by C Bilici
The gore from the creatures eye had changed into lashing black worms. They were wrapped around her boot and wound up her ankle as she watched. She shook her foot to no effect. The thing kept stretching and climbing.
“Hey!”
Both she and the creature looked to where the voice had called from, the thing forming a handful of new eye stalks of varying sizes at its rear.
Crouched at the other end of the sofa, the bum held his amulet high so the thing could see.
The creatures flesh rippled, as if it were bristling fur that didn’t exist. It made a noise somewhere between the growl of a dog and the rumble of a great angry cat. Stacey’s foot dropped to the floor as it released her and rushed at the man, making a terrible noise as it went. It launched at him, bursting into a mass of whips and clawed tentacles that wrapped around the man’s offending arm, upper body and head.
Stacey didn’t hesitate. She rolled over to a crouch, ready to assist him. She knew it was madness. She had no idea who he was. What that thing was. But he had saved her.
She froze.
During the action, the light bulb had ejected another creature.
It stared down at her from atop the coffee table, it’s skin like crude oil. Two forward facing eyes fixed on hers. The eyes of a predator.
The eyes of a man.
A smile cracked the blackness, teeth and eyes in stark contrast to its dripping, naked flesh that wouldn’t sit still.
The squid-mouthed creature flew by her as she stared. It crashed into the man-things chest, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Stacey turned to see the bum by her side panting, face and arms red with scratches.
“Time to leave,” he said.
She pointed at the front door with a shaky hand. Black masses covered the handle and door jamb.
He wrapped an arm roughly around her waist. “Hold on.”
Thinking he meant to crash them through the door or window, Stacey’s eyes widened. He was insane.
The man-thing and his pet were now up and moving toward them, adding to her fear. She turned to tell her would-be saviour, and wished she hadn’t.
His eyes were clouds of swirling black.
She felt one of his hands lift behind her. There was a crack like a gunshot followed by a crash from where the creatures were. But Stacey couldn’t look away from his eyes to see what had happened.
Her stomach lurched and she felt like she’d fallen through the floor.
She’d only felt like that once before, when visiting a water park. There had been a a slide, the start of which was an enclosed tube with a trapdoor. Then, she had lined up several times to ride it repeatedly. Now, it was more than she could handle.
Stacey saw a flash of bright white before darkness enveloped her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE MAN-THING stood in the room with his bulbous creature. The thing still searched for its promised prey, sniffing at where they had been moments before. It couldn’t comprehend that they had disappeared. There one moment, then gone. Spirited away in the way that they had. It only knew that it had lost them and couldn’t find their scent.
The man-thing opened its mouth, hissed a long, low tone at it. The creature looked up for a moment before running away to go from room to room. A clatter followed in its wake as it searched the place. After a short time it returned to its master, grunting.
Nothing.
He indicated the ceiling with his head.
The creature walked to the coffee table, leapt onto it, and surged its flesh back into the remains of the light bulb. Or, more correctly, the crack in space that had brought them here.
The man-thing walked from room to room to look about, ignoring the mess his pet had made. Everything he saw was interesting while being nothing of interest. At least not for what he wanted.
He followed the creature back to their exit. The parts of himself that he’d put out to block the door slinked back, up the legs of the coffee table, and met him as he stepped onto its surface to merge back into his flesh. He lifted his hand and jammed his finger into the socket.
His body shrank as it was sucked into the crack, feet shrivelling below him. From bottom to top — feet, legs then free arm — his body receded.
Head hanging from the fixture, he cast his eyes about the room before being compressed to follow his body.
CHAPTER FOUR
A SHADOW FELL across the bright light. Stacey’s body tightened as a dark mass billowed above her. Her chest heaved as she drew in breath, ready to run.
She forced her body to calm when she saw the swaying canopy of the trees. Birdsong filled her ears. Warm breeze and sunlight played across her skin.
And she was alone.
A thick, striped blanket was beneath her. Another had been folded under her head as a pillow, a thinner one draped over her. She threw it off.
Not in any immediate danger, she looked about. Greenery surrounded her, but it wasn’t a park. If she didn’t know better, Stacey would have said she was in the countryside. The trees closest to her looked like fruit trees, thick with bright foliage, and she caught a citrus scent in the air.
She swore she heard cows in the distance.
Another noise drained the comfort from her and replaced it with dread.
The rhythmic sounds of digging parted the calming air, coming from the other side of the citrus trees.
There was a sizeable rock nearby. She crawled across the blanket and wild grass beneath it and clasped the rock in her palm. She gave it a squeeze and felt its weight. Rolled it around until she had a good grip.
Quiet as she could, she stood and crept in the direction of the digging. She rounded the nearest tree with care. Within the thick leaves she saw a handful of bright yellow fruit. She grabbed the nearest and pulled off, cursing inwardly as the branches rustled. When the digging didn’t stop, she kept moving.
As she moved around the tree, she saw structures in the distance. There was an aged white house, a large corrugated iron shed, and some water tanks.
Between the house and her, a shirtless man in khaki board shorts was digging a hole.
The bum from her flat.
And he had a heavy pick in his hands.
Using the swings and hits of the tool, Stacey timed her steps to cover her approach.
Between her and the bum was a thick tree stump with an axe lodged into it. The bum’s Hawaiian shirt draped from the end of its handle. Other items littered the flat surface of the stump, including his cigarette case and that bullet lighter. Both dimly reflected the sunlight. She closed in on her new weapon.
As she did, a symbol on the surface of the brass cigarette case stood out. She saw rough, hand engraved copy of that symbol on the bottom of the lighter.
Swastikas.
The one on the case elaborate, embossed, and finished with an eagle. The bullet, someone had taken to it with something semi-sharp at some stage.
Face grim, she put the rock and lemon down on the stump. She flicked the shirt off its perch, not wanting to touch it. The axe creaked as she loosened it, making her cringe, but the bum didn’t stop his digging. Her sweat slick fingers gripped the handle tight as she pulled it free. And moved behind him.
“Freeze, motherfucker!”
The man stopped mid-swing. His shoulders glistened with sweat as they rippled, his breaths deep but coming fast. Scars lined his back. She saw puncture or stab wounds, a patch that looked like a burn. The freshest were the scratches from the attack in the flat.
Her body shivered, despite the warmth of the sun. As he turned, more scarring stood out on his chest and stomach. Stacey’s eyes narrowed as something caught the sunlight before fading. Faint tattoos across his body, or some sort of bizarre branding or scarification in lines and symbols just under his skin. As he breathed and moved, they became indistinguishable from his flesh. So much that she wasn’t sure she’d seen them at all.
“You’re awake, then.” He puffed, eyeing the axe in her hands, face a grimace. “Not much of a
thank you.”
“Put it down.” She motioned at the tool in his hands.
He moved to drop the pick at his feet.
“Wait, no.”
He froze again.
“Throw it over there where you can’t reach it.”
The man tossed the pick away with a chuckle. “Now what?” His hands slid to his hips, trailing sweat mud behind his fingers.
The guy was old was old enough to be her dad, but Stacey found her eyes dancing over his arms, chest and stomach. He was no Calvin Klein model, not that that was her thing anyway, but he obviously kept fit. He looked good for an old guy.
Probably from digging all those shallow graves, she thought.
“Digging for buried treasure?” Stacey’s head tipped toward the newly disturbed stretch of earth.
“I’m gardening.” His smile was full of bemused mirth. “Planting tomatoes. Care to join me?”
Stacey scoffed. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
The man chuckled. “Only the special ones.”
Her head bounced in an angry nod, her lips stretched taut in an acidic smile. “Where are—”
“You should have listened to me when I told you to leave.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now you’re in this too.”
“I said, fuck you, arsehole. I’m the one with the axe.” She gripped the handle tighter. Shook the axe at him, her knuckles paling. “Where are they?” Her lips curled to expose her teeth.
“Gone. As I told you in your apartment, it was empty when I arrived.”
“And you had nothing to do with that, right?” Her teeth creaked. What she would do to the man if he’d hurt them.
“You saw them. The creatures. Now. Might I get my shirt and a smoke?” He took a step forward.
Stacey’s face and the axe in her hands twitched.
The man stepped back.
He’d swapped his tatty sandals for some dusty pull-on work boots, the leather scuffed and etched with deep grooves. A dull metallic glint stood out in the wider cuts on the toes. The steel-caps were probably just as dangerous as any weapon depending on the person.
Stacey’s head shook in denial. “What the fuck did you slip me? I mean, I’d had a few puffs and beers, but—”
“You think I drugged you.”
“Fuck yes I think you drugged me. Neo-Nazi serial killer makes fuck loads more sense than monsters.” Her face unclenched. “Was I supposed to be your next fucking victim?”
“Nazi?” His brow clenched in confusion before creeping back up his forehead. He laughed openly. “The cigarette case.”
“And the lighter. And your shaved blond head, blue eyes. Not to mention the tatts of symbols all over your body.” He reacted to the last, eyes twitching. “Yeah, I saw them. I’ve heard all the whacked stories about Hitler and the occult experiments. What sort of sick fuck are you?”
He frowned. “You’re a little sensitive, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I get that way when a psycho cock-sucker kidnaps my lovers.”
“Do you always speak that way?”
“Don’t change the fucking subject.” Her whole body shook, breath ragged. “I’ll fucking speak however the fuck I want. Fucking got that?”
He nodded slowly, taking a moment before speaking again. “I did not drug you. What you saw happened. The cigarette case and lighter belonged to my father, who procured them from the corpse of a German soldier in the war. A memento, or trophy rather.”
“No shit?” She laughed and shook her head. “Do I look fucking stupid? Forget about the fact that world war two was like in the twenties or some shit—”
“Thirties,” he said, correcting her.
“Fucking whatever,” she yelled, axe head trembling. “You seriously expect me to believe that some goop monsters came out of the light globe and took my boyfriend and girlfriend?” Her brain felt numb with pain. She was teetering on the edge of sanity, about to tip over any moment. He seemed to know it too.
The man put up his hands in a defencive, passive gesture. His fingers fanned out. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”
“Just tell me where Paul and Jasper are, and if they’re okay, I’ll let you go.” She was trying to keep her voice calm. To reason with him. Even she heard her the waver in it. “If you’ve hurt them though—”
“Miss…” He prompted her with a slight inclination of a hand.
“Like you don’t already know.” He didn’t respond. “Stacey. Trampler.”
“Miss Trampler—”
“Ms,” she corrected him, making the word an almost hiss. “And just Stacey,” she added in anger. “You don’t get to call me Ms.”
He nodded. “Stacey.” He licked his lips. “I’m telling you this as a kindness, and not because you’re holding an axe over me.”
“Yeah well, a man under threat of axe would say that.” She felt a crazy grin split her face.
He shifted uncomfortably. “Please, try to stay calm. You need to be prepared for the possibility that your friends are dead, or wor—”
The pain in her head expanded until she couldn’t see or feel.
“You son of a—”
Propelled forward, she felt herself swinging the axe before she knew what she was doing. Her eyes were screwed tight, unwilling to see. All she felt was an impact, and a ringing in her ears. She finally cracked her eyes open, blinked until her hearing returned and her vision adjusted to the bright sun. She was afraid to to look at anything but that point of light in the sky. She didn’t want to see. She felt sick and dizzy.
How would she find Jasper and Paul now?
The confusion helped to drive away the nausea.
She was on her back in the dirt. The sun was blotted by the shape of the man she thought she’d killed. He stood over her and very much alive. The axe handle was still pressed in her hand, but she didn’t think she could move in time. Especially when she saw his face.
His eyes were black nebulae, his pupils broken free of their bounds to flood out in violent turbulence. Just like they had in the flat when he’d grabbed her. The vague markings on his skin now stood out in stark contrast. Black inked symbols in varying degrees of intensity, some faded out, as if feathered by an expert artist. They covered his body and, stranger still, he had lines breaking up his flesh into regions.
A line bisected his body lengthwise. From this, horizontal lines cut at his chest and navel, and every joint in his body.
The tattoos that held her full attention, though, were on his outstretched palm, which was pointed at her.
Circles outlined the balls of his hand and beneath each finger, forming an inverted triangle. In the centre of them all was a ring scrawled with symbols and runes, glowing like hot steel.
The glow faded to a dull bluish-black before the symbols and cirlces, and the rest of his tattoos, faded away. The swirling darkness in his eyes collapsing inward to normalcy. He lowered his hand.
“Holy fuck it was real.” Stacey gasped out the words.
“You owe me a new axe,” he said, looking at something behind her.
She turned and looked at a mess of splintered wood, amid which sat a misshapen axe head. She looked at the small section of the handle in her hand, thrust it away from her as if it were cursed.
It was all true. It had happened the way she remembered. The attack in the flat. This guy saving her.
That meant that Paul and Jasper—
“Now,” he said, interrupting her mad dash of thoughts as he walked to the tree stump to retrieve his belongings. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
* * *
Stacey sat in the dirt hugging her knees as the man buttoned his shirt, pocketing everything but the cigarette case and lighter. He rolled the lemon and rock to the ground with a puzzled glance before sitting on the tree stump. With a click, he opened the case and took out two cigarettes, held them up to her. Stacey eyed them. When she didn’t answer, he tossed one to land at her feet.
&
nbsp; She picked the smoke up out of the dirt and blew on it.
The man lit up, screwed the lid back on the cylinder and tossed it to her lightly, underarm. She caught it with a fumble, lit her own and threw it back. Inhaling, she tasted the smoke. It was fresh and self-rolled. She didn’t recognise the brand.
“Save your questions till the end,” he said after several puffs. “I have a few of my own first.”
“My—” Stacey began to argue.
He raised his hands. “We’ll get to the matter of your lovers shortly.” His expression said that he brooked no argument.
“What if I tell you to go fuck yourself instead?” She argued anyway.
“Then you can walk home and find them yourself.” He stabbed his fingers at the horizon, cigarette cutting a trail of smoke in the air. “You’ll find your home is about a hundred or so kilometres that way.”
She wasn’t happy about it, but stayed quiet.
“Had you ever seen anything like those creatures in your home before last night?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure? No strange recent occurrences?”
She shook again.
“Has anyone in your family ever gone missing? Anyone with psychiatric problems? Visions perhaps? Stories of the paranormal?” The man asked his questions with a straight face.
“My mother has visions sometimes.” He sat up straighter. “But that’s mostly the drugs.” The man frowned at her and sunk back down with a scowl. “What did you expect?” She snorted in disgust before taking another drag. “Fucking visions, come on.”
“If you want any hope of seeing your friends, you’ll answer all my questions. With each passing moment the chances of their survival diminishes. Clear?”
She stared at his blank face. “Crystal.” Stacey thought, trying to recall of any mention of weirdness, however bizarre his request. Though after the things she’d seen the previous night, was anything normal any longer?
