by C R Langille
Linda turned and ran for the front door. She reached out to open it when the creak of Sebastian’s bedroom door echoed through the house.
Something hit the door in front of her, and she almost dropped the flashlight when her body jerked in reaction to the noise. Linda staggered back into the living room.
Thump. Scrape.
The noise came from the hallway this time. The front door rattled again as something knocked on it. Muffled cries came from outside the house, but she couldn’t understand the words.
Thump. Scrape.
Whoever was outside hit the front door harder, and the thing in the hallway got closer. Linda scurried to the corner of the living room. She ushered Sebastian behind her. Nothing in the room looked like a viable weapon to her. The thin tray Sebastian used to eat his lunch perhaps, but she figured it would bend on the first hit. Finally, she reached out and grabbed a snow globe off the mantle above the television.
Thump. Draaaag.
She moved the flashlight’s beam to the hallway. Linda had mixed feelings about whether or not she actually wanted to see what came out of Sebastian’s bedroom.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Linda said.
Sebastian answered by burying his head against Linda’s body.
Linda went into full mama bear mode. Whatever it was, it was going to have to get through her before it touched a hair on Sebastian’s head.
The motherly conviction washed away a smidgen of the fear that lurked in her core. She stood a little taller and readied herself.
“More than watching now. More than watching. Free.”
The voice echoed from the hallway. It sounded weak and quiet, and its voice scratched at Linda’s ears and bounced around her head.
“You better get the hell out of here. I called the cops, and I have a gun!” Linda said. She held the snow globe up.
The pounding at the front door increased in intensity, but the laugh from the hallway demanded her attention. It brought an image of a hundred clowns cackling in a large, empty, auditorium.
“I’ll play with you too. We’ll have… fun.”
Thump. Scrape. That awful scrape again; it grated louder and louder on her ears. Her conviction ebbed.
A bone white hand slapped out from behind the wall and into the living room. It thudded onto the floor with a heavy weight. The fingers on the hand extended horribly longer than any normal human’s should have, and the skin stretched across its bones like dried leather. The size of the hand reminded her of a picture of a camel spider, which had circulated on the internet a year ago. A couple of soldiers held the spider up next to a combat boot for comparison—the arachnid could have worn the boot. The gnarled knuckles flexed, and pointed talons dug into the fake wood floor.
Draaaag.
Something slammed against the front door again, and the wall shook under its weight. It hit the entry two more times just as hard.
At least the door held true.
“Come to play with you. Don’t you want to play? We could have fun,” the thing in the hallway croaked.
It dragged itself further into view. The hand connected to a lanky arm of the same white hue. The skin was somewhat translucent, and dark veins ran up and down the thing’s arm. Black liquid coursed through the veins.
Thump. The hand shot forward and slapped onto the bare flooring. It sank its claws in and dragged itself fully into view. The thing’s face held a quality not unlike a horse, long and narrow. Yet the angles were sharper than any horse Linda had ever seen. Its chin pointed up like a crescent. Ears protruded from its thick skull like a large bat. The creature grinned at both of them and revealed a mouthful of crooked, jagged teeth. Wisps of hair clung to its scalp like a wet mop. Black, beady eyes beamed at them.
“Hello,” it said.
The thing wore no clothes, and its long, lanky body was exposed. It held its other arm to its side, stunted and twisted with curled and crooked fingers. Similar misshapen legs sprouted from its pelvis, and the thing dragged them along like dead weight.
The creature’s grin grew larger, and it moved closer to Linda and Sebastian. She reared her arm back and let the snow globe fly through the air. It hit the thing in the head and shattered. Water and glass spilled all over the floor.
It looked up at her and continued to smile. Black blood oozed from several small wounds on its face. It spit some glass out of its mouth and wiped the water away with its good hand.
“Well, now. Looks like Mommy gets some special attention.”
“The boogeyman,” Sebastian whispered. “He hides in the corner of my room sometimes.”
She hugged Sebastian close and tried to gauge if she could get by and go out through the kitchen. Linda steeled herself to move forward when the front door burst open, and a tall figure walked in. The thing in the hallway cackled in delight.
Chapter Five
The tomahawk flew past Toby’s shoulder and hit something solid behind him with a dull thud. A high-pitched squeal cut into the air and sounded like a cross between a pig and a cat. Toby spun, and his legs twisted on one another when he tried to move. A jolt of pain raced through his spine when he hit the dirt.
A humanoid creature, approximately five feet in height with a thick coat of shaggy black hair, thrashed on the ground and continued to peal in agony. The creature clawed at its chest until it finally dislodged the tomahawk. Black, oily blood seeped from the edges of the wound and slicked the thing’s hair. Sharp incisors lined its mouth, all of which could rip and rend flesh with ease. Large, curved tusks jutted from its snout. The creature looked at Toby and Brock with small, hate-filled eyes. It sported a tail like a monkey, the face of a warthog, and the powerful arms and body of a bear, as if the creature was some sort of sick lovechild of the three.
“What the fuck is that?” Toby asked.
“I don’t care,” Brock said.
Brock charged and kicked the creature in the head. It squealed in pain and slashed out at him, and he jumped back to avoid the attack. The creature squirmed on the ground and struck out at anything and everything. Brock chuckled and kicked it again, which elicited another explosive screech.
You reap what you sow, Tobias.
“Just kill it,” Toby said.
He didn’t feel bad for the creature. For all he knew, it was about to kill him before Brock intervened. But it didn’t mean they should torture it.
Brock kicked once more and then used the butt of his muzzleloader to smash its skull. After two hits, a sick crack split into the air. When it stopped moving, Brock growled as he opened the creature’s throat with his long knife.
Clumps of soil and pine needles caked the thing’s fur and helped mask some of its own natural musk. The closer Toby got, the more the creature’s pungent stench filled his nostrils. The stink of wet dog, sweat, and feces thickened the air and caused his eyes to water.
Blood still seeped from its chest wound, but the flow slowed to a trickle. Brock cleaned his weapons off on the thing’s hide and sheathed them.
“Never seen anything like it,” Toby said.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Toby shot Brock a look and hoped he conveyed every ounce of go to hell he had stored in his body. Brock ignored it and straddled the beast’s chest.
“What are doing?” Toby asked.
“Giving it a hug. What the fuck do you think?”
Brock pulled his smaller knife out and set to work. A moment later, a tearing crack sounded, followed by another. Brock turned and held the thing’s tusks in his hand, blood dripping off the roots. He threw one to Toby.
“A souvenir,” Brock said.
Toby caught the tusk. It measured four inches and curved sharply. The outer edge of the bend was serrated, and the tip was as sharp as any knife Toby owned. He imagined it could cut through muscle and bone with no problems.
&nbs
p; “You want a claw?” Brock asked.
Toby dropped the tusk to the ground and turned. His stomach twisted, and he walked away before the feeling got worse. He scanned the outlying woods while the mountain air cleared his senses.
The smoke from the burnt truck sat in front of the woods like an oppressive fog and did little to give Toby the fresh feeling he yearned for. Nothing moved—no birds, no bugs, nothing. Then he remembered.
“Do you know where Chuck is?” Toby asked.
“No, I figured he was back here,” Brock replied.
“We need to find him.”
“Okay, let’s get what we can. Your radio work?” Brock asked.
“No, the battery is dead. I think Dave’s has a little juice left,” Toby said.
He pulled the radio out, but the screen showed blank. After a couple of attempts to power it on, he gave up.
“Dead too,” Toby said.
“Wonderful,” Brock said.
He pulled his out from his pocket, and the telltale beep-rush of the radio chimed as it powered on.
“Chuck, you there? Come in,” Brock said.
Toby waited. He hoped to hear Chuck come back with a snarky remark or something, or even a call for help. Instead, nothing. Just the occasional pop of static filtered through the receiver. Toby cursed. He stared at the dead creature on the ground. Smoke rose from its body and hung in the air. It started to decompose faster and faster until nothing but a dark stain in the dirt remained. A black cloud of foul-smelling shadow drifted on the breeze and then took off into the woods as if it had a mind of its own. The faint snarl and whine of the creature flitted across the wind before it too disappeared.
He crouched close to where the creature used to be, but other than damp earth, there was no sign whatsoever it even existed before.
“Did you see that?” Toby asked.
“Neat,” Brock said and popped a beer open.
“Seriously, you killed a monster which literally disintegrated into nothing, and you want to have a beer?”
“Fuck off, it calms my nerves.”
Toby shook his head. It was useless; he wouldn’t be able to reason with the man. They needed to get going and find Chuck. Toby set off to find supplies and salvage what he could from camp.
The storm obliterated most of their supplies, but he gathered six bottles of water, a bag of jerky, a wool blanket, and a tarp. He split the food and water with Brock and arranged the rest of his supplies in the tarp and then fashioned a pack out of it. He checked the wreckage of his truck one last time and found his e-reader peeking out from under the seat. Sometimes, it was the small victories.
When he pulled the e-reader out, his cell phone came with it. The momentary feeling of joy turned to dismay. The phone mirrored the condition of the truck: broken, burnt, and unusable.
“Chuck? Can you hear me?” Brock asked. He kept the radio close to his ear as he took another long swig of beer.
Chuck didn’t reply, but trees nearby came alive as a cacophony of pig-cat squeals erupted nearby. Toby’s ears rang as the cries grew louder. The pitch changed and dropped an octave. They warbled like a bastardized recording of mourning women, played through a cheap loudspeaker.
“We need to go,” Toby said.
Brock nodded and picked up his pack. Toby followed suit, and they both took off at a run back towards the woods and the valley. The sounds of snapping twigs and branches echoed behind them through the glade, and the bleats of the creatures remained a steady reminder of what followed.
A cold sensation swept through Toby’s spine and traveled to his hands and feet. He stumbled as the unnatural feeling took over his extremities.
“Pick it up,” Brock said.
Toby tried to speak, but words failed him. He nodded and kept moving forward. The cold turned clammy, and a bitter taste formed in his mouth. Rage bubbled underneath the frost in his body, and it hit him; the raw emotions of the creatures rolled through his core. Their hunger, their hate, their want for destruction and death slammed into him like a sledgehammer. His lungs screamed for fuel, and he realized then he held his breath. He couldn’t run any further and stopped and took in a big lungful of air.
“Come on,” Brock said. “We don’t have time to stop and take a nap.”
Another wave of hate rolled through him and almost drove him to his knees. Toby rested his hands on his thighs for support. A scratching sensation migrated from his spine and limbs and drilled into his head.
“Gah!” Toby grabbed his skull as if it would explode.
“Jesus, what’s going on?” Brock asked.
Toby looked at Brock, and he rolled his hand into a fist. Rage exploded through his chest, and the only reasonable outlet was to destroy the man in front of him. The memories rolled through his mind, and everything turned a shade of red. Brock had fucked Linda. Gotten her drunk and fucked her. She claimed it didn’t get that far, but Toby knew better. The smug look on Brock’s face when he confronted him about it spoke volumes. The cocky little man in front of him was the source of his hate, and Toby wanted to extinguish him.
Brock took a step back and placed a hand on his knife. Deep down, the voice of reason screamed at Toby with a bullhorn. He shook his head to try and clear the feelings, taking a deep breath. The oxygen helped. Toby focused and willed the rage to leave his body. The dark feelings shed from his mind like a film, and the pressure let up a little. Brock removed his hand from the weapon and relaxed.
“They’re coming,” Toby said through gritted teeth.
Brock looked up toward camp, and the expression on his face was enough to confirm the claim. They ran across the open glade like a pack of wild dogs. The creatures ran on all fours and kicked up dust and debris in their wake. They clumped together, and Toby couldn’t tell how many there were, but it didn’t matter. There were too many of the things for them to handle.
“We need to go,” Brock said.
He grabbed Toby’s shoulder and pulled him toward the tree line. The woods blocked most of the sun out, and the temperature dropped under their canopy. The sounds of the approaching horde muffled amongst the leaves and branches, and the pair made their way deeper into the woody expanse.
The creatures stopped at the edge of the forest. They tore at the grass and dirt and threw whatever they could get hold of toward Brock and Toby.
“Why aren’t they following?” Toby asked.
As if in answer, the forest fell silent. The baying of the pig-things stopped, and they backed away from the trees. One of the hairy beasts turned and fled, and the rest followed like sheep.
“I think we should get through this as quick as possible,” Toby said.
“No arguments here,” Brock replied.
They made their way through the tall pines and aspens. Brock wanted to run, but Toby made him slow down and take care with his steps. Each snapped twig or heavy footfall sounded like a firecracker popping off in an empty warehouse.
“We need to be quiet,” Toby said.
“You really think if we sneak through the trees it’s going to make a difference? Whatever’s in here knows we’re here too. Can’t you feel it?”
“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Toby replied.
The deeper they went into the woods, the tighter his chest constricted. He broke out in a cold sweat, and the edges of his fingers burned. He constantly shifted the grip of his muzzleloader from hand to hand to keep them from going numb. Something watched them, him in particular. He looked back and expected to see something, anything. Yet there was nothing but the woods and shadows—shadows which danced at the edge of his vision.
They reached the creek as well as the scene of the mutilated elk, except the elk wasn’t there anymore. Blood-soaked mud and entrails decorated the waterline, but the elk itself was gone.
“What the hell?” Toby asked.
“What?”
“The elk I told you about. It should be here,” Toby said.
Brock looked around the creek bed searching for tracks. Toby searched the area as well.
“You think whatever killed it came back?” Toby asked.
“No.”
“Well it didn’t just get up and walk out,” Toby said.
Brock looked at him, the color drained from his face. He stroked his wiry beard and stood.
“I think it did.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Toby said.
“No. The signs are all here. Look. You can see where it stood and stumbled off that way,” Brock said and pointed upstream.
Mud around the creek bed still held the impression of the elk’s body, and blood pooled in various indentations and prints near the shoreline. The water trickled into some of the closer imprints, and the blood seeped out into the water in a filmy ribbon. The bull’s tracks were heavy, and it looked as if it was drunk when it walked away. Yet, as Brock mentioned, they headed up stream in a chaotic pattern.
“It was dead. There was no way it could get up and go,” Toby said.
“But it did,” Brock said. “Come on.”
They neared the edge of the woods when the intense feeling of hate cut through Toby again. He grabbed at his chest and sucked in a lungful of oxygen.
“It happening again?” Brock asked.
Toby nodded. The pain amplified from behind them, so he pointed in its direction. It was as if the devil gripped his spine and tried to arm wrestle with it.
Focus… If he could calm down and focus.
He tried to concentrate on something else, but the pain tightened its hold and made it even harder to breathe. His vision blurred, and the warm trickle of blood rolled from his nose into his mouth. The copper taste fueled the rage building inside him. He imagined a group of soldiers stood at the doorway of his consciousness; they battered away at his defenses and tried to get a foot in the door.