Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  “Slade, you won’t believe this.”

  “What’d they come up with?” I ask groggily.

  “Fingerprints, all belonging to Johnny Malone. They already brought him in for questioning.”

  “No shit?” I say, pretending to be shocked.

  “One scumbag does in another scumbag. What d’ya make of that?”

  “Two for the price of one, man.” I manage a deep-throated chuckle before hanging up and wandering over to the fridge for a drink. I hate it cold, but it’s the only way to keep that dark crimson liquid fresh. I take a swig and the coppery taste explodes inside my mouth.

  Truth be told, I enjoyed it. It had been a few years since the taste of warm blood crossed my lips. The idea came to me one foggy morning while I was taking a shortcut through the park to get home. That creep, Drewery, was trying to lure a little girl into his minivan. I intervened, and then followed him home.

  It just so happened that I was off that night, so I went up to his balcony and crouched outside on the fire escape, watching. I already know what they’ll find on that laptop. I saw some of it right before I ripped out his throat. The warmth of fresh blood had invigorated me.

  I felt alive for a while.

  I found Malone in a seedy club downtown, slipped something in his drink while he was distracted, and dragged him, unnoticed, to Drewery’s apartment. I put his filthy paws all over everything. I admit, I was tempted to do him in, too. But I’d made a vow to only take out the worst of the worst.

  But pinning it on another scumbag. Genius, I thought. Just thinking about it made me want to laugh.

  I set the air conditioner to 60 degrees and tried to fall back asleep for a while. Something kept nagging me. Something vile…

  ***

  I always leave early when I need to be somewhere. Years of programming, I guess. This particular evening, my timing proves invaluable.

  The impending twilight has added a tinge of purple to the gray, overcast sky. Not a trace of sunlight is visible to hinder my walk to work.

  I prefer making my way through the alleyways; the looming shadows from tall buildings help block out any of the damn sunlight poking through the clouds; a perfect opportunity to search for any scumbags.

  I’m halfway to the precinct when I hear a scream. I follow the sound, and when I draw close, I tread quietly behind the perpetrator. I pull the black hood of my sweatshirt over my cropped hair and growl, commanding the woman he has in his clutches to ‘get the hell outta here’.

  I don’t need to repeat myself. She is in shock, but as the creep releases her and turns towards me, she quickly grabs her belongings and takes off running in her bare feet.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I utilize a line I often hear in the action movies I enjoy watching as I stare into his soulless eyes. I don’t give him a chance to respond.

  Effortlessly, I take his knife away from him with my gloved hand, and proceed to plunge it deep into his gut, just enough to incapacitate him. Then I slice it across his femoral artery, drinking greedily. The fresh blood pours into my mouth in mere minutes.

  The liquid spreads through me, but it is malignant, and taints what remains of my soul. I quickly wipe off any traces of the blood, and toss the body into a nearby dumpster. I slide the knife under the closed lid. I pocket my glove, along with the man’s wallet—no ID will delay identification, once he’s found. I find myself glad the woman fled, because the unquenchable hunger is unbearable at the moment. I am not satiated. I crouch behind a building, blending into the darkening night as I try to regain some semblance of humanity.

  I rush back home quickly to shower all the dried blood off my body, and then burn the clothes along with the man’s possessions. Later that night, as Robert and I spend time looking through our backlog, an idea begins to form.

  I make a few copies once I’m alone, and take them home with me.

  After studying a few files, I think I might know where to find Raevon Washington, one of Detroit’s biggest drug dealers.

  I watch.

  Wait.

  Then one rainy morning, after work…

  I cross the river and drive to the docks off of Lake Michigan. The windows of my SUV are tinted, just in case the rain subsides. I know which Yacht is Washington’s. I slip silently onto the boat; everyone is passed out after a night of partying, no doubt. My surroundings reek of money. It disgusts me when I think of him, affording to live in luxury on the backs of addicted kids. I picture some of the faces I’ve seen in the morgue.

  I planned this execution out carefully, to make it look like Washington didn’t pay someone he owed. The only thing this had in common with the others was the blood. Which I, of course, drained from him, before tossing his body into the river.

  The only one who would miss this low-life would be his mother.

  I wasn’t able to frame someone, but I left the scene open to suggestion.

  The hunger is now more prevalent than it has been in years.

  I could feel myself slipping…the sensation I’d had when I ousted the other perps lingered for several hours afterwards, driving the need to feed. When I arrive at work that evening, my partner eyes me warily.

  “You look like shit, Slade. Haven’t you been sleeping well or something?”

  “I’m fine!” I growl, uncharacteristically. What has gotten in to me?

  Robert raises an eyebrow at me before returning to his desk. “Okay, partner.”

  ***

  After three more ‘murders’, my partner suggests the theory that there might be a serial killer involved. I scoff at him.

  “Why would you think that?” My tone is sharp. “There are plenty of murders in Detroit every day.” I should have tried to pin those on someone. I was getting too hungry lately, it was making me sloppy. It plagued me relentlessly these days; the cold, tasteless blood in the fridge just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

  “Slade, what’s gotten into you lately? Maybe you need to go get laid or something. That waitress at the coffee shop is always eyeballing you.”

  I glare at him. I don’t know what is wrong with me. The more I get, the more I want, but I already knew that. I’d made the conscious decision. Darkness is permeating my soul, taking a little more of my humanity with each kill.

  I sigh, trying to exercise some control, in order to sound more like myself.

  “Yeah man, it’s been awhile.” I force a grin.

  Robert makes a few helpful suggestions. “I bet if you’d shave some of that scruff off your face…”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  I added the scruff awhile back. Thankfully, I was starting to get a splattering of gray when I was transformed, at thirty-eight years old. I was a slave in the South, and was in supreme physical condition from the torturous work I was forced to endure. Until I met my maker, that is.

  After that, everything changed.

  The whiskers help me stick around in one place for a few years. Clean shaven, I can pass for mid-twenties. Then, I add the mustache and goatee. Thirties. I add the stubble and stop covering the little bits of gray, and I can pass for a man well into his forties.

  “You’d probably look younger, you know. You don’t have many wrinkles, for almost 45.” If he only knew my actual age was 245. Robert squints at me over his reading glasses.

  “You know what they say.” I tell him.

  “What?” My partner takes the bait.

  “Good black don’t crack.”

  I don’t think I’ve seen Robert laugh that hard in some time.

  Too bad a phone call comes in that ruins the moment.

  Yes, it’s one of mine.

  A pimp who took pleasure in beating his whores to within a minute of their lives.

  So I beat him to within a minute of his before taking what I wanted…needed.

  We head to the location of the crime.

  My crime.

  As we stroll through the scene, I realize I’d gotten even sloppier with this latest o
ne. After whooping his ass, I ripped out his throat without giving it a second thought.

  “Prints?” Robert asks Marilyn Wallace, the same forensic expert from the Drewery case.

  “My team is working on it.”

  To my dismay, Robert asks her if she thinks there is a pattern.

  Her dark eyebrows, in stark contrast to her gray hair, knit together. “It is odd,” she states. “These last few killings have all been the dregs of society. It’s possible a vigilante is at work here.”

  Robert nods in agreement. “Has most of the blood been drained from Bishop, here?”

  I walk towards Bishop’s body as Marilyn confirms for Robert what I already know.

  My partner’s hands are deep in his pockets as he stands at my side, musing in a low voice, for my ears only. “Maybe this is the work of a vampire vigilante.”

  I know I should probably force a laugh at his comment, but I can’t.

  What bothers me most?

  Robert isn’t laughing, either. His questioning gaze bores into me.

  Has he figured out…what I am?

  ***

  On my day off, I head to the outskirts of Detroit for my next kill, not thinking of anything but the unyielding hunger; filled with inexplicable rage, I come across a small diner where I listen to the stories around me while drinking several cups of strong black coffee, pretending to eat a sandwich.

  It doesn’t take long.

  A good-ole boy.

  As soon as I walk in, he eyes me like I don’t belong there. I soon overhear several racist comments coming out of his mouth, as well as enough information to know he probably isn’t very nice to his wife.

  Maybe he doesn’t fit the usual profile, but I conclude he’s not a nice guy; he’s dirt. The day had been cloud covered and gloomy, and as night sets in, no moon is visible; it’s the kind of darkness that covers bad things—when they happen.

  I follow him to his mobile home. I slip on my gloves and peer in through the dingy curtains. He is alone. I break through the flimsy door easily, and using a sharp kitchen night, I do him in and feed. Just as I prepare to leave, a beat up car pulls up and a woman in a hotel maid’s uniform steps out. Turning quickly, I race to the bedroom in back and jump out of a window.

  As I run towards my SUV, her blood curling scream echoes through the night.

  Driving home, I wonder if she had noticed my vehicle. Even if she did, there are plenty of black SUV’s out there. I was certain she had no way to ID the plates.

  Hell, besides—hadn’t I just done her a big favor?

  ***

  The deep shadows of darkness are swallowing me up. The blood of all those evil humans I have killed is changing me. Transforming me into a creature I’d never wanted to be. But my grasp on any semblance of humanity is slowly slipping away. I’m certain if I could see myself in a mirror, I’d see that my features have changed. I’m certain the vileness of my deeds would be visible…

  I’m not surprised when Robert calls, asking me to meet him out at the docks.

  I try for nonchalant as I stroll towards him.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

  “Marilyn called me. About a murder in Ann Arbor her team got called to.”

  “So?”

  “She called because it was very similar to the cases around here.”

  I just stare at him as the hunger slowly begins to consume me.

  “I started piecing things together after Bishop, Slade. Did some checking into your background. Looked at pictures. You haven’t changed a bit in fifteen years, Slade, except for that hair on your face. You always work the night shift. I’ve never seen you eat anything. It wasn’t that hard to figure out I’d been right.” My partner was visibly shaken. “I’ve never been one to believe in things that go bump in the night. But…it’s true, isn’t it? You are a vampire—a vampire vigilante.”

  I chuckle. “I already told you, Robert. Good black don’t crack.” I smile, realizing all too late that my fangs had—by this time—made an appearance.

  I watch as Robert pulls out a wooden stake, filed to a sharp tip. His hands are trembling.

  “Seriously, Robert. You think that will stop me?”

  “This has to end, Slade.”

  My mind is whirling, and I offer him an ultimatum. “I could change you, brother. We could clean up this city together.” My eyes beseech him to understand, even though I’m not sure I do myself.

  He shakes his head, “I couldn’t do that to Claire and the kids…”

  The self-assured look on his face drops a little. His pulse quickens, and the sound of blood cascading through his veins overtakes my mind. I am on him before he can even react—before I can stop myself. In minutes, my partner, my friend, my brother…is dying in my arms.

  “I’m sorry.” My deep voice wavers. “I’ll see to it that Claire is well taken care of before I leave this city, Robert. I’ll make sure your kids never want for anything, man. I promise.”

  “Except…me,” he croaks. I couldn’t change him...couldn’t afford him this hellish eternity I’d been cursed with. I couldn’t force him to live in the shadows forever.

  So I let him slip away.

  Changing him—that would’ve been another thing to add to my list of vile deeds…

  THE CORKSCREW AND THE VOID

  Cameron Trost

  DEAN Latham was sitting on the double bed with his back against the polished wood headboard. He was watching the evening news without really paying attention to what the attractive newsreader was saying. If his wife had been in the room with him, she would have accused him of staring perversely at the young woman and having lewd thoughts about her. But that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t really thinking about anything at all, except for how bored he was.

  Whoever had decorated the hotel room deserved to be drawn and quartered. It was in an atrocious, grandmother style. The walls were covered in cutesy wallpaper that was a celebration of butterflies and daisies, and the open window was hidden behind yellowing lace curtains that swayed and billowed like ghosts in the gentle breeze. The bed was just as ugly with faded red roses printed all over the duvet. The ensemble was ghastly. Matching bedding and wallpaper, however unsightly the pattern, would have been better than this ludicrous combination of different varieties of flowers.

  While he waited, Dean had plenty of time to note every aspect of the room that annoyed him. After much contemplation, he decided that the most offensive feature was the smell. It wasn’t a bad smell. On the contrary, it was far too nice; some kind of pot-pourri fragrance. He hated it. Smoking in the hotel was strictly forbidden and he was trying to quit, but he felt like lighting up just to hide the overbearing scent.

  He wondered who was responsible, and figured he had the right to complain to the manager about it, but he wasn’t in the mood. He just wanted to wallow in his boredom and impatience.

  Dean got off the bed and went to inspect the ensuite, more out of curiosity and a need to distract himself from the temptation to smoke than anything else. The inspection didn’t take long at all. It had all the necessities; little soaps and bath gel, shampoo sachets, nicely folded towels, and toilet paper. It was actually quite a bit nicer than the bedroom and didn’t seem to be so heavily perfumed. He looked at the bathroom mirror. The face that stared back was clean. That was because he had taken a shower and applied moisturising cream before leaving home. However, as clean as his face was, it didn’t appear refreshed. His pale brow was creased and his blue eyes were tired. He was a troubled man.

  Dean turned the tap on and splashed a little cold water on his face. But it made no difference. He felt the cold, but nothing more.

  The week had been a long one. He’d been under a lot of pressure, dealing with difficult clients and technical problems. There was always a spanner being thrown into the works, but recently it seemed as though a whole toolbox had been tossed in. In a few years, he would be
able to retire, but he had the feeling that those last years were going to be the most gruelling.

  His occupational stress had taken its toll on family life too. Even though the kids were no longer at home, his wife had to put up with him. Tonight was a small way of making that up to her. They needed to spend some quality time together, away from the house, and with her birthday coming up, it was the ideal opportunity. Janice was turning fifty-one, not a special birthday, no need to throw a party like they had the previous year, just a romantic getaway for two would do. Dean hoped that she wouldn’t mind the room, that she wouldn’t think he was being a tight arse. He knew he should have booked a much nicer one, but it was too late now. She often accused him of being a bit conservative with money, and he couldn’t argue with that, but he’d grown up in a family where the old saying ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’ reigned supreme.

  He pried his weary face away from the mirror and left the ensuite. It was nearly eight o’clock and there was still no sign of Janice. He had told her where to meet him and that she should call him once she had arrived, but his mobile phone sat idly between the television and a pink porcelain ballerina figurine. It hadn’t made a sound since he had put it there.

  He picked it up and called her, but got the answering service.

  ‘Janice?’ he said, trying not to sound annoyed; after all, the whole evening was intended to be for her pleasure. ‘I just wanted to remind you to let me know once you’re here… Well, that’s all, I guess. See you soon, honey.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Typical. I try to do something romantic for her and this is what I get for my effort. She leaves me waiting an eternity in this damned room!’

  He put the phone down and sat on the bed again. He flicked through the TV channels but couldn’t find anything interesting. He kept going through them, over and over again, until he knew the evening’s programme by heart. Eventually, he gave up and tossed the remote on the bed, where Janice should have been. He hadn’t switched the TV off because it provided him with a sense of company. He just stared at the remote.