Blue Demon
Page 8
He got up to grab another beer when someone thunderously pounded on the front door.
He froze. Waited.
The pounding sounded again, each thump like a sonic blast.
He grabbed the shotgun resting against the fireplace, his dad’s friend keeping one in the cabin. He crept over to the door. Listened. When the pounding came again, he jumped and nearly screamed.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice cracking.
There was no answer.
The pounding came again.
“If it’s the police, you better identify yourself.”
He went over to the window and looked out. He saw no one and no vehicle except for his own Honda Civic. The car had been a welcome home present from his father. Maybe the person who’d knocked had parked their vehicle down the driveway, not wanting to startle him.
He went over to the front door and opened it, bringing the shotgun up. He peeked outside. There was no one around. In fact, it was awfully quiet. Too quiet, as if every insect and animal had departed the area.
“I’ve got a loaded gun,” he said.
He stepped back inside and bumped into something solid. He spun around and saw a wall of blue fur. The shotgun was slapped from his grasp. A clawed hand grabbed him around his throat, lifted him off the ground and tossed him across the room. He hit the floor and slid hard into the wall, smacking his head and knocking down a framed picture of his father's friend's family.
Head throbbing with pain, he got to his feet and glanced around. The place was empty. He ran for the shotgun and was yanked from behind by his shirt collar. His feet flew out from under him and he crashed to the floor. He winced as pain exploded across his back. Looking up, he expected to see his attacker, but there was no one there.
He scrambled to his feet, glancing all around. His booted feet clamped loudly on the wood floor. “What the fuck?” he yelled, wondering, for a moment, if the cabin was haunted. No, that was ridiculous.
He needed the shotgun.
He took a step forward and hesitated, head swiveling about. Sweat lined his skin. He took another step forward and cringed when a hot, rancid breeze, like day-old roadkill that had been rotting under a hot summer sun fell across his neck. No, not a breeze, but a breath.
He froze as his breath hitched in his chest.
The shotgun was a few feet away.
He swallowed, feeling as if a tennis ball was lodged in his throat. “What do you want?” he asked the room, not knowing what else to say.
There was no answer, only the continued hot, putrid air cascading over him.
He spun around.
Nothing was there.
“Fuck me,” he said and backpedaled, falling over the shotgun. He quickly got to his feet and snatched up the weapon. He racked a round into the chamber. “Whoever’s fucking with me is going to eat some buckshot.”
Then it dawned on him. He was flipping out. Going stir crazy. Cabin Fever. There wasn’t anyone around for miles. He knew what being alone could do to a person, and he’d seen enough movies to know what happened to people when they were by themselves for long periods of time.
He needed to get out of there and back to society, where people lived.
He put the shotgun back in the bedroom closet where he’d originally found it, realizing there was no one to shoot but himself. He threw his stuff haphazardly into his luggage—clothes, toiletries, sneakers and porn magazines—and bolted for the front door. He was going home. The cops obviously weren’t after him. His name hadn’t been mentioned anywhere, even as a person of interest. He’d be fine.
He climbed into his car and tore down the driveway. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror and almost went off the road when the pavement took a sharp turn. He pulled over, needing a few minutes to calm down. He told himself that he was okay and that nothing was wrong. Nobody was after him.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed or watched, as if someone waited in the back seat. Unable to help himself, he turned around. The vehicle was empty.
He turned back around and faced forward, letting out a long breath.
A dark blur flashed off to his right.
He flinched away from the window, and then glanced in that direction only to see forest. Then the Civic started rocking, as if someone was shaking it. He screamed and hit the gas, leaving burned rubber behind. He checked the rearview mirror, but saw no one.
Halfway home, he had to pee and stopped at a rest area. He felt better. Being closer to home and in a more populated area was a welcomed relief, despite the rest stop itself seeming void of life.
He didn't care that it was raining, and climbed out of his car. The water felt refreshing as he made his way to the low-lit men's room.
The place was clean. Immaculate in fact. The walls were unmarked, the mirrors and stalls without graffiti. The condition was almost unnerving and he wondered what kind of rest stop he was in. He was going to have to go back to his car and return with a marker. Make the place right.
After relieving himself—not flushing—he stood at one of the sinks where he washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water. Looking at his reflection, he noticed the silhouette of a huge figure standing off to his left. Unnerved, he spun around.
The figure stepped forward into the light.
Derek breathed a sigh of relief and almost chuckled. Some nutjob was wearing an oversized monster costume. The guy was probably drunk off his ass and on his way to a party when he stopped to piss. The claws gleamed under the florescent light. Looked sharp. Its narrow eyes glowed a menacing red. However, the face appeared fake, like cheap, molded plastic. With a little more effort, Derek thought, the thing could've been awesome looking.
“Damn, man,” he said. “That’s a good way to get yourself beat down. Shouldn’t walk up behind someone while wearing that.” He shook his head, then reached out to grab some paper towels from the dispenser when the man in the costume swiped at his arm with lightning speed and severed hand from wrist.
Derek screamed as his hand fell to the floor. Blood spewed from the exposed stump, soaking the hanging brown paper towel and most of the bathroom wall. The costume-wearing man-thing then wrapped him up in a bear hug as he screamed for help. He smelled its rancid breath fall over him and was reminded of the odor he smelled back at the cabin. This guy had been there. No, it wasn’t a guy. It was something else. A real life monster.
He struggled to break free despite his weakening state, but the creature-thing—for it could be no man—held onto him. It walked him over to the wall by the exit, grabbed his bleeding arm and pressed it against the cinderblock. It moved his arm and began writing, his blood the ink.
Derek didn’t know what the thing was, nor did he care. He just wanted it to go away and leave him alone.
Then he wondered if there really was a monster at all. Maybe he’d flipped out. Had chopped off his own hand. Had gone bonkers.
When the monster was done writing, it stepped back with Derek, so he could see what it had made him compose.
I beat and raped Jackie Langston. I hated her and wanted her dead. I wanted to infect her with HIV so that she’d suffer. My name is Derek Whitmore.
He stared, mouth agape, in shock. He had truly lost his mind because monsters weren’t real.
The creature grabbed his head with its right hand. He felt its claws slice into his skin and scrape against bone. Its grip tightened, holding him in place, and then something sharp pierced his groin. It was one of the creature’s talons, the razor-sharp weapon sinking deep. Hot, agonizing pain filled his lower half. He felt a tugging and then a ripping, as his manhood was scooped free and held in front of his eyes.
The creature released him and he fell limp to the floor. He lay there, profusely bleeding in a pool of crimson, knowing death was moments away and wondering what the hell had just happened.
●●●
The next night, Cal was watching the evening news, waiting for the report about the man w
ho had attacked his mom. The news always contained multiple stories of violent deaths, but he figured he would know which one was Blue Demon’s doing. It would be the most gruesome.
Finally, a report came on about a gruesome murder that had taken place at a rest stop in upstate, New York. A man’s body had been discovered by motorists. The individual had been brutally assaulted, his groin ripped from the body. The responding officer said it was the bloodiest scene he’d ever come upon. There was a note written in blood on the wall. While it wasn’t known yet who had written the note, it appeared to be from the dead man. There were names mentioned, but until further investigation was done, they would be held.
Cal didn’t need to know the name of some vagrant. He knew the man who had hurt his mom was dead, and that was good enough.
The next day, he was informed that the man from the rest stop murder had been Derek Whitmore, and the message on the wall was a confession. Cal was shocked to hear who it was. He’d gone numb for a while, unable to feel anything but anger, and was reassured that he’d done the right thing in calling upon Blue Demon. Now his dad’s killer and mom’s rapist was gone, unable to hurt anyone again.
He went up to the attic and checked in the box marked Cal’s Stuff. Blue Demon was there, resting at the top of his things. He smiled as he closed the lid, knowing that if he ever needed it, Blue Demon would be there for him.
The End
About the Author
David Bernstein is originally from a small town in Upstate New York called Salisbury Mills. He now resides in NYC and misses being surrounded by chainsaw-wielding maniacs and wild backwoods people that like to eat raw human flesh. He’s grown used to the city, though hiding bodies is much harder there. He is the author of Amongst the Dead, Damaged Souls, The Tree Man, Witch Island, Relic of Death, Apartment 7C and the forthcoming Episodes of Violence. David writes all kinds of horror, from hair-raising ghost stories to gore-filled slashers and apocalyptic tales of terror. He loves hearing from his readers.
You can reach him on Facebook, at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3.
Visit him at his website: davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com
email dbern77@hotmail.com, or on Twitter at @Bernsteinauthor.
Coming Soon
Dream Woods by Patrick Lacey
The Sisterhood: Curse of Abbot Hewitt by Annette Siketa
A Soundless Dawn by Dustin LaValley
Find these and other horrific books at www.sinistergrinpress.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
Coming Soon