Again, a story started by the kinkmeme. Originally I never meant to fill it, as it already had, but then I read Cujo and was appropriately terrified. So, to share my monsters with you (don't you feel lucky?) I wrote this.
...And promptly realized it was never going to fit on the kinkmeme. Much like most horror stories, it has wildly spiraled out of control and consumed me.
Long ago, when the cities of today was a distant dream in the human psyche, evil came to a small settlement of cro magnon; as it often does, and has done since, plaguing his descendants, homo sapiens, and all his sentient relatives. The elf, the dwarf, and so many others, all suffer from that madness borne down to him from the common forefather, running through the family tree like wires to strangle the sons of man.
This monster raped and killed a young boy in the summer; and four more children in the winter. He was not a demon, a vampire, or ghoul from the haunted wastes. His name was Dogg, a skilled flintnapper with mental and sexual problems. He was discovered, of course; people could not keep secrets in such close, wall-less conditions, and had only gotten away with it as long as he did was the crowds purposeful ignorance and willingness to believe that such things didn't happen. And the crowd-when they lost their ignorance-became monsters themselves; out howling for blood, his blood.
He killed himself before they could catch him, by flinging himself into a river gorged with snow melt; which perhaps was just as well. There was a little disappointment in the bloodlust left unsated; but mostly there was relief. The body was interred under the site of what was to-in thousands of years-become the site of a quaint family house, but he lived on still. He lived on in the stories of well-meaning mothers, quieting their unruly children with the threat that Dogg-Dogg the knapper with his sharp flint knives-would come for them. And the children would look at the cave entrance hazy with smoke, half expecting to see the dim, grey shade of Dogg, daggers dripping with water and blood; his furs wet with the water of the river he'd drowned in.
There were nightmares, to be sure. All of mankind would have them, passed down the thousands of years by those frightened children. Dogg became the nameless thing with the teeth like daggers always chasing you, lurking under the bed, or in the closet. Because the man might die, but the monster never does.
The monster came to Perth again in the summer of 1367.