The Truthful Lie Chapter 1: Captive, a jeepers creepers fanfic

The Truthful Lie
By: Mistress of Baneful Terminus (formerly Darkinyron)

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership over the Jeepers Creepers movies, or the characters, settings, plots, etc…as much as I wish I did. It all belongs to Victor Salva. This is simply a story that I am writing for fun. However, I do own the original characters that appear in this story, so if you wish to use them, you must ask me first.

Please review if you find yourself reading! I cannot possibly know how anyone feels about this if they just up and leave. If you like the story, but feel there are problem areas, please let me know! I want to do better in my writing, so criticism is welcome! However, if you do not like the story, do not flame me. Tell me why if you want, then move along and we can both be happy that way.

This story, up to chapter eight, has been rewritten. There are no dramatic changes, but there are a few new scenes, and the general writing has been fixed so that it is, uhh…more "pleasing" on the eyes.

Anyways, enjoy.

Chapter 1 – Captive

THE PONDERING HAD started again, memories leaking like a loose faucet into her mind. For some reason, the psychic's face kept appearing in her nightmares, always with that same sweet yet pitiful expression plastered on her chubby face. The past would repeat itself once in a while as she slept, but now that spring was around the corner, it reared its ugly head every night, repetitively. Never, over all those years, had she received an answer to that poignant question.

Are your dreams ever wrong?

Years ago, after the query had haunted her for long beyond tolerable, Trish had caved into contacting another psychic. The foreign woman that she had found online and called had to the day been the only human to believe her tall tale, and give her the predictions that she needed. Sure, the phone session had been torture in itself, but it had brought answers to some of the hungry questions. Perhaps the psychic's interpretation of Jezelle's dreams had been the most disturbing—for one, she revealed that the dreams never were wrong, and two, Trish really was meant to be the one screaming in the dark that fateful night.

The reading had been such a shock that she had dropped the phone and ultimately the call, shattering it into a million pieces all over the floor. Instead of calling back on her cell, she had buried her face into a pillow and screamed herself to sheer exhaustion, never returning to the website to even leave a review of the conversation. Fear had overcome her, and continued to languish. She was too much of a coward to call the woman back, and she had no problem admitting that fact to herself.

Why, then? If that hideous monster had wanted her after all, did he take Darry? If he thought about eating them both, why did he not come back, or take her with him? No matter how hard she drilled her brain to rationalise it, it would never complete the process and left her hanging. Nevertheless, she knew he'd be back. He'd probably find her little cabin located on the East 9 itself and strut his ugly ass right in it, uninvited.

Let him try…I may be older, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction he wants.

"Hey mom, come listen to this!" Jetseta called from the family living room, her green eyes fixated on the wide-screen television; evening news played an update on the day's important events while others were repeated from the earlier afternoon. It came, depressing as always—somebody found dead here, another missing there. Occasionally a robbery or assault showed up topped off with a lovely weather prediction of heavy thunderstorms from the meteorologist.

"What is it?" Jetseta's mother replied, her voice snapping from the kitchen over the crank of the dishwasher starting.

"It's on the news, mom! I think they found that kid from Creston—the one that mysteriously disappeared from his bed a few nights ago."

The woman stepped into the room, focusing on the female news reporter who was outlining a vicious crime scene, her voice shaking as she covered the story. Slight trepidation crossed her daughter's face, but Trisha—the mother—felt her features become outlined with horror at the words trailing into her ears.

"Five hours ago, investigators found a body suspected to be that of eleven-year-old Craig Sherman, badly mutilated in the abdomen and stitched back together along the East 9. The police have contacted his parents to come confirm identification; in the mean time, the body has been taken to the Poho County morgue for later examination. At the scene, tire tracks have been found in the mud beside the road, which appear to be from a large vehicle, possibly a semi…"

"Mom?"

"...Surprisingly little to no decomposition on the body. Forensic investigators suspect a quick escape by the killer."

"Mother! Are you all right?" Jetseta snapped with irritation, grabbing her mother's arm lightly and tugging. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Trisha's eyes wavered and her lips clenched as she stared blankly at her daughter's face. "He's back," she whispered, eyes darting around the room as if expecting him to burst through the wall at any moment. "He's back and it's going to hurt even more innocent people!" Her soft voice trailed off along with her vision that seemed to narrow and isolate only the memories of her past.

"What's back? Who? What are you talking about?" Jetseta stood up now, and blocked her mother's vision of the living room's picture window, her face cross and confused.

"It's been twenty-three years and he's come back to eat!"

"This again? The Bogeyman?"

"I…I don't know what he is," Trisha muttered. "But he's back—to eat people."

"Mother!" Anger flew into her as she took Trisha's face in her hands and tilted it to meet her eyes. She yelled at her harshly, like she would to a child crying because of monsters under the bed every night. "Get over your brother, mom! Get over him and the demon creature you said killed him...It's not real! You were in shock when he died...There is no such thing as Batman or demons or aliens or fucking gargoyles!"

"Jetseta!"

"No mother...It's time for you to face reality. You know this murderer is just another fucked up human like you and I who wears a mask. He probably dresses up in some cheap-ass costume like John Wayne Gacy. Those bodies you spoke of are long gone by now. Just because someone sews up their victim's body doesn't mean they are any different from any other cannibal."

"Jetseta..."

"I'm leaving. I have a date with Jeff and I'm not about to let this ruin my night. You take your pills and go to bed. I'm so sick of your wild imagination!"

"Jetseta, wait!" Trisha called as her daughter yanked herself away.

"I said I'm leaving!" Jetseta shouted, emphasising the whirl of her body with a flip of her dark brown hair. "Don't try and stop me with the excuse that Batman is going to kidnap me and take me to his cave."

Trisha sighed as tears streamed down her face, watching her daughter with pleading eyes. "Jetseta, just, be careful," she sniffed, wiping her nose in her sleeve, a habit she had kept since childhood. "Don't do anything stupid. I won't lose another one I love to that beast."

A simple wave off, and the girl was gone, the screen door groaning shut with a painful screech behind her. Jetseta walked to her car with an angry strut as she dialed a number on her portable blue Motorola. She didn't even notice the shadow that briefly crossed over her as she sat herself down in the driver's seat and brought her car to life.

It was raining enough to flood basements at the restaurant that Jeff and Jetseta had chosen for their date. Thunder crashed above them as they dined on steak and various delicious side dishes, threatening to cut the power at any moment. They worried not; the flashes of lightning would give them enough time to find the food on their plates. Like they say—it's better in the dark, anyways.

"What's the matter, Jetseta?" Jeff asked quietly. "You've been kind of quiet this evening."

"Oh, it's my mother," she replied, picking at the pile of rice with her decorated fork. "I think she's about to have another nervous breakdown."

"Why? What has she been doing?" he asked through a mouthful of steak. He looked up at her to take a sip of his soda, noticing a tear sliding down her cheek.

"Talking about her brother's death again," she sighed, her voice distant and distracted. "I'm worried about her, really. I don't show it, but I really am. These past few months it's just gotten worse. The doctors can't figure out why she keeps having these odd visions, or why she is so afraid to go outside. When she last went to a doctor's office they said that they assumed it was post traumatic stress, but, she's never been soldier in a war or experienced anything serious enough to cause it." She brushed a thick lock of brown hair out of her face as another tear chased after the other. "I'm worried about her, Jeff. Seriously. She's never told me the full story about her brother's death, but I know it was something terrible. I don't want her condition to get any worse, but even when I do have the patience to try and talk to her, she just rants about that...thing that kidnapped him. I wouldn't be surprised if she finds herself in the psych ward again."

"Has she been taking her medication?" Jeff asked. He was only mildly interested, but looked up with the hopes that his girlfriend would feel otherwise.

"I think so," she replied through crunches of garlic bread, though tears were still trickling down her face, smearing bits makeup under her eyes. "I just wish she could put the past behind her. The pills aren't going to do it for her."

"I know," Jeff said. "But there are a lot of people with mental problems. She's just one of the unfortunate ones."

Jetseta sat back, letting out a defeated breath. She stared at her food with empty eyes. "I just wish I could do something to take her pain away. My brothers are never around to keep her company because of college. My father is always at work and stays at the office as long as he can. I'm the only one there, usually."

"Just let it go for now. Why don't you go wash your face, and we'll get dessert? You deserve something sweet after a rough day." He winked at her; she couldn't help but smile and choke out a tearful laugh.

In the restroom, she set her purse on the mimic marble sink in the lady's room, which was not nearly as elegant as she had expected for such an expensive restaurant. The walls were painted only an attenuated shade of green to cover up what looked to be an older layer of white. One of the four stalls was missing a door while there was a large leak stain in a ceiling board. Disgusted, Jetseta fumbled through the large pocket of her purse and found a tube of mascara. She grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and cleaned her cheeks of the black streaks mixed with her salty tears.

Jetseta didn't notice that the window was open, the curtains used to block out the view of the bathroom being sifted through by the wind. She continued to dab at her face, wiping off the makeup and drying it so she could apply a more appropriate layer. The screen opened, so quietly that she didn't even notice. She looked down to uncap the bottle of mascara...

But never pulled the cap off.

Next thing she knew, Jetseta was on the smelly, tiled floor, pinned face-first against it, panting hard and trying to scream in a panic. Something heavy and strong was on top of her, and the hot stench of bloody breath was pulled into her nose as she gasped.

She found her nerves and flailed her arms violently against the tiles, trying desperately to slap and scratch at the man pinning her to the floor. She brushed his skin with her fingertip—probably an arm—breaking one of her fake nails in the process. The man didn't care, he only sniffed her further, sticking his nose wildly into her strawberry scented hair and down over her ear to her neck, where he snorted and moved to the other side of her face.

"Jeffrey! Help me! Somebody I—!"

"Shut up," the man growled, slapping a leathery claw over her mouth, his voice so old and guttural it didn't even sound human. She looked down, not even trying to free her mouth from his grip; the sight of his hand itself had frozen her body in a dimension of fear. She heard footsteps coming closer to the bathroom and her hope rose with the knowledge that someone, hopefully Jeff, had heard her cries. The man—whatever he was—hoisted her up violently by her hair, her eyelids pulling back with her scalp right when she begged them to close.

He threw himself against the push-open door and continued sniffing, seeming to search for something in her head like a doctor checking a kid for lice. His breath was hot and muggy, smelling of rot like the harvested cabbage fields on a mid-summer day. His claws raked through her curled hair, splitting open the skin of her scalp. She began to cry as he licked the blood off with a tongue as rough as a cat's, her shock mixing with her fear and realisation that she most likely wasn't going to get out of this. There was pounding of fists at the door; the owners of those fists probably heard her muffled whimpers.

"Jetseta! Open up!" Jeff called against the wood barrier; now he threw himself against the door in a last attempt to force it open. It wouldn't budge against the man's dead weight against it.

"What's going on in there?" another male voice called from further back.

"Call 911!" someone else shouted.

The man growled again as his deadly hands raked down her arm, getting tangled a bit in her hair. He ripped the nails out, taking knots with them as he kept hurting her. He snorted again upon the sight of more blood that he himself had summoned, causing Jetseta to wonder just what his intentions were.

Then he whipped her around to face him.

The first thing she saw were the teeth—blood stained fangs as sharp as needles, dripping with a thick, silver saliva that longed for the taste of flesh. Her eyes, which now bulged halfway out of their sockets, shifted up, over the extra flap of tarry skin covering his cheeks, with long crevasses cutting through them. She looked over his pointy nose containing an extra nostril, his glazed eyes, and over his scalp, from his hairless eyebrows to the skinny horns that clung to his greasy black skin. Her mouth dropped and her voice box seemed to fail as her brain kept commanding it to scream itself out. Her breathing hitched and hissed with each passing second, trying to keep up with her rapidly beating heart that had no idea just how lucky it was to still be in her chest.

He glared and shrieked the sound of a pestered animal, the cry so loud it snapped her out of her state of pathetic shock, bringing her larynx back to life. She screamed as loud as she could, no words in particular, but would not stop until she was heard by someone that could actually get to her and help her. The people on the other side of the door banged, throwing themselves violently against the door in desperate attempts to throw the Creeper from his position.

He pushed his face closer to hers; she pulled away, afraid of what he may do. But all he did was sniff some more, blinking and looking over her features, ignoring her tears and noises.

"Please let me go..." she whispered, but it fell on literally old, mostly deaf ears. He continued to examine her body, persisting in his invasive sniffing, especially around her abdomen, as if he was searching for something inside of her like a cancer-sniffing dog.

My mother really wasn't lying. She really isn't crazy...This has to be the creature that killed her brother, twenty-three years ago. This must be the Bogeyman, or whatever...This...devil...

His eyes shot up as she completed the thought, dragon wings flaring to his sides from out of nowhere. She squirmed again, seeming to irritate the being further, but he simply rolled his eyes with a hiss. He flapped those large wings, which weren't even extended to their full length, and unexpected to her, pushed himself off of the door, holding her around the waist and shot through the window.

The last thing Jetseta heard was Jeff screaming her name into the evening breeze, and then the ear pounding pressure from ascending rapidly into the air, and the beating of those great wings carrying her into oblivion.

A throbbing migraine was raging behind Jetseta's eyes when she awoke. What had it been caused by? Trauma? Stress? Shock? Fear? The possibilities raced through her tired mind, never ending it seemed as she pushed herself up onto her knees and elbows. She opened her eyes, despite the pain that resulted just from shifting their position in her head to look around. It was dark—something she'd soon be thankful for—so she had to squint to make out shapes and shadows. The room smelled like an ancient morgue, ten times worse than the breath of the creature that had abducted her that evening.

Or was it still the same day, even? There was no light, no evidence of sun or moonshine. The surface she was rested on— thin steel it seemed—was cold and wet with dirty, sitting water. Her clothes were soiled and sticky, but at least she didn't feel any serious wounds on herself that would indicate the liquid to be blood. There was no sound, other than her faint breathing, rain, and the ticking of a tall clock somewhere on the other side of the room.

Where am I? she asked herself, mentally. Her eyes adjusted slightly and she looked around. The place was dank, dripping water from the ceilings which explained the pitter-patter of rain she had heard. The table she was on seemed like some sort of examination table, sort of like the kind used for autopsies. There were machines—lots of them that gave the impression that a lot of slaughtering had taken place here.

Sitting up, Jetseta held her forehead and gazed around again to observe her surroundings. Cool water trickled over her head; had it not been for the headache she would have been desperate to find a dry spot, but the leak was keeping her temperature low. She stepped off the table and onto the floor, realising that she had been stripped of shoes and was standing in a puddle on a cold, stone floor.

Now what? I have to get out of here!

Jetseta turned and looked for a hallway, or anything, that could give her hope of escape before that thing could come back to claim her. But right as she neared the corner, she head that raspy breathing, faint as it may have been, coming from down the hall. The creature apparently hadn't left at all, but what was he doing? She looked down and through a row of machines to find him sitting on a high stool, carving into something white with a dagger. Hunched on the floor beside him, a man was passed out.

He had taken all his robes off, and his back was to her for the most part, his wings hanging limply from his back with a tail of stringy, white hair between them. He grumbled quietly as he worked, focusing fully on his task to prevent any error to whatever project he was working on. Even the raining ceiling didn't seem to bother him, despite how drenched his skin was. She noticed though, that something didn't seem right with him. A large, dusty stab wound gaped from his lumbar spine, and he didn't look at all comfortable on his chair.

She continued to watch for a few minutes, silently pondering how she would attempt to get past him. The creature continued his work, either ignoring her or not picking up her scent at all. It didn't take long for the victim at his feet to start groaning and rubbing his teary eyes; before he could get them adjusted to the dim light he had been pulled up and thrown forcibly onto the table by his neck. He screamed, an incessant noise resembling a little girl's reaction to a tiny spider on the wall. This was definitely not a harmless spider, so the scream should have been something a bit more intimidating.

A wretched snap to the side of the man's neck silenced him; it was then that Jetseta noticed why the Creeper had been sitting so strangely. His legs and wings were completely useless as he pulled himself on top of the man with his arms, sniffing and snorting in his face before he could even get himself up. Jetseta tried to look away, knowing just how macabre this was going to become. Her own nerves paralysed themselves, freezing her into that dead stare of both terror and curiosity.

After the invasive snuffling session, the Creeper flipped the man onto his stomach and dug his teeth into his neck, clenching his fangs tightly around his vertebral column before yanking on them. Another snap echoed across the room, resulting in the victim's excruciating death in an instant. Jetseta cried, frantically wiping the tears into her cloths—anything to prevent him from smelling her and abandoning that victim, for now.

A few careful tugs on the bones separated them, each with a loud crack as ligaments, tendons, cartilage, and ribs were fractured. Swallowing the cervical vertebrae was like popping pills for him, and he carved a long line down the rest of the man's back with an ivory stiletto, exposing the larger bones down to his coccyx. He plucked them out with his fingers, snapping them loudly and snickering all the while. He set them all down on the table until every last bone had been carefully removed, then he pushed the body back onto the floor. The dead weight hit the puddle beneath it with a sickening thud and splash.

The Creeper seemed amused with his snack. A large, stringy nerve dangled from one of the vertebrae, which he grabbed with his tongue and sucked out like a spaghetti noodle. It took everything Jetseta had to keep her guts silent, for they threatened to hurl at any moment. Her fear kept her silently paralysed, for the moment. She continued to watch the appalling scene unfold like in a horror movie—her mouth agape with her forehead contorted into a mess of thick wrinkles. Her captor proceeded to lick each bone like a lollypop; he licked it clean as if trying to find the chocolate wad in the middle, which in this case, was the cerebral-spinal fluid. Only after licking it all out would he throw it into his mouth and swallow it whole. The muscles in his throat contorted painfully as he gulped it down. With each consumed morsel, a little more of his feeling came back. As he devoured the sacrum, he perched himself up on the edge of the table and began licking the blood off of its surface.

After a while he calmed down and hoisted the man's body back up onto the table. The victim's face was left in a permanent, silent scream. By now, Jetseta couldn't look anymore. She fell to her knees, willing her shaken body to calm itself. Her fight-or-flight responses soon kicked in with the haunting images acting as encouragement for her to get the hell out of there.

Jetseta's lip curled as she snuck into the room and eyed the opposite side, tiptoeing along the wall behind her captor. She tried to see past the numerous junky pieces of metal and tables that littered the floor, but from what she could tell, the only other exit was all the way on the other side. Could she make it, if she possibly stayed low and quiet behind objects or in shadows?

Her question was answered when the creature stood up and turned, noticing her. His head tilted to the side a bit, as if wondering where she had come from, and all three of his nostrils flared to catch her scent. Fear rose up the girl's oesophagus, along with bile, at the site of her captor. He grinned.

"Who...who are you?" she asked dumbly, throwing her head in every direction in a panic, looking for a closer escape. The question didn't just seem stupid, it was stupid.

He snorted and turned around to grab the white dagger from his table. It was a hand-carved knife made of bone, decorated to his liking and painted over with a shiny sealing chemical. Jetseta eyed it cautiously, looking up and down the wavy blade with its crooked edges.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" she asked, her voice the whisper of a ghost. "You're going to murder me and eat a part of me and stitch me back together, aren't you? Aren't you!"

"Child, you speak too much," the Creeper answered tonelessly. His voice sounded even more daunting than before.

"Just answer me, you worthless piece of shit!"

"I want something from you."

"Well, no shit." Jetseta snapped now, anger overriding her fear, but not completely destroying it. The Creeper raised a hairless eyebrow, amused. He twisted the knife between his fingers with the expert dexterity of a ninja and walked up to her.

But against all odds, he set the knife down beside him, just out of her reach. He was teasing her, and she knew it.

"Please, just...just do it fast. I don't want to suffer anymore than your other victims have."

"Human, you will not die…yet," he murmured, his breathing picking up as if he were exercising. He was searching for her fear, trying to pick it out in the haze of anger and any other emotional barriers she may have set up. "I have another use for you."

"Excuse me, Satan, but I am not your slave!"

"Quite a temper you have, little one." The Creeper smirked and wiped a sticky substance from his chin, which Jetseta noticed to be blood in the dim light coming from a ceiling crack. "Just like your mother. You just don't smell as good as she did."

Jetseta glared; if looks could kill, she wondered if this thing would die. "Yes, maybe that is where I get my resistance from, but don't think I don't know what you're getting at. I'm not stupid!"

"I know, child. You are strong…That is why I picked you for this. Had your mother been any younger, I would have just used her."

"For what?"

The Creeper pressed against her, his breath hot and erratic. His notorious nasal examination began, starting in her hair as usual as he bent over her. She froze, afraid of both trying to escape and remaining against the wall at the same time. The door seemed so close, yet so far away. Just a quick break for it and she would be in the other room in the back—an area which possibly held an escape into the outside world. Yet it would take so long to get there, those several metres against the Creeper's split-second reactions.

"Please, leave me alone," Jetseta whined, her voice becoming as frail as settled snow under feet. "I've done nothing to you...Leave my family and I alone!"

A snort escaped him, but other than that he paid her voice no attention. His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in her scent as if he were trying to intoxicate himself with a drug. His hands travelled up her arms to her shoulders where he gripped her roughly with his nails digging into her flesh, summoning a bit of blood beneath them. She pushed against his chest with her hands, hoping to get at least the reek out of her face. It did nothing; if anything, the Creeper liked it, and pressed against her further.

"Get…off of me!" Jetseta's voice had returned, as well as her strength as she squirmed between the Creeper and the wall. She thrashed as if there was no tomorrow, trying to get under his grip to run.

He was too strong. Worse yet, he seemed to like that even more.

The Creeper firmly held her there and licked a cold trail down the side of her face with the tip of his slimy, filthy tongue. He savoured her taste, taking his time as he moved down her neck, following his hands that travelled down her breasts and over her abdomen, and back up again. His eyes snapped open, glazed with not only cataracts but the overpowering clout of lust.

Her eyes begged him to stop. His eyes begged her to relax and let him.

The Creeper tore at his victim's jeans, easily slicing through the thick fabric with those sharp talons. He looked down; Jetseta's eyes followed him.

Jetseta noticed her captor's obvious need as his sickening member nudged her; the Creeper noticed the shaking and the fear of his new slave, but also...another power that seemed to be taking over her mind. They both froze. Their eyes met.

Yes, he had chosen his bitch well. She was a strong female in her prime, unable to control her body's needs and wishes, no matter what the hell she was staring at.

Lust filled Jetseta's eyes and nerves, while her mind was screaming at her to fight and save herself. Then again, though she did not consciously think it, perhaps at that point only survival mattered. Her animal instincts may get her through it…as safely and easily as it could possibly end up in a situation such as this.

The opposites stared at each other for a long moment—the master and his slave, the monster and the human, the predator and his prey…

She struggled again, even though she had all ready lost.