying the being right in front of them, more like desiring something.
This moment didn't last much even though it seemed like eternity for Tommy. The baseball bat struck his head. The world got a lot bleaker then, and painful. As the body hit the floor, the man stepped over his chest, the edge of the bat then stepped over his head, one final blow that sent pieces of him around.
The man now followed them, back at his sluggish way.


I don't know why.