Horrible, Horrible Blood

My mother's mother owns a farm, the house of which is over 250 years old. It was once a small plantation, "employing" about 200 slaves in small shacks dotting what used to be the back driveway. Now, one night, as I came back from feeding my dogs (we always bring them with us), I saw the dancing shadows of a fire, and heard low, mournfull voices near the end of the driveway. I, thinking that my parents must be out with the rest of the adults for an odd little nighttime chat, sprang from tree to tree, closer and closer, to try and hear what they were saying. For some reason, though, the talk always stayed just on the brink of interpretability. I then mustered up my shaky  nerves, and peeked out from behid the oak tree I was using as a hiding place. There, sitting around a camp fire, were maybe 10 tall men, all blacks. I wisely left them alone, and crept back to the kitchen. The night did not end at home, however, because as soon as I was in bed a sound much like that of a bullwhip cut through the silence regularly, which was promptly followed by a terrible, inhuman scream of pain. I stayed awake all that night, staring at the firelight coming through the window from outside as it got lighter and lighter... untill I realised that the sun was up. Pinned to the inside of my door was a note which was either written by a very sloppy red pen or with blood, that read, over and over again:

Horrible, Horrible Blood

Horrible, Horrible Blood

Horrible, Horrible Blood

To this day, I am not the same. In fact, I've become an obsesive cumpulsive imagination freak, and made this whole thing up.

The End

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