Rating: T, for blood, violence, death, and attempted suicide.
Note: This story has two theme songs: "Monster" by Imagine Dragons is the main one, but Linkin Park's "Breaking the Habit" is good as well, especially for the second scene. I recommend listening to one or both of the songs at some point before or after the story, just for the fun of it.
Also, I don't normally ask for reviews, but given that this is only my third (or fourth, depending on how you look at it) attempt at writing horror in my whole life, I would really love some feedback. (: Thank you in advance.
Dedicated to Nikki, because without her, this story would probably not have been finished in time for Halloween.
Nikki, you are probably one of the greatest friends I've ever had, looking both online and off. Thanks so much for being you. ^_^
10/26/2014
by Breanne Nedra
The methodical rumble of thunder rolling in the distance snags our attention as we walk, laughing and chatting, down the empty lane. We stop, staring at the thunderhead in the distance. My best friend, Marcus, flinches involuntarily as a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky. He's been afraid of storms ever since he was a child, when a tornado swept through his hometown. He turns to me with a worried expression.
I understand. "Let's run," I suggest, myself not too keen on getting soaked in the imminent downpour.
We sprint until the turnoff for Marcus' street comes, and we slow long enough to say happy goodbyes, promising to meet up in a couple days' time. Marcus turns and runs like the devil himself is after him, and I continue down the road in the same direction I had been heading, knowing full well about a quaint little street and a shortcut between two older brick buildings on said street. It could shave ten minutes off my walk home, and that's if I don't run, which I fully plan on doing.
I make it to the buildings in a matter of minutes, but don't allow myself a sigh of relief just yet. I still have another ten minutes, five if I run, before I'm at my doorstep, and the storm isn't far behind me. As if to make me realize this, bright lightning forks over the sky and a harsh crack of thunder claps loudly overhead. I flinch involuntarily, reminding myself of Marcus, and I faintly wonder if he's home yet.
Heaven knows I need to be.
The alleyway in front of me is bare aside from a few dumpsters lined against the building on the left, and a rusty fire escape on the right. The building on the left houses a little mom-and-pop Italian restaurant known by locals for its vegetarian lasagna, which I've never actually tried; the building on the right is rundown, hence the metal fire escape that's so rusty it's nearly falling apart. I step purposely forward and begin to make my way down the alley. I never did like this shortcut, and only take it in case of emergencies – like getting caught in bad thunderstorms and desperately needing to get home. I always feel like I'm going to get attacked or something when I go through here, and today is certainly no exception. I push the thought aside, however, and boldly march on – nothing bad has ever happened to me here before, and who's to say today will be any different?
I just happen to catch the shadow in my peripheral vision hiding between two of the dumpsters before it pounces on me, throwing me to the ground. I look up. In the low light, I can barely make out angular features, a hard scowl, tense muscles. I gulp nervously.
A murderous flare in his movements, the man throws himself at me, like a wolf going in for the kill. I roll, and narrowly miss getting caught. I scramble onto my feet in a panic. The man gets back up and throws out a right hook, but I dodge and attempt to deliver a jab into my adversary's abdomen. I don't, because the man grabs my wrist and twists my arm painfully. I inhale sharply through my teeth, biting back a yelp, and rear back my leg, kicking the man in the shin. The man releases me with a shriek, bouncing up and down on his good leg and clutching at his hurt one, face twisted in pain.
I want to run. Really, I do. But I know I would never make it home. I'm not really that strong, and the man will surely recover quickly and chase me – and no doubt catch up to me. It wouldn't be a question of "if" so much as "when." I need to end it now before it gets too far beyond my control.
I scan the alley for a weapon, something to use in battle. The dumpsters probably don't hold anything useful, and if they do, I may not be able to reach anything inside them. My eyes land on the fire escape. The rusty thing is practically falling apart already. If I can manage to pull off one of those steel girders, maybe I can use it like a club. Anything is better than trying to fight with nothing.
The man stops jumping and tests his leg, studying me, so I waste no time. I grab a metal beam and yank on it with all my strength. It soon gives way, and I use the momentum of it breaking free to swing it around and knock my adversary on the side of the head. The man goes down, but recovers surprisingly fast and gets back up. He lunges for me, but I give the man another hard whack on his ribcage. He staggers. I go in for a third blow, but the man snatches the girder as it whips through the air toward his head and rips it from my grasp, leaving deep cuts in my palms.
"Ow!" I cry out, the word flying from my mouth without my consent. "Ow," I repeat, quieter, studying my hands for a moment. Dirty, bloody cuts streak their way across my palms and fingers; and soon the blood is making small rivulets to my wrists.
The man licks his lips, an evil smile on his face, seeming satisfied that he's drawn blood. He draws back his arms and hits me with the metal beam, sending me sprawling and clutching at my arm where the girder made contact with it (which consequently makes my hand hurt worse). The man kneels, beam still poised at the ready, but he makes no move to swing it again. Instead, he's looking at the blood, now dripping teasingly onto my clothes.
I don't know what the man wants, but I know I don't have long to make sure the guy doesn't get it. Trying my hardest to ignore my brain's pain signals, I bring my knee up forcefully, ramming the man in the jaw with my kneecap. The man goes down with a moan. Fighting the pain in my hands, I grab the girder back and bring it down as fast and as hard as I can, aiming for the man's exposed neck.
Strangely, the bar never reaches its mark.
A flash of black, a low growl, a terrified gasp is ripped unbidden from my throat, the beam is sent flying to the far end of the alley – it all took less than two seconds. I scurry backwards, pressing my back against the brick wall, never taking my eyes off the man that now lies a few feet ahead of me. How did the man summon that beast? It was like... like a... like a wolf. A shadowy, evil wolf, with eyes of molten fire.
Was it just my imagination? But how do you imagine a metal bar flying twenty feet away?
I don't want to find out.
The man stands up slowly, uncertainly, feeling his jaw gently. His eyes lock with mine. "I see," he croaks, "that you've met my friend." His voice is raspy, like he spends a lot of time yelling at people.
I'm not sure what to answer, so I nod, forcing myself to stand, albeit my knees want to buckle again.
The man chuckles dryly. "I'm sure you'll get more acquainted soon enough."
That's the last straw.
I rocket myself toward the girder and somehow manage to make it; no doubt panic is giving my feet wings; and I whirl around to face the man once more. The man is running after me, ready to attack me, ready for whatever blow I think I can deliver.
I swing, aiming for the man's head.
A sickening sound with no real definition rings out.
The man falls to the ground, unconscious, blood pouring out from a cut on his head. The sight nearly makes me sick, but I don't have time to be squeamish about blood, even if I was the one that drew it. I can feel the drops as it starts to rain, my heart is pounding like mad, and the only thing I care about at this moment is to get as far away from that insane man as possible.
I throw the bar at his unmoving form for good measure as I sprint away.
It was supposed to take me five minutes to get home if I ran.
I make it in three.
I tightly lock my bedroom door behind me, my fingers trembling. Actually, it's not just my fingers – my whole body is being racked with tremors, each one worse than the last, and within seconds I'm on the floor; it slowly gets harder and harder to breathe, and I go from deep breaths to gasping in air with the same consistency as maple syrup.
My door handle rattles. "Ted?" my brother calls to me, seeming confused.
"Leave me alone, Ned!" I bark with some difficulty.
He ignores my command. "What's going on? Are you okay? Ted, come on, talk to me!"
"I said," I hiss, "leave!"
I hear the handle rattling again. My brother never listens to me. Thankfully, I hear his footsteps as he runs away from my bedroom, but somehow, I know he'll be back.
A headache engulfs my skull with pain similar to lightning strikes. Nausea and dizziness attack me, the room begins to spin at an alarming rate. I can barely put a coherent thought together.
I hear a low growl, and look up at my bed. There, lying on it like it owns it, is a black wolf, watching me suffer like it's counting down the minutes until I give up. I glare at it through the pain in my head. "You're doing this," I say to it. "Why?"
It tilts its head a little, still staring at me, not seeming to understand. But I know it does. It understands everything. Suddenly, it tips its head back and lets out an ear-splitting howl that's inhumanly loud. I yelp and clutch at my ears, closing my eyes tight, but I can still hear it, it still hurts me. My headache flares for a moment.
When I force myself to open my eyes, the wolf is gone, but I can still hear it's howl echoing in my mind. This is torture. Pure, relentless torture. And every time it's happened since the attack, it's been worse than the time before it.
But I know how to stop it.
It takes more strength than I thought I still had in me, but I make it to my nightstand and manage to yank out the drawer. The contents spill out and scatter, but I don't worry about it. I see what I want, and I reach out and snatch it up.
A pocketknife. The one Ned got me for my birthday two years ago. Never really been used. Extremely sharp. It almost makes escape seem too easy.
Of course I have my second thoughts. But I never said that I wanted this. I was only trying to save myself – and look where that got me. It's a tough decision, but there are plenty of them, and I need to protect my family. Protect them from me and whatever this thing is that's turning me into a monster. I can't hurt them anymore if I'm not here. This is my cure.
It ends here.
I constrain myself to put the cool metal blade to my wrist, and a shiver runs through me.
No time for third thoughts. I hear my brother running down the hall, coming back to my bedroom.
I do it fast.
I scream.
I open the front door of my family's house and get greeted by the welcome sight of darkness spilling onto the pavement. I smile as the inky blackness drips off trees and rains from the sky to caress my skin, kiss my face. Ever since I was attacked, the darkness has seemed so... welcoming. That used to frighten me, I'll admit, but I've learned to accept a lot of changes in me these past few weeks.
I walk my usual route to his house, which takes about twenty minutes. When I finally make it, I climb the stairs to the front porch and knock on the door. It takes him seven seconds to open it.
"Good evening, Ted," he says, although it's nearly one in the morning.
I nod my greeting. "And to you, Amos." He's an older man, probably in his sixties, with mostly gray hair and a fire burning behind his hazel eyes that doesn't look so much like a fire of passion or determination or a sense of adventure as it does the blaze of a dark past and eyes that have seen more than they originally wanted to. I felt a connection to that fire the minute I saw it, and I'll be honest: that scared me. But it doesn't so much anymore. Just another change I've accepted.
He motions to the bench swing hanging from the roof of his porch. "Take a seat while I make us some tea to fight the nighttime chill."
I do so without hesitation, and less than five minutes later, he's back out with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. I take a sip and savor the taste.
"So, is there anything in particular you'd like to go over tonight?" he asks me.
"Yes, actually," I say. "I want to know how to get rid of them."
He sighs. "I already told you, Ted, you are not yet at a level where-"
"You're lying," I cut him off. "You told me three weeks ago that when I got to Aaron's level, you would tell me. You told me last week I was almost there. I say I'm close enough. I want these things gone."
He presses his lips together firmly, seeming to contemplate my demand. Finally, he says, "Fine. There is but one way to get rid of the powers: You must kill another powerful being. Once one of you is dead, the powers look for a new host, and since the victor of the battle already has powers, the powers of the loser will try to dominate the powers of the winner, and ultimately both powers will 'die' and the victor becomes power-free. But need I remind you that there are only a handful of people with powers in existence, and the only one I know of other than myself is you. And you cannot defeat me in a duel. I have far too much experience, and you, far too little."
I let this new information sink in. I take a sip of tea, allow my thoughts to buzz through my head at their leisure, scan the darkness around me that seems to have gotten darker. Finally, a distant look still residing in my eyes, I say, "I still want to fight you."
He narrows his eyes at me.
I hear a gasp.
It's not mine.
He and I lock eyes. "Who followed you?" he demands.
"No one," I say sincerely.
"Are you lying to me, Theodore?"
"No, I'm not. I've nothing to gain by lying."
His hand snakes out and wraps around my throat. I cough in surprise. "Then can you please explain to me how we can hear a gasp if no one is eavesdropping on our conversation?"
"I swear," I choke out, "I thought I was alone!"
"Just get him before he gets away!" he barks, half-flinging me off the porch.
I walk to the middle of the yard and sniff at the air, feeling my heart sink upon the realization of who it is. I walk over to a section of hedges to my left, and watch as my brother stands up with a strained smile, slipping (with some difficulty) through the shrubs. "Hey, Ted. Fancy meeting you here."
"Why can't you just mind your own business?" I ask him.
"Sorry," he says. "I was just..." The words seem to die on his lips.
"No," I say, "I'm sorry." I lash out my hand and place it on his head. He collapses, unconscious before he even hits the ground.
I hear Amos come up behind me, but I don't turn to look at him. "Well done, Ted," he congratulates me. "I'm very pleased with your accuracy in determining where he was."
"You made me hurt my brother," I reply, feeling a strange numbness.
"Nay, nay," he says, "he was the fool who followed you, who poked his nose into your private business. He deserves what he got."
I press my lips together, choosing wisely to say nothing.
Amos sighs, resting his hand on my shoulder. "You erased his memory of the night, didn't you?"
Slowly, so slowly, I turn and look him in the eyes. "Yes."
"Then there's nothing to worry about. Everything will be as if today never even happened."
He turns to head back to the house.
"But today did happen," I find myself saying, "and I meant what I said about fighting you."
Amos freezes, and I watch as he looks back at me. "That's ridiculous. You'll die, guaranteed."
"Yeah," I say, "and then you'll lose your powers. That's why you don't want to fight me, isn't it? Because either you die, or you kill me and lose your powers, and then you'll go back to being a lonely old man, and you don't want that."
"Let's not go making assumptions, Ted."
"It's only an assumption until you prove me right or wrong." I stare at him hard. "So what am I?"
I can tell he doesn't like being provoked. He doesn't like being called out. And I watch as that familiar fire behind his eyes roars up into a blazing pillar. "You win," he says calmly. "Tomorrow, midnight. A battle to the death. No mercy."
As the gravity of what I said finally sinks in, I repeat, "No mercy."
My arm throbs painfully. Perhaps suicide wasn't the best way to escape, after all.
Right after I cut myself, right after I cried out in pain, Ned heard me. Maybe he guessed what I had done, or maybe he was just worried over my shout; regardless, he broke the lock on my bedroom door and threw it open to discover me attempting to bleed out. Except there was no blood. There was a large cut, there was a bunch of really small trickles, but they had dried up before he got there – and I know full well that it was that wolf, the one who mocks me when I collapse. It was what kept me from bleeding; it doesn't want me dead. It wants me to suffer as it tries to overtake me, or break out of me, or whatever it is it's doing to me.
But now I'm alone in my room. Just me and the three giant bandages Ned put on my left forearm, holding the skin together so it will heal properly. There will probably be a scar. But that's the least of my concerns.
What am I going to do? I'm certainly not going to try cutting again. That hurt, and was pathetically unfruitful to boot. But what else is there? I'm losing my mind. I'm a danger to society. Then again... maybe I always have been, only now I know how to do it effectively.
I sigh. They've been hard, these last five days. I've been getting mad about all kinds of things I normally wouldn't have, to the point where I almost hit my sister yesterday. I'm not even sure why, or what happened. I came home early from the therapist's office, and she didn't like that, so she got mad, and then I got mad, and, well... I guess I just got a little too mad. And it kinda scares me in hindsight, if you want the truth.
You see, right after the attack, my sister – her name is Sinead, by the way – insisted that I go to a psychologist to make sure that the whole thing didn't mess with me. Sounded reasonable, so I set up an appointment for three days out. The day before that was the day I told Marcus I would meet him, so we went to a burger joint and got burgers and milkshakes. That was the first day I collapsed, and I did it right in front of him as we were walking out of the restaurant. I collapsed on the ground in front of my best friend. Talk about a bad day.
The next day I had my appointment with the psychologist, and I gratefully told her about what happened. Her brilliant (note the sarcasm) deduction was PTSD – as if. I know darn well that isn't my problem. But yet, she insisted I go to a therapist to help me through this "difficult time," and I took her advice – for a whole three and a half seconds, anyway. The next day, yesterday, I went to the therapist, spent a not-very-long amount of time there, came home early, nearly hit Sinead, and now she's avoiding me. I understand this. I wish I could avoid me, too.
I guess I should tell you: the police managed to find my DNA at the scene of the attack, the alleyway between the two brick buildings, and they came to inform me that the guy who attacked me – someone named Aaron Sharp – had died from his injuries and they needed answers. I happily explained to the officers that he had jumped me as I was attempting to walk home, and I wasn't trying to kill the man, I was just trying to keep him from killing me. Just hurt him enough that I could get home without him following me, preferably before the storm reached us. Something I said must have convinced them, because they agreed it was self-defense and let me off the hook. My slate is clean, but I'm technically still a killer, I guess. I don't really want to think about it right now.
But I suppose you now know why I got fed up with the therapist so fast: because my problem isn't my brain, my childhood, the fact I had gotten into a fight, the fact I had hallucinated during said fight and thought I saw a wolf (which was there, I swear – but nobody believes me), or the fact that I killed the man with whom I was in the fight. No – my problem is something I have the strangest feeling only one person on the planet actually understands.
And I killed him in an alley five days ago.
I'm startled from my train of thought by my phone buzzing. According to the caller ID, it's Marcus, and I find myself breathing yet another sigh. I haven't yet worked up the courage to call and tell him why I collapsed last time I saw him – mostly because I don't think it's fair to call and give answers I don't have – so he's been blowing up my phone ever since. I really just need to get it out of the way.
So I answer. "Marcus, I'm so glad you called-"
"Ted Starling." The purring voice on the other end of the line is most certainly not my best friend. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting, but my name is Amos Black, and I believe you've been having some troubles. I think I can help."
My mouth is dry. Someone managed to get a hold of Marcus' phone (hopefully not by hurting Marcus) and somehow they know who I am – as well as the "issues," as Ned so lovingly put it once, I'm dealing with.
"I..." When did it get so hard to talk? "I don't know what you're talking about."
A chuckle. "Oh, yes, you do. Irritability, dizziness, nausea, hallucinations – the fun stuff, yes? I can help you with it, if you would like to see it stop."
Every logical bone in my body is saying to hang up, call the police, do something, but don't give the man the satisfaction of an answer. However, there's another part of me, clawing at me from the inside, begging me to go for it. I'm getting desperate. And you know what they say about desperate times...
Before I even fully come to the decision, I find myself asking, "How?" I swallow nervously, waiting for an answer.
I can practically feel the man smiling on the other end of the line.
It's the next day. It's nearly midnight. It's nearly time.
I quietly slip out of my house and into the enshrouding blackness. This is the last time I'll sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, because after today I will either be cured or killed. At this point, even though the hallucinations and migraines and whatever other symptoms I was experiencing when I collapsed are now eradicated, both being killed and being cured are welcome. Beggars can't be choosers.
I begin walking toward the predetermined spot where Amos and I agreed to do battle: a little clearing in a wooded area not far from Amos' house. I try to focus on the advantages I have over Amos in terms of winning the battle, but that's one thing about the powers – they're the ultimate variable. There's no telling how they'll help me or Amos or if they'll help us at all as we fight. Each of us can only hope that we win, although I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this battle is win-win for me and lose-lose for Amos. I feel bad for putting him through this, but I need these things gone, and he said it himself that this is the only way to do it.
Although I still feel a little guilty.
A breeze blows from behind me, and my power-enhanced sense of smell picks up on the faint scent of something I know all too well. I turn around. There's nothing there that shouldn't be, but I call out, "Ned, I know you're behind me. Come out."
My brother walks reluctantly out from behind a trash can, looking at me, sheepish and confused. "How did you know I was here?"
"I smelled your cologne," I told him truthfully. "Why are you following me? How did you even know I left?"
"I wanted to know where you're going," he replies like the answer is obvious, which I suppose it is. "It's eleven-forty-five at night. And as for how I knew, I was in the kitchen getting a drink when I heard the front door close. Why did you leave?"
"I'm sorry, Ned." I don't want what could possibly be my last words to my brother to be lies. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
I give him a small smile. "To keep you safe."
"I don't need your protection."
"Then I guess it's a good thing I didn't offer it," I reply firmly. "Now please, go home."
He crosses his arms. "You can't make me."
"Ned, please don't make this harder than it has to be."
"Then tell me why you're out here."
"I'm out here because... because..." I try to find a better word than "fight" to use in the sentence. "... I have a meeting."
Ned laughs out loud. "With whom? Your imaginary girlfriend? Look, Ted, you're not getting rid of me that easily, so why don't you just explain everything to me while we're on the topic."
"You already know," I state plainly. "You just don't remember."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
"No, really," I explain, "you were there when it happened, but I erased your memories; and I thought about giving you your memories back, but I knew you would want to come with me and I didn't want you to get hurt, because what I'm heading to right now is a dangerous thing, and I can't bear to see you hurt because of my problems again, so I decided against giving them back in order to keep you safe, but you're such a stubborn idiot that you can't just let me sneak out of the house without having my motives questioned!" I stop, panting slightly. "That said, go home."
Ned stares appraisingly at me for a long moment. A really long moment. It's probably a solid minute before he says anything. "You're not joking, are you." A statement – not a question.
"No, I'm not. Now please, go home, get back in bed. If all goes well, you'll see me tomorrow morning."
"What do you mean, 'if all goes well'? What kind of a reassurance is that?"
"Well, it wasn't really supposed to be a reassurance," I admit. "Because, honestly, I can't assure anything about the happenings of tonight except that they will be unpleasant, dangerous, and will result in death."
He looks at me with a blank expression. "Okay, no, I'm definitely going. Now are you going to give me my memories back or what?"
"Let's go with 'or what.' You're not going; I can't let you."
"You don't have a choice." He stares at me hard, his eyes alight. "I'm going with you whether you want me there or not. The only thing you have a say in is whether or not you want me to have my memories back while I'm there so I'll have some sort of background to what exactly happened during the exchange I supposedly witnessed. And that's only because you're the one who took my memories and presumably the only one who can give them back." He crosses his arms. "So? Make with the memory jogging."
I shake my head in wonderment. "Are you sure?"
"Positive," he says without hesitation.
"All right..." I uncertainly place my hand on his head, and begin showing his brain where I hid his memories of last night. Three seconds later, he stumbles away from me, clutching at his head and moaning. A couple more seconds and his eyes fly open wide, and he stares at me in astonishment. "You, you're..." he stutters. "You're fighting that psychopath!?"
I offer him a small, sympathetic smile as an answer.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," he says, pacing a few steps, running a hand through his hair. "That's not right. That can't possibly be where you're going."
"It is," I answer.
"Are you crazy?" he practically squeaks (which I secretly find funny). "That guy doesn't exactly look like your typical old man who has five subscriptions to the Crossword Puzzle of the Month Club! He actually kinda looks like he could kick your butt."
"Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."
"A-a-and what is this whole powers nonsense? Where does that come in? You have some sort of superpowers... like, something like that? Or, no. Something else? Like an alien living inside you, or-"
I can't stop myself: I start laughing.
"It's not funny, Ted!"
I smile. "I'm glad you're here with me, Ned. Thanks so much."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "Why don't you show me a little of that gratitude by coughing up some answers?"
It's midnight. I stroll tensely down the lane, looking at the house numbers. That Amos guy shouldn't be trusted – he can't be – yet here I am, walking to what he said was his house, but that doesn't mean anything. I shouldn't be trusting him as far as I could throw him – although, nowadays, I could probably throw him a pretty good distance in comparison to a week ago.
Finally, I see the house he had described, and the number matched the one he gave me. The house is small and white, with a wooden porch (complete with flower boxes) and a perfectly manicured lawn. A stone path leads to said front porch. Bordering the property is a hedge fence. Swallowing my fear, I walk up the pathway, up the porch stairs, and knock timidly on the wooden door.
It seems to take forever for him to answer.
"Ah," he says instead of a greeting. "Ted Starling, I presume?"
I nod, not quite trusting myself to speak yet.
He smiles pleasantly, and points to his left, my right. "Take a seat on the swing, and I'll make some tea to fight the nighttime chill. Do you like chamomile?"
I nod again, distractedly looking at the bench swing hanging from the roof of the porch, and Amos disappears into his house once more.
I sit down on the swing and try to calm myself. Five minutes later, Amos comes out with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. I can smell the flowery scent before he even hands me my cup. Cautious and distrusting of the man as I am, I take a sip and try to enjoy the flavor. It's hard to do under the circumstances.
"So, Ted, how are you doing this fine night?"
"I'm not in the market for small talk."
Amos smiles. "Fair enough. I can respect a man such as yourself. I'm sure you'd much rather cut to the chase, yes?"
I turn to him. "What happened? What's going on with me?"
"Well, let's make it a bit easier on both of us, shall we? What do you already know?"
I release a breath. "I was walking home alone one day and decided to take a shortcut between some brick buildings because a thunderhead was heading my way. When I went through, however, I was attacked by a man I later learned was named Aaron Sharp. He died from the injuries I gave him during our fight, and police showed up at my doorstep demanding to know why I killed him since my blood was on the steel girder weapon they found. Once I told them the story, they agreed it was self-defense and didn't press charges; but ever since Aaron's death, I've been... well, all those things you said I was over the phone. I also tried committing suicide" – I showed him the bandages on my forearm – "but it didn't work."
He nods like he expected such an explanation.
Suddenly, I remember something, and before he can begin speaking, I say, "By the way, how did you get my best friend's phone?"
"A simple pickpocket," Amos states modestly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the phone, handing it to me. "I'm sure he'll be overjoyed if you return it to him."
I nod. "I'm sure." I look at him nervously. "So... I think it's your turn now."
"I suppose it is." He smiles. "Aaron Sharp was actually my only student. He had a certain special ability that gained him the nickname 'the Wolf,' which I will of course explain to you, but first I must say this: this is why you have been having these problems."
"Wait a second," I say, "you mean I have this... ability?"
"You are now the Wolf. By killing my former student, the Wolf saw you as a worthy host, and transferred to your being upon Mr. Sharp's death. He attacked you because the Wolf was overtaking him."
One hand still holding my mug, I rub at my temple with the other. "Wait, I don't understand. He was being overtaken by what, exactly? And does that mean it's going to take over me next?"
He waves his hand in a Calm down manner. "The Wolf has the same abilities as a regular wolf – it gives its host supercharged senses of hearing and smelling, as well as an insatiable thirst for blood if it becomes too powerful without being properly controlled. Mr. Sharp did not properly control the Wolf, he did not find harmony between them, did not learn how to share one body, and therefore the Wolf tried to escape him. He couldn't keep himself from wanting the blood, and so he attacked you, determined to get what the Wolf wanted without realizing he wasn't really acting of his own accord."
I shiver slightly, remembering the hungry look in the man's eyes as he watched the blood run down my wrists.
He continued, "When he died from his injuries, the Wolf transferred to you; for by killing him, you proved yourself a worthy host."
I swallow. My mouth is dry again. I take a sip of tea. It doesn't help. "So now I have this... power? Will it overtake me, too?"
"There are two ways to deal with being a host," Amos explains. "The first way is to take the necessary precautions and try to hide the problem – for the Wolf, things like taking a vegetarian diet to minimize blood and animal products that jump start its savagery will usually accomplish this to some degree. The other way to handle it is to attempt to find a common ground with it, and learn to coexist. This is nearly impossible to accomplish, but regardless, someone dedicated to it will be capable."
"How do you know so much?" I ask.
"I have the powers myself – I am the Viper. There's only a handful of people with the powers. There once was more, long ago, but over the years the powers have died off because of people getting rid of them."
I cling to a single phrase he said. Getting rid of them. Music to my ears. "You can get rid of them?" I ask, just to clarify.
"There is one way," he admits, "but it is not possible for you."
"What is it?"
"I will not tell you. Not yet."
"Please," I beg, "I don't want to turn into what Aaron did, attacking innocent people because I've gone crazy for bloodshed."
"Then I suppose you'll be wanting my teaching, yes?"
I gulp nervously. "I guess so."
"I seem to recall telling you to come alone."
"I seem to recall telling you to come at midnight. It's twelve-oh-three."
"Cute."
Amos and I study each other suspiciously. Three weeks, talking multiple times a week, and yet we still don't seem to trust each other. After nearly ten minutes of bickering with Ned, I finally managed to convince him that sitting under a tree during the fight would be the best thing for him to do. And as I watch that all too familiar fire blaze in Amos' eyes, I suddenly wish I had put up more of a fight on the subject of him joining me. Because my optimism has officially left me.
Tonight, I die.
And now Ned's going to have to watch.
I take a deep breath. "You ready?" I ask Amos.
"I've always been ready, Ted – the real question is: are you?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," I mumble. "Should I... have my brother count us down?"
Amos laughs. "No." He throws himself at me, and I barely have enough time to dive out of the way before he plows through the place I was just standing. I gulp. What did I get myself into?
I jump up and rush him, throwing a punch, but he swipes at my head with his arm and forces me to duck under it. When I straighten again, he lashes out a kick and hits me in the abdomen, and I fly out and land flat on my back a few feet away. I quickly get back on my feet. Fighting on your back like a turtle is never a good strategy.
I run up to him again and jump, aiming a kick at his head. He grabs my leg with lightning speed and steps backward, using my momentum to throw me to the ground. I cough from the shock of the impact.
Amos laughs. "Nice try, but remember what I said about myself having infinitely more experience than you?"
"Yeah," I mumble, "I seem to remember that coming up once or twice."
He laughs again, grabbing my leg once more and tossing me about like a rag doll for a couple minutes before giving me a seemingly effortless toss. I fly through the air, hit the ground, and roll for multiple feet before finally coming to a stop on the other side of the clearing near Ned.
"I know the fight just started and all," Ned murmurs to me, "but it kinda looks like you're getting your butt kicked."
"Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it."
I prop myself up with a grimace. "He's found balance with the powers, so they're supercharging him in a way that I could only dream of. He's right. I don't stand a chance."
"Well..." Ned thinks for a couple seconds, and I keep one wary eye on Amos. He shows no sign of attacking me yet. "Didn't you say that blood causes the Wolf to go crazy?"
"Yeah, but I'm not going to be drawing any of Amos', and I don't bleed anymore thanks to the Wolf." To emphasize my point, I motion to my left arm, where the cut from a few weeks ago is still visible.
Wordlessly, Ned holds out his arm.
"No, Ned, I'm not cutting you."
"You only need a little, right? It might help you win."
I look at him, then down at his arm. He makes a good argument. "Are you sure?"
He pulls out his pocketknife and shoves it into my hands. "Just make it quick." He closes his eyes tightly and turns his head away.
I bring out the blade and press it to his palm, making a small, barely notable cut. He winces multiple times, but does a good job of not moving his hand. I cup my hand under his, letting a few drops of blood run into my palm. I can already feel myself losing a little control. It just feels so... good. I run my tongue over my lips, wondering if I should hope this works.
"Time's up," Amos warns. "Get back over here and fight!"
I don't have time to hesitate. I lick my palm, lapping up the crimson drops. Part of me thought that was the most disgusting thing I've ever done in my life – another part of me all but screamed, "Finally!"
Regardless of what either part of me thought, I turn to Amos with a newly acquired savagery. It's actually really, really hard to rein myself in. I already find myself wanting to rip through everything like a beast. Is this what it was like for Aaron? No wonder he attacked me.
I charge Amos, hitting him with a flurry of punches wherever my fists would reach. Every movement makes it harder and harder to keep myself from going completely insane on a blood-fueled rampage. It's like every rational cell in my body is being ripped apart or turned inside out for its lack of conformity to what the powers think is best. Half of me is being insubordinate; and each side thinks it's the other half.
This must be what it feels like to be getting overtaken.
Amos staggers back from the blows, and I force myself to stop with that. I run up to him and jump, kicking him square in the chest and sending him flat on his back. He hops back up without even using his hands. "You'll have to do better than that."
I don't answer. I watch, trembling with blind power, as he spits blood into the dirt. My insides want to jump on it, but I use a massive amount of strength to hold myself back. Amos looks up at me, the pillar of fire in his eyes burning higher and brighter than I've ever seen it, and charges me.
The battle is intense and fast-paced, limbs flying, blows being delivered, pain being felt.
And honestly, beyond that, I'm not sure what happens. Because the next thing I know, I'm standing, sweaty and panting, over Amos, who's lying on the ground, staring up at me. I can't help but notice that the fire in his eyes is dying.
"Well done, Ted. Looks like I trained you well. You're a beast."
"No, I-" I flinch. It's so hard to keep from totally losing control. "No, I'm not."
He smiles. "I guess you're not anymore," he says. He closes his eyes.
I force myself turn and begin walking back to Ned, trying to fight the urges of the Wolf – I'm not a bloodthirsty beast, regardless of what Amos says. He's a dead man, anyway; and you can respect the dead without listening to them.
I'm nearly to Ned when I feel the pulling in my gut. I put my hand on my stomach, finding the sensation less than pleasant. But it happens again, harder, more insistent. I turn around to look at Amos, and gasp at what I see: a black, shadowy snake, rising out of his abdomen, staring at me with eyes of molten fire.
Amos must be dead. That must be the Viper. And that means...
I let out a cry of pain as I feel the Wolf leap out of me, seeming to take a few vital organs with it. I collapse backwards, and I watch in horror as the two animals begin to circle each other, gearing up for the second battle of the night less than five feet from me. I want to get up, my mind screams at me to run, but I'm glued to my spot on the grass, frozen with fear.
The animals lunge at each other, seeming to test the other's strength and flexibility, sizing up how much of a threat they are. Finally, after a few seconds of that, they jump onto each other, colliding into a major explosion of light and energy that just simply cannot be explained. Ned grabs me from behind and yanks me away from the battle.
A shock wave quickly follows. I'm on the ground, away from the worst of it, but Ned is standing up, and gets hit by the energy. He collapses.
And then all is still. Eerily, eerily still. No noise. No movement. Not even a midnight breeze. I touch my chest. My heart is still beating. I look at some of the cuts I had gotten during the fight and notice that they had begun bleeding after the Wolf jumped out of me. I'm cured. No more powers. I'm free!
I turn to Ned. He's pale, and hasn't moved or acted like he's going to be waking up. I shake him a bit. "Ned, come on, wake up."
A shiver shoots down my back. The shock wave didn't hurt him, did it? I feel myself beginning to panic, and I dig around for his cellphone and dial nine-one-one. I tell them all I know about the situation, trying to keep the tears from my eyes, but I don't know if what's wrong with him is something that can be helped. But I can't let him die because of this.
I won't let him die because of this.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Confused? Scared? Good. Mission accomplished. ^_^ No, no, I'm kidding. Well, mostly. Read on, this author's note should answer any questions you may have.
Scene organization: In case you didn't figure it out, the scenes don't take place in order. They go in the order A, B, C, B, C, B, C. A takes place on the day of the attack; B takes place five days later; C takes place three weeks later. If you read the scenes in this order: one, two, four, six, three, five, seven; you'd be reading the story chronologically.
Ned dies: Or does he? Or maybe the blast gives him powers? I guess that's for me to speculate, and you to speculate, and neither of us to ever find out, because I will not be continuing. That's the end. Maybe one day I'll write a multi-chapter based off of this one-shot (which is actually funny, because this one-shot is based off a multi-chapter I wrote three years ago but never completed) but for now, this is the end.
Amos' powers: It's kind of unclear what they are beyond him being the Viper. Before you ask, yes, he could inject venom - but that would be like Ted tasting blood. He'd go a little crazy. Beyond that, he also has enhanced strength and speed.
As I stated in the first author's note, this is really only my fourth attempt at writing horror, so I would love some feedback. Did you find any of it unnerving? Were there any parts that you didn't like, or that you would like to see added? Anything you have to say about it, I would love to hear.
I do have a confession to make: this is actually a condensed version of the full story. Some scenes were omitted because they weren't necessary for the story. But I might - might - make a multi-chapter or something later, an "extended" or "unabridged" version of sorts when I'm not under a time restriction. If that's the case, and you have any ideas for that version of the story, good ahead and send them to me via review or private message. I will not guarantee that your idea will be used, but I do promise to consider them. ^_^ It's still unclear if I'll make that unabridged version, but I'm thinking about it, and I'll keep you posted if I make that decision.
Thanks so much for reading!
- Bre