Stanley was back on his feet, “We’ll see what the town has to say about that!” he said as he pushed past Hover and towards the door.
The old priest grabbed his shoulder with a firm grip and spun him around to face him. “Listen to me, boy!” he growled. “I am a hero in this town. Nearly a legend. Have been for 40 years. A foul word against me would hurt only you. So go, Stanley, and tell those fools that Father John Hover is anything less-than saint-worthy. See how that turns out.”
Stanley frowned, he didn’t want to admit it, but the bastard was right. Hover was a big name in the town. Nobody would believe him capable of something so horrible. They would only look down on Stanley for fabricating such a ridiculous and disgusting rumor. He looked at the priest with hatred burning in his eyes.
“Your day will come, John! Count on that.”
And with that, Stanley left.
Stan’s anger drove him forward for three solid days behind the wheel of his ratty Cadillac, the back seat clogged like a dying artery with the over-stuffed trash bags that held all of his clothes and other essentials. The sign on the interstate on-ramp had said “North”, and, to Stan, there was no better direction to go.
He had been clear enough in mind, however, to withdraw the contents of the savings account his parents had started many years before as well as all of the money that he’d saved from working for the past six years. Given his father’s multiple and generous donations and his own saving habits, he was armed with nearly two-thousand dollars to fund his new life.
For several weeks he slept in cheap hotel rooms and ate at whatever fast food joint he happened to pass on the road. Nearly a month of this quickly grew tiresome, however, and one night, too exhausted to read where he was turning, took an off-ramp that coiled towards a tall city; his gaze widening at the sight of the monstrous structures that quickly grew taller with his approach. It was the first time he’d seen a city in person, and he marveled at the vastness of it all as he navigated blindly through the grid of buildings and complex roads. It wasn’t long, however, before he remembered how tired he was and, while stopped at a red light, asked a neighboring vehicle where the closest hotel was.
The directions he was given came from a blonde woman dressed in a suit and a pair of sunglasses with a strange, masculine accent that made any clarity in the path to take nearly impossible to understand, and the screaming horns and cursing pedestrians made what was audible too difficult to ascertain. The inaudible directions ended abruptly as the light turned green and the woman peeled off, leaving Stan and his Cadillac stuttering behind.
After several hours of driving in squared circles, Stan finally happened across a hotel- a large building surrounded by other, equally large buildings of a similar structure-type and color- the only difference being the small letters over the entrance that Stan had been lucky enough to notice while stopped at another light. After parking in one of few available spots in a parking garage filled with sleek, new sports cars, he worked his way into the building, trying to maneuver upstream against a current of people.
When at last he’d made it inside, Stan was quick to check in, ignoring the dirty looks given to him by a snooty, older man in a suit behind the desk. An equally snooty, yet far younger bellboy looked at him with distain before offering to take his bags to his room. Stan declined the offer, picking up the one garbage bag he’d opted to bring in with him and headed to the fourth floor where he was told he would be able to find his room. He wasn’t surprised by the dirty looks- he was covered with at least a week’s worth of sweat and probably smelled like unwashed socks. On top of that, driving with the window open- his car’s air conditioner had never worked- had blown his hair into a chaotic frenzy that made him look like a Raggedy Andy doll. After a short while of searching he found the bleach-white door with “469” screwed into its surface and eagerly let himself in and headed for the bed, allowing his body to fall towards its surface and falling asleep before he was completely horizontal.
When Stan finally woke up, it was three in the morning and the room was sweltering. As whatever nightmare that had awakened him faded into the recesses of his mind, he got up and changed into some fresh clothes and went outside for some fresh air.
The night air outside the hotel was, surprisingly, not much fresher than the inferno he’d escaped from but, though bogged down by the heat, Stan felt refreshed from his deep sleep and began wandering about the nearly deserted city streets as his curiosity took control and carried him several blocks away from the hotel.
“Hey, fella’.” A heavily shadowed man slumped in the corner of an alley called out, his voice sounding like hard footsteps on gravel. “Ya got a light?”
Stan shook his head nervously, reluctant to speak to the stranger. “I’m sorry…” he stuttered, “I… uh…” the man’s eyes burned into him as he stammered. “I don’t smoke.”
The stranger’s head had bobbed in a lazy nod, a chuckle, grinding like a cement mixer, rolled from his throat. “Good man.” He chided playfully, rising to his feet.
Stan’s guts wrenched as an uneasy feeling washed over him and he took a step back, distancing himself from the alley and the approaching man. The still chuckling stranger continued his slow paced march forward, and a nearby street light bathed his previously hidden features in a thick, orange glow. The knot that was twisting in Stan’s gut tightened as the lanky man came into sight. His hair was brown and cut short and, despite having been crouched in an alley, seemed recently washed and styled. His well-tanned skin was deeply contrasted against a white tank-top and matching gym shorts that hung loosely over his knees. For a moment, Stan was unable to justify his growing fear at the stranger’s approach, until he again looked at his eyes.
Stan had seen the eyes of animals before; predators included. When he was younger, he had gone to the zoo and shivered in wondrous delight at the cold, hungry eyes of the wolves and tigers and other such intimidating creatures as they paced behind the bars that had kept him and the other kids safe. There were no barriers between him and the stranger, however, as he once again found himself gazing into the unmistakable gleaming stare of a hungry predator. His muscles refused to function and, despite the heat, a cold chill flooded over him. The stranger stopped his advance a short distance away and reached casually towards his face to lick his chapped lips.
“Yer not from around here,” the man said, cocking his head to one side and displaying an unnaturally long, toothy grin. “Are ya?”
Stan began stuttering again, trying to look away but always inevitably returning his gaze to the impossibly wide smile and those hungry eyes. The bones in Stan’s legs seemed to liquefy and they crumpled like abandoned accordions. The still beaming stranger, who made no reaction to Stan’s clumsy collapse, seemed impossibly taller and infinitely more menacing as he casually took a step closer and inhaled deeply through billowing nostrils.
“I prefer outsiders, y’see,” The man chuckled, slowly circling around the Stan-heap. “Less hassle than dealing with a local.” He shook his head slowly and squatted down, bringing his menacing face within inches of Stan’s sweat-soaked own. “When a local goes missing…” he sighed, looking up at the starless sky, “…well, that’s an attention getter.”
A fear-filled whimper leaked from Stan’s throat and the stranger returned his hungry eyes to the shivering, grounded mass. His smile grew wider and Stan saw past the man’s dry, cracked lips and into his mouth where two rows of gnarled, inhuman teeth stuck out. The fowl, yellow daggers were spaced from one another in uneven rows, and each gap was met by a bruise-blackened gum line, between which a darting tongue lashed out again and again; a pink prisoner in a rotten cell.
The stranger let out a pleasured groan that morphed halfway through into a hungry growl. “And I do hate it when a meal attracts attention.” The already gritty voice became razorblade heaves that echoed in Stan’s head.
The fear of sudden death drove Stan to his feet and he threw himself down the sidewalk, hoping tha
t his still-wobbly legs would carry him to safety. He closed his eyes and pushed forward, trying to ignore the aching waves that throbbed with each new step as well as the twin footsteps that plodded carelessly in a teasing match to his own pace.
The stranger’s grinding laughter rang through the empty streets as Stan’s breath began to burn in his lungs. “SCURRY, LITTLE BUNNY! THE WOLF IS ON THE PROWEL!”
The laughter issued forth again and the pain in Stan’s legs became too much. With a useless whimper Stan went down, crashing painfully into the pavement. The steps of the pursuing stranger grew louder with its increasing proximity and the acceptance of defeat rolled over Stan’s mind like a storm cloud.
BANG!
The city streets rang out as the thunderous sound reverberated against the buildings, growing distant in a dying echo. Startled by the sound, Stan looked away from the approaching menace, and when his eyes, finding nothing for a source of the sound, returned to his attacker he saw a bloody hole in the startled man’s stomach.
The stranger stood for a moment, gaping down at the wound and the torrent of blood that gushed from it. Time seemed to stop for a short while, a deafening silence holding the moment like a horrific Polaroid before the man looked up; his obscenely-large mouth pulled back in a grotesque snarl and his eyes burned with hatred.
It took Stan a moment to realize that the glare was not directed at him but something behind him, though he refused to look away from the gaping, jagged jaws and electrified eyes in fear that they might return their attention back to him if he did.
Frozen in his dread, Stan looked on as the man began to stretch… literally.
It started with his arms, which popped and groaned as they sagged further downward, his fingers elongating and curving sharply at the knuckles. As the rest of his body expanded, his skin- pulled ever more taught across the growing body and exposing throbbing veins- grew darker like a bruise that flooded all over his now disproportioned body. The still darkening face twisted impossibly around the huge, gaping mouth that bellowed in agony and rage. Stan, still sprawled on the sidewalk, frantically began to try and distance himself from the monstrosity in a clumsy crabwalk, still unable to look away.
The gaping mouth stretched forward and the already too-wide smile turned into a large, snapping maw. The creature’s clothes, which had before hung loosely on its frame, began to strain and tear as new muscle began to inflate. The shirt tore and ripped a jagged path down the man-beast’s heaving torso, becoming little more than a tag that clung to the bulging shoulders which popped and groaned as they rolled in their sockets to accommodate the rest of the change.
A cold sweat broke out across Stan’s face as he continued his clumsy retreat, flinching at the sounds of the towering beast’s leg-bones snapping and reshaping. As the transformation was finished, Stan found himself gazing upon a malicious grin that spread across the beast’s face as its animal eyes darted from Stan to whatever was behind him.
Stan wasn’t sure how to label the monstrosity- its sleek features resembling a bizarre, bipedal mix between a sleek cat and a muscular wolf. A low, long moan of terror squeezed past his tightening throat as the eight foot tall creature took a long step forward.
“STRYKER!” the beast roared, it’s voice a spine-clutching sound like a bear gargling rocks. “DO I INTERRUPT YOUR MEALS?”
“I’ve warned you before about leaving the forest, Orver.” A voice calmly called out from behind Stan. “You’ve proven time and time again that you have no control.”
The beast—Orver, as he seemed to be called—sneered and took another advancing step. “You wanna try living off’a animals?” his tone shifted from anger to pleading, though the thunderous effect still remained. “I guarantee that you’d crawl out of that forest and mind-drain the first thing on two legs!”
“You’re not getting any pity from me, Orver!” the voice replied, still calm.
The beast curled its lip in a horrid sneer of both hatred and disgust and took another long step forward, now standing directly over Stan, who looked up in terror at the monstrosity. “GOD DAMNED ODIN CLAN!” the beast let out a carnal roar, “ALWAYS PROTECTING THE MEAT!”
Stan, despite his terror, had heard the source of the voice behind him sigh, “There will be order, Orver. You know full well that what you’re doing is wrong.”
The creature smirked at that and cocked his head like a confused dog, “Oh, do I now?” he cooed as a four foot long, overly muscled arm reached out to grab at Stan.
The silent night was again jolted by the loud burst of gunfire and more and more holes opened up across the creature’s leathery torso. The effects weren’t as quick as Stan would have hoped, though the reaching arm had quickly pulled back to try and cover itself from the spray of bullets. Its efforts did little to save it, however, and it staggered, nearly falling back but regaining balance at the last moment and glaring back at the shooter and stepped forward once again. A final shot was fired, tearing through the beast’s chest and into its heart.
The street went quiet again, save for the humming in Stan’s ears. The monster whimpered in pain, wavering for another moment before dropping to its knees and cupping its massive hands across the wounds that decorated its chest. With a final heaving, labored breath, the animal eyes went dull and the kneeling creature crashed to the sidewalk, its bulky form sprawling out over the curb and hanging loosely into the street.
It was only when Stan realized that he was getting dizzy that he discovered he’d been holding his breath and as he gasped, sucking in a fresh lungful of hot city air, he slowly turned to get a glimpse of his savior. Something about the clarity and sternness in the voice of the shooter had made Stan think that he was close behind him, but as he turned to get his first look he noticed that the man was actually standing at the other side of the street under the glow of a stop light. The red tint gave the man a dramatic look, though Stan hardly thought he needed it. The stranger opened one side of his long, brown coat to holster the gun—a snow-white revolver. With the weapon put away, Stan’s rescuer approached, crossing the street casually.
Though a rigid composure had been out of the question, Stan still saw it as necessary to try and stand up straight and he got to his still-shaky feet as fast as he could.
The man, who upon his approach looked more like a floating, pale face in the night because of his black coat and neck-length black hair, looked over Stan’s shaky body before asking, “Are you hurt?”
Stan shook his head, turning to look at the monster only to be once again surprised at the sight of the very human-looking man from before lying in a bloody heap with the tattered rags hanging from his limp, scrawny form.
“They can’t hold their bestial form in death,” the stranger knowingly explained in a soft yet stern voice as he knelt down over the body.
Stan shook his head again, wondering if his choice to abandon his faith had been in bad taste and if he had just been saved from a demon. “W-what is it?” he stammered.
The stranger sighed, standing up straight again and brushing a strand of hair from his face, looking down at his handiwork. “I guess you’d call it a werewolf, though ‘wolf’ is too specific.” He turned to face Stan. “Those who know better call them therions.”
“Th-therions?”
“Short for ‘theriomorphs’,” the stranger said casually.
Stan nodded lamely, not looking away from the carnage-littered corpse and slowly wetted his fear-dried lips. He knew that he was in the middle of something that he wasn’t supposed to be; something about the new stranger’s tension told him that much.
“So what happens now?” He asked nervously.
The stranger shrugged again, tugging the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck, “Now… some friends will be by to pick up our mutual acquaintance while I go about tying up a loose end.”
Stan looked up at the man as he heard the last part, “Loose end? You mean you’re going to kill me too?”
Grinning slightly
the man shook his head, “No, nothing so severe. You’ll just wake up with a bad headache and no memory of this little stroll.”
“You can make me forget all of this?” Stan asked skeptically, looking at the body again.
The man nodded, looking at the corpse as well, “Quite easily.”
“I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to forget all of this.” Stan confessed.
“Trust me,” the man assured him, “It’s just like magic.”
Stan didn’t reply for a while. When at last he turned to the stranger, the man was already looking at him, waiting for him to speak.
“If you’re going to make me forget anyway,” Stan said shyly, “how ‘bout…”
“‘…How bout I answer some more of your questions?’” the stranger finished. He smiled and nodded at the dumbfounded Stan. “Sure.” He answered, “Let’s get a few cold ones and chat.”
“I… don’t drink.” Stan stuttered, somewhat embarrassed.
“I know.” The stranger confirmed as he started walking down the sidewalk. “Coke okay?”
****
The night drew on as the man, who had earlier in the discussion introduced himself as Joseph Stryker, told Stan about a world of monsters- known in his world as ‘mythos’- and magic. Joseph went on for several hours, often answering Stan’s questions before he was able to ask them. Finally, he was told of Joseph’s abilities as a psychic vampire and, deciding to let his mind do the asking, leaned back to nurse his coke, which had gotten warm from several hours of resting untouched on his lap.
He was most fascinated with the topic of magic and, for nearly the remainder of the night, fervently pressed the issue further and further. He knew that all the new facts should have scared him or at least unnerved him, but instead he felt drawn.
At one point, when Joseph paused to take out a cigarette, Stan had been startled when the tobacco-filled cylinder seemingly lit itself seconds after Joseph put it in his mouth. The event sparked a new series of questions that rolled forward until the sun had begun to rise.
Noir: A Crimson Shadow Novel Page 12
