Not Your Average Monster: A Bestiary of Horrors

by Pete Kahle

  Instead of doing chores, he did necessary tasks. He made sure he had enough water in the house. Since he didn’t have any more animals, he stopped by the smokehouse to load up on jerky beef. Lastly, he tore down his fence and used the wood to cover up all the windows of his house and to reinforce the door. He made an extra crossbeam to use as a barricade.

  At the end of his labors, he sealed himself off in his house, even though the sun still lingered at six o’clock, and sat down to eat. When he’d staved off his hunger, he cleaned the rifle.

  Later, as Judah tried to relax by the fire, he heard someone knock on his door. Annoyed—after all, it had taken him a long time to bar the entryway—he went over to the front of his house and said, “Who goes?”

  No one answered him.

  He regretted not adding a peephole so he could see who was out there. Then again, it would only have weakened the door to the creature. Besides, would the monster politely knock like a neighbor? He decided to open up and see who it was.

  Just before he touched the knob, the knock came again. It sounded kind of forcible, so he drew back. “Who goes?” he asked again. Once more he received no answer.

  “God damn you! Speak up!”

  The knock came a third time, harder than before, and this time it didn’t stop. With each hammering blow, the door juddered wildly in its frame. Judah backed away, holding the rifle close to his chest, shocked that the wood didn’t splinter.

  Bracing himself, he aimed the gun at the door and waited, resisting the desperate urge to run. But he knew he couldn’t run. By barricading himself in, he’d given himself no way out.

  The door stopped convulsing, and everything became quiet again. Only the monotonous tick of Rachel’s grandfather clock filled Judah’s ears as he continued to stare at the barred entryway. “Hello?”

  Laughter. Deep, rich laughter came through the door, reverberating in his chest like a loud song, but there was nothing delightful about the sound. Judah’s mouth dried up, and the back of his neck flushed and tingled. Now he felt the urge to put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, ending this madness in the most merciful way he knew.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

  God! It could talk! He felt like screaming, but he knew he’d never find the breath for it; he couldn’t even find any with which to breathe.

  Finally, the fear built up so much he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Go away!” he howled. “Please! Go away!” He dropped the gun and cowered in a ball on the floor. He no longer cared about survival. He just wanted this to be over.

  He barely noticed that the monster no longer tried to gain entrance, nor did it speak again.

  It was dawn before he gained the courage to open the door. Only a lingering whiff of the beast’s stench remained, as well as scuffed hoof marks on the porch.

  His hands couldn’t stop shaking, so he hunted down a bottle of grain alcohol Rachael used for disinfectant. After a few belts, he felt calmer, and he wondered why such a wonderful feeling should be railed against by men of God.

  Judah spent the next couple of days locked up, eating poorly, and sipping at that bottle. Nothing happened, but he kept up his seclusion, not even going outside to defecate. On the third day, however, the stink got to him. He was also out of alcohol, and he wanted to eat something—anything—other than jerky beef.

  At noon he took up his rifle and headed outside with the intent of shooting some veal. He cautiously wandered outside, even though the world shone with brightness. There were few shadows, but he watched them regardless, just in case.

  After an hour, though, he let his guard down and started feeling human for the first time since he’d went down to visit Reverend Jordan, which seemed like a lifetime ago. He took in the fresh air and could practically taste the rich, fecund scent of corn. His belly rumbled, but he restrained himself from raiding the crop too soon.

  Motes of dandelion fluff dotted the air around him, and he playfully blew a cirrus scrim of them away. As he did, he saw movement from the corner of his eye.

  There. From the line of corn stalks. A woman stepped out, throwing her gorgeous head of dark hair back from her face.

  Rachael? It was either her or a heretofore unknown twin sister. What was she doing here? Did she come back for him? He felt a longing twinge in his heart. Oh, how he’d missed her. He missed her presence at the dinner table, her thoughtful discourse at prayer time, the way she felt next to him at night.

  Her eyes met with his, and the twinge migrated lower in his body. Soon, the front of his pants felt pinched and tight, and he moved forward, eager for his wife’s embrace.

  “Oh Rachael,” he said. “I’ve missed you so. I’m glad you came back to me.”

  She stepped forward, a smile spreading across her face like the buttery light of the rising sun. “Judah. I had to see you. I missed you, too.” She held out both hands to him.

  Even as he folded her arms around him, he felt like something was off. Rachael didn’t quite sound herself, but he didn’t think too much about it. The building heat of his loins took precedence, and he shuddered when their bodies pressed together, and his rigidness prodded her just below the waist.

  “My. You have missed me.” Her hand wandered down to the bulge under his belt and caressed him, rubbing gently.

  Heat exuded from Judah’s body, and it practically evaporated off the top of his skull. He moaned as she unbuttoned his trousers and unlimbered his manhood.

  Rachael primed his pump, gently squeezing, and Judah could feel his climax burning within him. Too soon. He leaned forward and kissed her, touching her face with his field-scarred hands.

  Odd. Her cheek felt like his after a couple of days without shaving. His impending orgasm threatened to distract him from this quandary, but there was something too strange about her.

  Something shifted in her face just as she dipped her head down toward his sex, mouth open and ready. Excited as he was about Rachael’s intentions—she’d never done anything like this before—he almost dismissed it as a trick of shadow. Then, he noticed for a split second that it looked like she had deer’s horns on her head.

  Just like the beast.

  The image of Rachel melted and flickered away, and Judah watched as the beast raised up his penis toward its razor sharp teeth. He screamed, going soft immediately, tearing himself from the monster’s grip. He stumbled away and rolled backwards, almost striking his head on the base of a tree.

  The smell of nature vanished as if someone turned off a switch, and his nostrils filled up with the beast’s musk. He flailed around in the dirt, seeking his rifle and finding nothing. Now the beast loomed over him, grinning down at him, licking the palm it had used to stroke Judah’s sex.

  Where could the rifle be? He cast his eyes wildly, hoping it was close enough to reach, and then he saw it at the monster’s feet. Casually, the abomination stooped and picked up the gun. It examined the weapon briefly before snapping the barrel in two like it was a twig.

  Just like he had at the church, Judah fled, and when he came back to himself later—locked away in his house—he had no memory of it. All he knew was the beast had nearly killed him, just as it had killed the reverend.

  And it had done so in broad daylight.

  Now he had no refuge in the sun. He had no weapon. And considering its strength, the beast could easily get inside to him. He had no hope. He felt certain that he would die within the hour.

  Why hadn’t it killed him before? Was it toying with him? What did it want from him? Could it be just the taste of his flesh?

  Something thumped on the porch. Again. A third and fourth time, each sound growing louder. He imagined those heavy hooves clopping closer, and his heart picked up its pace. The dark reek of the monster permeated even through the thick reinforced door. A loud rending noise battered at his ears, and the door—along with a goodly portion of the frame and wall—disappeared.

  The beast’s monstrous bulk stood in the threshold, a silhouett
e against the blazing sun behind it, and it took its first step into Judah’s house. The creature opened its mouth, showing off its slavering chops, and reached a hoary hand toward its victim.

  And in that moment, as fear practically tore Judah’s heart out, searing every nerve in his body, epiphany struck, and he knew the only thing that could save him. Mustering all of his strength, he shouted one word: “Wait!”

  The beast paused, and its thickly furred eyelids fluttered.

  Laughing, no longer master of his own body, Judah rushed to his mantle, where he kept his Bible, and threw the book into the fireplace. As it had not been lit, the tome thumped down in the ash and sent up a cloud around it.

  “I renounce Jesus Christ!” Judah shouted. He spat onto the dusty cover. “I was deceived, and I regret every moment of my worship of a false god. I feel like a fool!”

  The beast smiled. Instead of finishing off its prey, it leaned back, its stout arms crossed, and waited.

  “I should have seen the sign,” Judah whispered. “As soon as I saw you, as soon as your existence disproved God’s, I should have known. I should have started worshipping you right away.”

  The beast chuckled. “Go on.”

  “You are clearly a powerful being, the most powerful I’ve ever seen. You have abilities. You must be a god. And now, if you’ll spare my life, I’ll spend the rest of my days dedicated to worshipping you.”

  The beast’s arms came untangled and swung at its sides as it straightened its body. “You know what I require of you, Judah Crenshaw.”

  Judah thought back to Reverend Jordan and to his slaughtered animals. A part of him thought he was mad for even considering this, but when he reflected on the matter, it would be a small sacrifice, especially since it had almost gotten him killed earlier.

  He rushed to the kitchen and retrieved a butcher knife. When he returned, he undid his trousers and let them slide down his legs. He took hold of the head of his penis, stretching out the entire organ, and placed the blade against the shaft.

  “No. It must be erect.”

  When Judah looked up, he saw Rachael again. Completely naked. Before the kids had been born, which meant no loose skin. No stretch marks. Just young, taut womanflesh.

  Judah grew bigger in his hand as he watched this specter of his wife fondle herself, and just as he came closer to climax, he knew what the beast wanted.

  Just before he cut himself, the beast said, in Rachel’s sweet voice, “Don’t forget the balls.”

  Judah pressed down with all his might and sliced. Fiery pain burned along his flesh as the blade bit into him halfway through the shaft. Blood exploded from the wound, and he felt his final orgasm rocket through his body, shooting thick crimson spurts onto the floor.

  And even though it hurt him like nothing else on earth ever had, he forced himself to pull back and slice again, desperately hoping he could get the whole thing this time. He got the rest of the shaft and hit no resistance as he reached the sac. His testicles unraveled, and his manhood held on only by a strip of scrotum.

  Judah couldn’t bear to use the knife again, so he gripped a handful of his genitals and tore it away from his body. Blood audibly pattered down on the hardwood floor as he stumbled forward, holding his gristly prize aloft.

  The beast had banished the image of Rachael, and now it reached out to Judah’s gore-slicked hand. Daintily, it plucked the jumble of meat like picking a piece of lint off a shirt and lifted it up to its mouth, where it popped it in like a piece of candy. It chewed, absorbing all the sexual energy he could from this charged piece of flesh, and its own member stood up, tumescent and large like a man’s forearm.

  Judah collapsed, still feeling the dying pulse of his orgasm as blood pumped from the ragged hole between his legs. “May I . . . live?” He barely managed to get this gasp out.

  “You may, my servant. There’s just one more thing.”

  Gently, the beast turned Judah’s trembling body onto his back and knelt down between his legs. Throbbing pain, combined with the animalistic stench from the beast, smashed whatever remained of his sanity as he howled with laughter. Part of him knew the beast’s intention, and that part had made peace with it.

  He spread his legs wider to accommodate the monster’s girth. The hole, where once his genitals had been, stretched—not unpleasantly—as the beast thrust into him. Judah could feel his guts compress to make room, and he clutched the beast’s hairy back, screaming its praises, worshipping it as loudly as his cracked and ruined voice would allow.

  And that was the last thing he remembered for a quite some time.

  Days later, he awoke in his own bed, but not once did he wonder if it had all been a nightmare. He felt the closed, knotted flesh between his legs and knew this wonderful dream had been true.

  How would he tell Rachael and the boys? Could he? No matter. They were gone, abandoned him what seemed like years ago. All that remained of his life was the slight bulge in his belly.

  He smiled warmly down at it and thought he felt something move inside of him.

  John Bruni is the author of TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE and POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS from StrangeHouse, as well as STRIP from Riot Forge. His short work has appeared in many places, including anthologies from Comet Press (VILE THINGS), Pill Hill (A HACKED UP HOLIDAY MASSACRE) and the GG Allin tribute BLOOD FOR YOU. He was the editor and publisher of TABARD INN and is currently in charge of Strange Story Saturdays for StrangeHouse. He lives in Elmhurst, IL, where no one eats anyone's genitals (or so he's told).

  THE SERPENT’S ARMY

  - A VALDUCAN STORY -

  by Seth Skorkowsky

  June 1, 1981

  Travelers shuffled past in varying shades of anxiety, their bags clutched to their sides or rolling behind them on leashes. A nearby crowd anxiously watched the white letters flip and click across the schedule board like helpless gamblers before the roulette wheel, praying for no delays. The stink of sweat, tension, stale smoke, and a hundred flavors of perfume filled the airport like an oily fog.

  I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray and checked my watch. The number of travelers trickling out from the Customs area had begun to wane. A lean woman with short, boyish hair strode out, scolding a somber-looking teen in clipped French. I only hoped that meant they were processing Max and Alex's flight.

  A blue-uniformed security officer wandered lazily by and stopped near a bank of payphones behind me. That all-too-familiar paranoia tickled up the back of my neck. Have I been standing here too long?

  No. I pushed that away. People stand in airports all the time. Fifty-five minutes is nothing.

  Still, the guard's presence made me nervous. Dämoren rested inside my briefcase, and airports get real testy about bringing loaded guns inside. The fact she was a century-old revolver would make little difference. But I sure as hell wasn't going to leave her in the car. I drew a fresh cigarette, and glanced back as I pulled out my lighter.

  The guard was strolling away.

  With a relieved grin, I lit my smoke and looked up in time to see Max Schmidt exiting the door ahead. His dark suit and slicked-back hair made him look like some high-fashion Secret Service agent, sans tie or sunglasses. He held a suitcase in one hand, a long black case in the other. Even locked up, trusting a baggage handler with his holy sword, Lukrasus, had to have been hell for him. Valducan knights normally wouldn't take a commercial flight, opting for more… creative means of bypassing Customs. But time was of the essence if we were going to get this lamia before it struck again.

  I raised a hand for him to see me, but the Austrian was already coming my direction, gliding through the crowd with that dancer's grace of his.

  "What's the point of taking a Concorde if you just have to wait around after you arrive?" I asked.

  Max snorted and shook his head. "So you can get into the line faster." He set his suitcase down and we shared a one-armed hug. "How are you, Clay?"

  "Can't complain."

  "That," Schmidt
said eyeing Dämoren's case, "is the most hideous thing I've ever seen."

  I grinned down at the black and white cowhide briefcase. "This your first time to Texas?"

  "It is."

  "Well, here this is considered quite fashionable."

  "God, I hope not."

  I laughed and looked past Max's shoulder. "Where's Alex?"

  "He had to stay behind."

  I froze halfway through a drag. "He didn't come?"

  Max shook his head. "He was asked to assist with some of the Order's affairs."

  "Hmm," I grumbled. "Well, his loss. Between the gunslinger and the sword dancer, ain't nothing can stop us." I ignored Max's tightening lips. He never liked his nickname, but I'm the only knight he lets get away with calling him that. "Come on, let's get out of here and get a drink."

  I led him down the escalator and into the exhaust stink and rumbling engines of the parking garage. "So how was the funeral?" I asked.

  "It was a good service." He loaded his bag into the trunk. "I wish you had been there."

  "Mistress Meadows and me never really saw eye to eye. Besides," I said, sliding into the car, "someone has to keep hunting. Demons don't just take time off when one of us dies."

  Max slipped into the passenger seat and looked at me, blue eyes smiling. "With that sentiment, I think maybe you and she were more alike than you know."

  Choosing not to respond, I started the engine and pulled out into the rat maze of roads. Pink and red clouds streaked the sky, heralding sunset. "I really wish you could have gotten here earlier. Rest up before tonight."

  "Rest?" Max chuckled. "You're getting old, Clay. Your report said we're dealing with a lamia."

  "Yeah. Six months ago, police picked up a real shit bag. Biker named Mudrat."

  Max's brow rose at the name, but he said nothing.

  "Snagged him on a warrant for stabbing a man. But this guy was fucked up high when they got him, like angel dust or something. Took four officers to drag him down and he still managed to break one of their arms. He had two puncture wounds in his shoulder, still bleeding when they got him. About an inch apart. Got a picture of 'em when they booked him. Whole time he's talking crazy shit like how he's the chosen one of the angel's army and all that." I fished a couple quarters out of the console, and paid the tollbooth lady.