Costly Obsession: Animalize

by Sasha Pruett

  Chapter Twenty Four

  but he that believeth not shall be damned.

  Mark 16:16

  The nocturnal beings of nature foretold the uprising of the storm, had Harold Pintac stopped to listen to their prophetic silence, he too would have known, but all Harold ever listened to was himself. Himself, and the marketing report that is, and the only thing running through his arrogant mind at that moment was finding the keys to his brand new, jet black, Lincoln that the company had so generously provided his very deserving self.

  The electric buzz of the dimming street lights, the swishing of his four hundred and sixty dollar suit pants rubbing to his rhythm, his two hundred and eighty-five dollar matching shoes hitting the pavement then echoing across the near deserted parking lot. They, of course, were his cheapest pair, after all why wear the best for hicks. Even the sound of his own breath screamed their warnings. Still he failed to notice that the only sounds in the night were coming from him and the flickering street lamp hanging above, and of course a man as oblivious to all this had absolutely no chance what so ever of detecting the hellish fiend that had risen behind him. It wasn’t until he felt the stabbing pain and heard the crack of his own fracturing skull before sinking into the black abyss of unconsciousness, did he realize that he wasn’t alone, and then it was too late.

  Too easy, it was too easy to kill the stinking pile of flesh lying sprawled on the asphalt. The devil swayed its massive fur ridden head methodically as it watched the first drops of a gushing rain blend with the stream of crimson flowing from its prey’s self-absorbed head.

  With the unnatural storm in full force now aiding its cover, the blood thirsty beast stretched out its immense hand, its talon nails easily puncturing Harold’s beloved coat, and dragged the plaything home.

  Its thighs bulged, as did all its massive muscles. They were thick, hard, tightened springs, ready to unwind their fury upon the fresh meat it drug behind. Harold’s precious suit, his status symbol, was quickly saturated with mud, rain, and blood, but the extra weight of it all made little difference to the thing with immeasurable strength. The beast’s deep tracks flooded with water no sooner than it had left them behind, then wiped from the earth’s muddy existence by the temporarily comatose and now very popular Harold Pintac.

  Harold finally awoke to the blackness of nowhere and the panic of blindness. The throbbing pain in his head and body ran rampant, and he whimpered ever so slightly; when, before it could register, shadows appeared as the lightning reared its furious head; revealing to him, though blurry, that his eyesight was still intact. As his pupils slowly adjusted to their dark surroundings he could make out the rocky walls of a prison and his exit from it, but the real mystery soon surfaced. How had he gotten here, better yet; where was here, and why was that shadow moving like that?

  The moment the creature had so patiently awaited was finally at hand. It had awakened, and now it was playtime. Slowly the beast tilted its grotesque, malformed head to the side, staring at the meat that lay before it. The man’s blood pulsed and blazed a phosphorescent red so bright the demon could trace the life’s liquid streaming through every vein throughout his body. Its nostrils flared in disgust at the revolting fragrance omitted by the human flesh sitting only feet away. The man saw it, but was not afraid. Impressive; or stupid, it had never in all its existence had a human look upon it without terror in their hearts. Hunching in the deep, the near frenzied entity crept slowly towards its next kill, intensifying the moment. Step after step, footfall after footfall, yet still the insolent man feared it not. Enraged, the burning hatred inside flamed higher within the monsters bowels, its hairs, each one standing at attention as it huffed ever closer. How dare this lower life form not quiver with terror at its mighty demonic power? Didn’t the worm know its fate? Didn’t it know what the thing of nightmares was going to do, what pain it was going to inflict upon his pitiful fleshy body?

  Harold was not afraid at all, how could he possibly be scared of something that he did not believe in, that didn’t even exist? To him there had to be a rational and reasonable, scientific, explanation. He continued to stick with his previous theory of suffering from hallucinations from that excuse of a hospital. Better yet he was so exhausted that he must have fallen asleep at the wheel. That’s why he couldn’t remember anything after having walked to his car; that had to be it. He was dreaming, and now he had to awaken from his Little Red Riding Hood dream before he wrapped his precious new car around some stupid tree. He cursed the town for bringing him here and filling his head with the nonsense that had brought on such a pathetic dream, but the “anomaly” with the hypnotically blazing yellow eyes, consumed with fire, kept coming; and he was not waking up. “It’s not real, it’s NOT real!”

  With the demon’s fury pulsating uncontrollably and the man’s scientific convictions unwavering the slaughter began. In one furious downward slash, its curved jagged claws sliced effortlessly through the soft, mud stained cloth and flesh of Harold’s right arm, opening his pink meat and multicolored veins, spattering his blood on the surroundings forming miniature, trickling rivers of scarlet. Yet Harold remained silent, not a sound escaped from him, not a scream, not a moan, not even a whimper; nothing. He couldn’t; disbelief, confusion, and pure shock held Pintac’s mind tightly in its grasp, so entirely in fact that even the pain had failed to set in; until slash two that is. The lightning illuminated the outline of a hair ridden arm looming over him poised for its next strike. It’s movement slowing in Harold’s mind, allowing him time even to notice the fur flowing from the force of the oncoming blow. The slash tore through his right leg as if it was nothing more than tissue paper, painting the walls with Harold’s warm, spurting, blood. A yell echoed off those same stony walls, reverberating in the ears of both butcher and damned, but it wasn’t the scream of terror and pain that the beast desired, but a cry of shock.

  “Who are you?” Harold was finally suffering from the throbbing pain of his shredded muscles and tattered tendons, but still his denial allowed only for a tiny outburst of surprise. To him, this wasn’t happening, it wasn’t real, it didn’t exist. Finally, with the decimation of his other leg, Harold’s mind relented to the flood of agony, crushing his illusion of disbelief, giving the demon the first howls of pain that sent ripples of pleasure down its twisted spine, but still there was no terror in it. Infuriated to the breaking point, the hell beast shook, and struggled with itself to regain control. It would not let its rage consume it again. It was torturing this kill for pleasure and the inferior swine would not cause it to lose out on such ecstasy. The thing would not be denied.

  The mutilation was violent, yet meticulous. By working counterclockwise and avoiding major arteries the beast was assured extra time to play with its meal before the loss of the man’s warm sticky liquid sent him to the world that awaited him. It was savoring the moment, every moment.

  Slowly the hellish assailant raised its index claw to Harold’s eyes, teasing and taunting, before using the razor sharp weapon to cut away the sleeves pathetically protecting his remaining arm, exposing his still bruising flesh. Harold Pintac watched, as if entranced, unable to turn away, as the beast slowly and maniacally sank the same hot, talon deep into his shoulder. Screams of pain shattered the stillness that had settled in the cave, sending the creatures muscles twitching with delight. Excited and energized, the monster began to twist its built in blade bit by bit, awaiting for one wail to die with the tiny hint of numbing relief, before twisting again. Had the demon been any less in control, the madness of delight would have consumed it completely; sending it bounding with joy, but the hatred and evil within such a creature held its demented mind just within the boundaries of hellish sanity.

  Relief had crept over Harold Pintac, his shoulder agonized until finally growing completely numb, and the steamy, pumping, flow of his life’s blood emptying onto his sandy death bed only aided in his failing senses. Unfortunately the moment was over as soon as it had begun. Pain wracked his entire b
eing like burning daggers when the beastly blade began slicing to and fro down his entire arm in a zig zag pattern that mutilated every muscle, tendon, vein, and nerve it touched. Yet Harold’s cries still held no hint of fear of the demon looming above him. Even as it tore his still beating heart from his chest and held it before him; Harold relented not. From the saliva drooling lips of his nightmarish murderer he heard two words, “Fear Me.” slither out.

  “You’re... not... real. I don’t... believe... in you.”

  “But I believe in you.” He never heard his torturer’s last words, for Harold the true pain was only beginning.

  Hotter and hotter he grew until his skin began to bubble and burst, spewing fluids all around him. He was dead, he had to be, of that he was sure; but how? How was he... aware and how could he feel? How could he possibly see himself clothed in his cheapest suit, and how could he see his surroundings as plain as if it was day? His surroundings... where was he now? The walls had no seams, no corners, no ceiling, and no floor, he was floating. Wait a moment. Harold contorted around and around in his suspended void. The walls... they were... moving! No, not just moving, the walls were alive, pulsating and writhing, and secreting blood, bile, and all manner of foul smelling fluids that turned his non-existent, recently deceased stomach.

  Harold stretched forth his hand to touch the living mass, his curiosity overriding his common sense, only to find the oozing juices burned like acid, melting away his fingers in seconds, bone and all. The pain, the pain, first his blistering flesh and now his liquefying hand. For the first time in his known life he began to panic. It couldn’t be real, but the pain, the pain. He couldn’t awaken from this nightmare, and the agony was more than he had ever known and it was only increasing.

  His mind began to shatter, unable to accept where his life had led him, before suddenly being thrown into an abyss of darkness so intense he was unable to see his remaining hand in front of his eyes, but he was not alone. His sanity snapped back when he heard the first screeching… the screeching of demons. The deafening wails of countless others could be heard all around him, above him, below him, flying so close he could feel their drafts..., then he felt them. Hundreds of razors dug into his body from every direction, creating hundreds of tiny gashes, each burning, each eating away at his flesh and his last remaining sanity, only to start all over again, having been wholly restored. It would be months of this torture before Dr. Harold Pintac admitted the truth, that he was wrong. There is a God, there is a Satan, and yes Harold, there is a Hell.

  The blood soaked beast closed its bright yellow eyes and watched the man’s descent into his eternity, finally hearing the horrified screams it craved. A guileful smile played on the things rubbery lips as it watched Harold’s endless torment from beyond. The lightning flashed above, illuminating the monstrous creature still hovering over the ravaged corpse of the former Dr. Harold Pintac. This body warranted no hiding and deserved no burial. The thing raised its mighty arms to the sky and threw back its deformed head letting out an earth rattling howl of victory in contempt of the Man upstairs, overpowered only by the thunder that muffled its cry from the town.

  The night was young, and the fun was just beginning, before the darkness and the storm were through the town would never again forget the demonic beast that walked among them so many years ago, and walks among them once more. Its glory would be fulfilled this time.

  Still in ecstasy from the decimation and eternal damnation of Harold Pintac, the savage slipped out into the night, disappearing into the forest, the rain, and the darkness, but not for long. For it was on the hunt again, and this time it yearned for witnesses.