Short Story: Cilla

From our Thursday nights, a spooky short story written from the prompts "supernatural", "ordinary location" and "treasure."

By Anna Irwin-Schutze

"Are you sure miss? It's not exactly... clean..."

Cilla glared at the bartender. "I am sure." Her voice was flat.

He grimaced subserviently. She could smell the oily sweat soaking into his shirt. It was disgusting and exactly what she was looking for. The bartender hurried out to the back room and she took a relieved breath. She had to admit, this was taking slumming it to new depths.

Good, he'd never think to look for her here.

Looking around the bar she wrinkled her nose at the patrons. A mix of dock workers, office peons and gym junkies from the warehouse two doors down. She'd forgotten how raw humanity could smell.

The bartender returned, holding a dusty box. He plonked it down on the bar and attempted to wipe the worst of the dust off with a beery cloth. His adam's apple bobbed nervously and for a brief moment her attention was taken entirely by the pulsing blood she could sense flowing through the thick artery.

No, not yet. If the box contained what she was looking for, she would drink the whole bar dry of life in celebration, or maybe punishment.

Sweating, he pushed the dusty box across the bar. "I'm sorry miss, if I'd known you'd be wanting it, I would have..."

Ignoring him, she opened the box. The object inside smelled of shit and blood but under the grime she could see the glow of power. Power she needed, power to make things right again, to take control of her undeath.

She smiled. Time to decide.

How thirsty was she tonight?