clairestclaire
06-03-2019, 11:46 AM
He sat watching, waiting, quietly anticipating, in those bone cold black woods, as he had done many times before, with his feet nestled in the damp pine straw. Peering out through gnarly branches outstretched like witch’s fingers, he gazed longingly at the little white house, the color of pure snow juxtaposed against the inky night. It’s warm glow poured out the window like the beacon of a lighthouse, inviting him to come in out of the chilly dark. Helen Porter had lived in the little white house for three years and he had watched and wanted her for that long. He felt a twinge of guilt as he saw her seemingly float past the window, full of grace. She wore a dusty rose-colored silk bathrobe, with the sash tied tightly around her waist, showing off her hourglass figure. Her fluffy auburn hair swung bouncily along her shoulders as she softly padded around the house. “I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this,” he thought. “A beautiful creature like her would never want me.” Regardless, he made his pilgrimage to that certain spot in the woods almost every night after he got off from another grueling day at the factory. He was dead tired, but it was worth it, just for that fleeting glimpse. He wasn’t a part of her world as far as he knew, but she was all of his.
Tonight was the night. He had turned the notion over and over in his head a million times, and then a million times more. Just wanting something badly enough did not make it a reality. He could not think it into being. He had to take action. An electric charge pulsing through the star-dappled universe seemed to fuel his conviction. The excitement in the air was tangible as if it was a palpable presence. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his heart raced feverishly. He was waiting for that warm glow to be snuffed out like an extinguished candle’s flame, indicating that she had retired to bed for sleep. Then he would make his move. “She may not be agreeable at first, he contemplated, but if I can just show her how much I care, I think she will come around.” Everyone just wants to be loved. He certainly did. And no one could possibly love her more than he could. He inventoried his supplies, making a mental checklist in his head. Duct tape, check. Rope, check. Chloroform, check. Dog treats, check. Sparky was intimidating enough, the protective, burly German Shepard that he was. However, most animals could be won over with a little bit of food and a scratch behind the ears. The canine had actually grown accustomed to him and no longer viewed him as a threat, as he doled out Snausages and Milk Bones when Sparky made his nightly rounds in the woods.
There was a clatter at the French doors that opened up onto the back patio. Sparky was at it again, clawing, clamoring and barking at the glass panes, demanding to be released to do his dog business. He crept carefully back into the cloak of darkness, knowing that the dog would make a beeline for his nightly snack after sniffing about for a while and making his assumptions about the smells of the world. In all this excitement, he failed to notice that the usually noisy woods had fallen silent. He was struck by the eerie stillness, and a sense of dread washed over him. “It’s just my nerves”, he thought. “If I think things will go wrong, they will go wrong.” He heard the doors open and the mutt dart out, but he couldn’t see his love from this vantage point. His heart ached to view her, but he knew he had to stay put in order to avoid being exposed by the dumb mongrel. He heard the sharp crunches and cracks of branches and twigs being obliterated by dog paws. Suddenly,Sparky roared past him at warp speed, growling and whining deep into the woods. That’s strange, he thought. Must've caught the scent of a dead raccoon or squirrel. The scent of rot had risen in the air, unlike anything he had smelled before and was permeating his nostrils with an undeniable acridness. There was a sweet element to the smell, which he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe something like the guts of a pumpkin, but one that had gone bad, combined with the putridness of decaying flesh. He felt his stomach turn as if he would toss his dinner right then and there.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he actually said out loud. His legs began to shake uncontrollably, and he felt a strong urge to sit down. He grabbed a nearby tree to steady himself. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard it. A piercing, blood-curdling scream off towards the back of the woods. Foxes and mountain lions were not uncommon in this area, but he never got used to the unsettling sound. He felt the overwhelming urge to run. He thought of the way he used to feel as a kid walking up the basement stairs after he pulled the string that shut down the bold illumination of the overhead exposed light bulb. Like if he didn’t run as fast as he could up those stairs to the safety of the upper world, something terrible would emerge from the depths of the shadows to eat him up. His grandmother would be busying herself in the kitchen at the end of his perilous journey, snapping pole beans into a colander in the kitchen sink. “You didn’t see the boogeyman that lives down there, did you” she would chuckle. She had told him stories about these woods as a boy. He had spent his whole life in this rural small town, and she had done the same. She used to tell him that when you hear a “wampus cat” scream in the woods, it foretold of a loved one’s upcoming death. She also counted owls as portents of death, ferrymen of the underworld coming to guide souls from this life to the next. She spoke of evil things that lived in the woods, haints, and boogers, though she would not specify what exactly they were. She said they were too horrible to think of, and that if she spoke their true name, she would give them enough power to inflict great harm. These trees had been his playground in his youth during the day, but grandma always urged him to get back home before nightfall, lest THEY get him, which he abided by faithfully until Helen came on the scene. He always just assumed these were tales of superstition, and tales to perhaps hasten little boys to be home in time for supper. Now, trembling here amongst the ancient oaks and towering pines, he wasn't so sure.
He caught his bearings and decided to make his way back up to the edge of the thicket to grab his bag and observe the situation. It began to softly rain, like the sky was weeping, adding insult to injury. Out of the corner of his eye, in the ether of his peripheral vision, he saw a shadow move slowly between the skeletal trees. The most disconcerting detail was that the shadow appeared to be upright and of human height. He became concerned that someone may happen upon him, and he would have a lot of explaining to do, being out here at this hour of the night, with no hunting gear. He didn’t even want to think about someone finding his bag. He used all of his strength to propel himself forward, much too quickly, on legs as wobbly as grandma’s gelatin molds. He took a few steps, then got his foot caught on a tree root and stumbled to the ground. His ankle made a revolting crunching sound and pain went shooting up his leg. “Nooo!, he yelped, laying in the wet underbrush, cradling the injured limb. The smell of carrion grew stronger and hung heavily in the air.
He laid there, immobile. He would have to give up on his plan. He wouldn’t have the strength or dexterity to overpower her or to carry her out. He closed his eyes, mourning lost possibilities. As he lay cursing his fate, something viscous, wet, and fetid dripped upon his face. At first, he thought it was a spurt of rain dropping from a leaf, but the odor of death was overwhelming. He opened his eyes, and could not believe what he saw. Its flesh was the color of burnt charcoal, tautly pulled over a humanoid skeletal frame. It was as if someone had robbed a grave and planted a desiccated corpse right above him. It's hip bones jutted forth like mountains, then dipped into a valley of concave abdomen. He could have counted its ribs if he had not been in so much shock, and its chest hissed slowly up and down while chicken bones threatened to pop out through their thinly veiled cover. The most terrifying aspect was its face. Its mouth was absent basically, just tattered rips of flesh barely containing long, yellowed, dripping fangs. An abnormally long tongue hung from its jaws, the source of the drips, flopping as wildly as a caught carp fighting for air. It did not appear to have eyes, only sunken caverns where eyes should be, nor a nose, only tatty slits of exposed nasal cavity. Upon its skull it grew stringy, matted hair, caked with leaves and twigs. It looked like it could have once been human, but it certainly was not anymore. It reached out with its clawed fingers, grabbing him. Just as he was about to yell, it chomped down on his throat and larynx, swallowing his screams. It made quick work of breaking him apart. It viscously tore into his viscera, greedily slurping tender organs. It stripped muscle and skin from bones. It crushed his skull with a nearby rock, using fragments to scoop out brains like primitive eating utensils. Nothing was left to waste. In the end, he was reduced to a pile of bloody garments.
The dog’s flesh had been inadequate, as was the man’s. It was voracious, this never ceased. Hunger occupied its existence, no matter what it consumed the gnawing pain never abated. It was like a shark. Always moving, never resting, thinking of nothing but it’s next feeding. It stood watching, waiting, quietly anticipating, in those bone cold black woods, with what somewhat resembled feet nestled in the damp pine straw. Peering out through gnarly branches outstretched like witch’s fingers, it gazed longingly at the little white house, blood-tinged saliva pouring out from its gaping mouth, hungering for its next meal.
Tonight was the night. He had turned the notion over and over in his head a million times, and then a million times more. Just wanting something badly enough did not make it a reality. He could not think it into being. He had to take action. An electric charge pulsing through the star-dappled universe seemed to fuel his conviction. The excitement in the air was tangible as if it was a palpable presence. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his heart raced feverishly. He was waiting for that warm glow to be snuffed out like an extinguished candle’s flame, indicating that she had retired to bed for sleep. Then he would make his move. “She may not be agreeable at first, he contemplated, but if I can just show her how much I care, I think she will come around.” Everyone just wants to be loved. He certainly did. And no one could possibly love her more than he could. He inventoried his supplies, making a mental checklist in his head. Duct tape, check. Rope, check. Chloroform, check. Dog treats, check. Sparky was intimidating enough, the protective, burly German Shepard that he was. However, most animals could be won over with a little bit of food and a scratch behind the ears. The canine had actually grown accustomed to him and no longer viewed him as a threat, as he doled out Snausages and Milk Bones when Sparky made his nightly rounds in the woods.
There was a clatter at the French doors that opened up onto the back patio. Sparky was at it again, clawing, clamoring and barking at the glass panes, demanding to be released to do his dog business. He crept carefully back into the cloak of darkness, knowing that the dog would make a beeline for his nightly snack after sniffing about for a while and making his assumptions about the smells of the world. In all this excitement, he failed to notice that the usually noisy woods had fallen silent. He was struck by the eerie stillness, and a sense of dread washed over him. “It’s just my nerves”, he thought. “If I think things will go wrong, they will go wrong.” He heard the doors open and the mutt dart out, but he couldn’t see his love from this vantage point. His heart ached to view her, but he knew he had to stay put in order to avoid being exposed by the dumb mongrel. He heard the sharp crunches and cracks of branches and twigs being obliterated by dog paws. Suddenly,Sparky roared past him at warp speed, growling and whining deep into the woods. That’s strange, he thought. Must've caught the scent of a dead raccoon or squirrel. The scent of rot had risen in the air, unlike anything he had smelled before and was permeating his nostrils with an undeniable acridness. There was a sweet element to the smell, which he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe something like the guts of a pumpkin, but one that had gone bad, combined with the putridness of decaying flesh. He felt his stomach turn as if he would toss his dinner right then and there.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he actually said out loud. His legs began to shake uncontrollably, and he felt a strong urge to sit down. He grabbed a nearby tree to steady himself. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard it. A piercing, blood-curdling scream off towards the back of the woods. Foxes and mountain lions were not uncommon in this area, but he never got used to the unsettling sound. He felt the overwhelming urge to run. He thought of the way he used to feel as a kid walking up the basement stairs after he pulled the string that shut down the bold illumination of the overhead exposed light bulb. Like if he didn’t run as fast as he could up those stairs to the safety of the upper world, something terrible would emerge from the depths of the shadows to eat him up. His grandmother would be busying herself in the kitchen at the end of his perilous journey, snapping pole beans into a colander in the kitchen sink. “You didn’t see the boogeyman that lives down there, did you” she would chuckle. She had told him stories about these woods as a boy. He had spent his whole life in this rural small town, and she had done the same. She used to tell him that when you hear a “wampus cat” scream in the woods, it foretold of a loved one’s upcoming death. She also counted owls as portents of death, ferrymen of the underworld coming to guide souls from this life to the next. She spoke of evil things that lived in the woods, haints, and boogers, though she would not specify what exactly they were. She said they were too horrible to think of, and that if she spoke their true name, she would give them enough power to inflict great harm. These trees had been his playground in his youth during the day, but grandma always urged him to get back home before nightfall, lest THEY get him, which he abided by faithfully until Helen came on the scene. He always just assumed these were tales of superstition, and tales to perhaps hasten little boys to be home in time for supper. Now, trembling here amongst the ancient oaks and towering pines, he wasn't so sure.
He caught his bearings and decided to make his way back up to the edge of the thicket to grab his bag and observe the situation. It began to softly rain, like the sky was weeping, adding insult to injury. Out of the corner of his eye, in the ether of his peripheral vision, he saw a shadow move slowly between the skeletal trees. The most disconcerting detail was that the shadow appeared to be upright and of human height. He became concerned that someone may happen upon him, and he would have a lot of explaining to do, being out here at this hour of the night, with no hunting gear. He didn’t even want to think about someone finding his bag. He used all of his strength to propel himself forward, much too quickly, on legs as wobbly as grandma’s gelatin molds. He took a few steps, then got his foot caught on a tree root and stumbled to the ground. His ankle made a revolting crunching sound and pain went shooting up his leg. “Nooo!, he yelped, laying in the wet underbrush, cradling the injured limb. The smell of carrion grew stronger and hung heavily in the air.
He laid there, immobile. He would have to give up on his plan. He wouldn’t have the strength or dexterity to overpower her or to carry her out. He closed his eyes, mourning lost possibilities. As he lay cursing his fate, something viscous, wet, and fetid dripped upon his face. At first, he thought it was a spurt of rain dropping from a leaf, but the odor of death was overwhelming. He opened his eyes, and could not believe what he saw. Its flesh was the color of burnt charcoal, tautly pulled over a humanoid skeletal frame. It was as if someone had robbed a grave and planted a desiccated corpse right above him. It's hip bones jutted forth like mountains, then dipped into a valley of concave abdomen. He could have counted its ribs if he had not been in so much shock, and its chest hissed slowly up and down while chicken bones threatened to pop out through their thinly veiled cover. The most terrifying aspect was its face. Its mouth was absent basically, just tattered rips of flesh barely containing long, yellowed, dripping fangs. An abnormally long tongue hung from its jaws, the source of the drips, flopping as wildly as a caught carp fighting for air. It did not appear to have eyes, only sunken caverns where eyes should be, nor a nose, only tatty slits of exposed nasal cavity. Upon its skull it grew stringy, matted hair, caked with leaves and twigs. It looked like it could have once been human, but it certainly was not anymore. It reached out with its clawed fingers, grabbing him. Just as he was about to yell, it chomped down on his throat and larynx, swallowing his screams. It made quick work of breaking him apart. It viscously tore into his viscera, greedily slurping tender organs. It stripped muscle and skin from bones. It crushed his skull with a nearby rock, using fragments to scoop out brains like primitive eating utensils. Nothing was left to waste. In the end, he was reduced to a pile of bloody garments.
The dog’s flesh had been inadequate, as was the man’s. It was voracious, this never ceased. Hunger occupied its existence, no matter what it consumed the gnawing pain never abated. It was like a shark. Always moving, never resting, thinking of nothing but it’s next feeding. It stood watching, waiting, quietly anticipating, in those bone cold black woods, with what somewhat resembled feet nestled in the damp pine straw. Peering out through gnarly branches outstretched like witch’s fingers, it gazed longingly at the little white house, blood-tinged saliva pouring out from its gaping mouth, hungering for its next meal.