I'm feeling much better. The boy in my dreams has been helping a lot. The fact that the Creeper is leaving me alone is helping me even more. I finish the last ear of corn. I have no more food left. My water is almost gone. And I'm filthy.
I sighed and scratched my head, digging around for Wet Ones or something. I search in vain through my damp bags. My clothes are everywhere. I scratch my scalp again.
My illness is almost totally gone, however I'm still stuck with the yucky weak feeling one is left with after a ravaging sickness. Not to mention everything is damp or wet, and starting to smell, I feel gross as ever, I'm being held captive in a horrific torture chamber of death by a raping inhuman monster.
And the goddamn itching is killing me.
"God-DAMNIT fucking hell, stupid-ass..." I mumble frustrated, pointless curses as I tear open everything and scatter it messily. Of course the cleaning tissue is at the bottom of my bag. Grateful that they're sealed and the filthy rainwater didn't affect them I eagerly open one and give myself a quick rubdown. It's not nearly as effective as a nice warm bath-I allow the blissful fantasy of actually having one- and finish cleaning myself as best I could.
Much better, I think-except-I scratch my head again. It's really bothering me, really driving me nuts over the past few days. In pure anger and frustration I literally began tearing at myself, pulling my hair and clawing at my skin, trying to will the uncomfortable itching to stop.
Suddenly I feel an iron grip on my wrist and a harsh tug as my hand is pulled away from my head. I look up and surprise and see the Creeper forcibly stopping me. His eyes are wide and reproachful. I realize he's scolding me. Without words he's telling me not to do it.
I yank my hand away and twist my mouth. "Fuck you," I mutter, I can feel ugly black rage bubble slowly up inside of me, but fear and common sense keep it in line. I restrain myself.
Disdainfully he prods a pair of underwear that I've thrown around and nudges it back to me. Now slightly embarrassed I start to gather my scattered clothes and stuff them with little enthusiasm back into my bag. He glances at me then settles at his desk to carve something idly. I sigh and fall back onto my now dirty straw, trying to get comfortable.
It's hard; my weight shifts around like it never has before. I watch in growing horror at my stomach as I see the large growth affecting my center of gravity. Miserable I lay on my side and try to pretend the monster isn't there. I rest one hand on my swelling belly. I scratch my head with the other.
Later
Besides biting my lips, scratching myself and pulling at my cumbersome hair I found a new way to amuse myself-jabbing my stomach.
I lift up my nightshirt, prod it poke it, sigh and rest my hands on it. Occasionally I press against it, like I'm trying to flatten it, as if I can make it disappear. I take my notebook and hug it against myself, pressing down on it, doing it until the pain and discomfort is too much to bear.
He's been noticing, and keeping himself annoyingly close. Since I really have nothing to do but sit here and verbally abuse him we both have to endure each others presence. However it's the touching I can't stand.
"Get the hell away from me!" I snarl and shove him. He grabs my hands and holds them together. I immediately start screaming and fighting. Growling he grabs my face and forces me to look at him. In sheer obstinacy I draw my eyes away.
Sighing with the infinite patience of a parent he holds my face steady and my wrists together. He's waiting for me to look at him. Giving in, (I just want him to go away!) I look directly into his eyes.
It's so weird, they're so familiar, but so different. I feel almost hypnotized.
Breaking the spell he begins to speak. It's like listening to rusty hinges never used often. Like before he seems to be have a hard time conveying exactly what he wants, but I quickly gather it in a few minutes.
"Screw you!" I hiss, "I'll do whatever I want!" and immediately try to squirm away and retreat somewhere into the shadows of this dank awful building. Of course he doesn't allow me. He holds me captive so easily it's pitiful. I try to stop fighting.
The monster made an angry motion just above my left shoulder, as if he wanted to swat me but did it to the air instead. He grabbed some ubiquitous rope and bound my hands together. "Fuckyougotofuckinghell!" I screamed incoherently and thrashed wildly, I must have looked insane, I felt insane. I'm sure I was frothing.
Still no matter how angry and powerful I got I still couldn't fight him. However he only tied my arms together, then led a rope to my ankles. He pointed to my scratches and loose hair and firmly shook his head. Then he left, my anger deflated. I could do nothing but lay uselessly on my increasingly filthy bed and watch my stomach get bigger.
And try and scratch my scalp.
A Few Days Later
Well there's one mystery solved.
My horror and disgust threatens to overwhelm me. I clutch at hair and gaze at my pale thin face in the mirror. I feel like screaming. I feel like throwing up. I feel so unclean.
I have lice.
Oh God how can this happen?! I think in repulsion. I claw furiously at myself, knowing I'm only making it worse. My long hair is absolutely appalling; I can see it even in the small shard of glass I'm using as a mirror. Even through my abject misery I logically answered my own question. I've been sick, dirty, my long hair lying on a filthy damp floor, it was inevitable.
That still doesn't stop me from crying.
I know it was stupid, I mean I knew it even in the midst of my absolute uncontrollable tears, but really I couldn't help it. After a short while I calmed myself down.
It was just lice, yeah it was gross but at home all it would take was a thorough washing with pesticides and some combing. But I couldn't do that here, I couldn't do anything unless the Creeper allowed me to. That's when I realized it wasn't the lice it was the lice on top of everything else.
Suddenly I felt angry, not weepy. I jumped up, screw the Creeper, I grabbed the shard of mirror and went over to his desk. Finding a big sharp knife wasn't exactly hard. I lean the mirror against an empty space on the wall.
The corpses are looking at me. This is the first time in days I've really noticed them. They all seem so grey and pathetic and dusty. Don't look, don't look. I think, although my eyes are drawn almost magnetically towards them. Something in the back of my mind is tugging at me to do it. I fight the urge and focus on my hair. I grab a fist full of it.
It's so long, almost past my waist now. I used to be a little vain about it, I'm not that pretty but my hair was always unusually long. It grows fast, La Cizaña, they used to call me, because my hair grew like a weed.
It'll grow back, I tell myself. I lift up a big chunk of it and hold the knife to it.
A sudden harsh sound causes me to turn around and nearly drop the knife. The Creeper is standing wide eyed on the threshold, he's looking absolutely shocked and horrified, and it's almost funny. He dropped the body part he holding and marched toward me.
Now I'm feeling nervous, I brandish the big knife, "Go. Away." I snap. He still comes toward me and grabs the knife in a flash. We wrestled for it slightly. He was winning.
I knew he would get it eventually, so I backed away quickly and clutched at my hair, screaming at him: "You gave me lice you disgusting freak!" I shrieked as I threw the knife at him. I hold up my wretched hair and tear at it. He grabs me.
"You don't understand," I moaned, "I need to shave my head, it's the only way I can get rid of it."
Still he doesn't respond, he holds me still, sniffing me intently. He draws back slightly when he's done smelling my hair.
"Yes" I grumble irritably, "I have a lice infestation, now will you let me get rid of it already!?"
He refuses to give me the knife or anything else. Instead he pulls out a small jar of something from his desk and motions me over. I come over very uneasy and reluctant. Abruptly he poured the clear liquid on my head.
Instinctively I closed my eyes and gasped. Fumes from the liquid started to make me dizzy, I swayed slightly. The liquid was cool and burning at the same time. I could feel it closing my self-inflicted wounds on my scalp. After a tentative inhale through my nose I realized it was kerosene.
For one irrational moment I though he was going to set me on fire. I snapped open my eyes quickly and looked at him. He wasn't about to immolate me, instead he raised his hands and imitated washing hair. Hesitantly I rubbed the kerosene in. He nodded slightly, a smile of clear relief on his face. He grabbed another bottle and started rubbing it into my long hair, working swiftly.
Having kerosene in your hair is very unpleasant, but it stopped the itching. It was more unpleasant to have the Creeper so close to me. I winced slightly as I felt his claws graze me, but he didn't scratch me, didn't hurt me at all.
After a third bottle was rubbed into my hair he finally stopped. It was very smelly and unpleasant but I endured. He sniffed his hands with a frown and walked out of the room. Then he returned with a jug of water. Where he got it I didn't know, he offered it to me.
It smelled slightly dirty and rusty, but I wasn't going to drink it so I carefully bent over and rinsed the kerosene from my hair and clothes. The monster gathered his body parts and ate them watching me. I watched back with a sort of dispassionate disgust.
I suddenly realized something. I could look into his eyes-the boy's eyes-without fear anymore.
After a moment of this he laughed and turned away. After a while I did too, I returned to my bed.
My bed… It probably loaded with the little bastards. The straw was certainly dirty enough; subconsciously I began to itch again. Disdainfully I kick it all the damp, dirty hay aside with foot. My bags too, God knows how many are in my clothes, although I've only worn these for like a week.
Suddenly I'm very paranoid, I feel like there's filth everywhere. I scratch at my arms. I'm tainted, that's how I feel. The clean feeling I got from my stupid little rain shower is long gone. I would kill for a hot bath.
He's growling, grabbing me with his bloody hands. I kick him. He looks me with those brown eyes. They look slightly old, weathered. The edges of them are starting to look bloodshot. I wonder how long ago he stole them. The monster points to the scratches on my arms, I haven't made them bleed, but the scratches are clearly there. He licks them.
"No more." He tells me.
I don't know how to respond to that.
Dream
I love dreaming. It's so much better that reality
The boy is with me. We're like old friends now we share everything. Usually he looks very normal, like an average everyday kid. Occasionally his corpse state peeks through, when he loses control of himself.
I still can't talk to my mother. I don't know why, I just can't.
I know he's real, not a delusion of mine, still doubt and curiosity plague my mind. I ask a lot about him. I ask what it's like to be dead. My curiosity becomes a roaring fire. Does it hurt? Is there a heaven? Does it hurt to die? Does it hurt to be dead? He tolerates my curiosity with amusement answering as best he can, but since this another entirely state of being I guess he can't describe it.
I'm disappointed. How can any human being not wonder about death?
However it's my questions about him that have the most surprising answers.
"You already know me." He told me. "You've seen me, heard of me. You know who I am."
"I have? I do?" I say taken aback. "When? Where?" I eagerly demand. Then I realize something. "What's your name?" I ask.
He says nothing just smiles, his eyes are gone again.
I wake up off the cold hard floor. The smell of kerosene still strongly clings to me. I wake up panting slightly. Then I frown. Something seems familiar…
I get up, stiff and sore, to look around for my pocket flashlight. I find it easily; it's still on the keys in my backpack. I flick it on. All the corpses are dark and eerie looking. But I can't help to stop and stare.
They are so sad, expressions range from fear to shock to anger to despair, as if he wanted to gleefully capture their last moments. I blanch in disgust and pity. I know it's here, even if I don't know exactly what I'm looking for.
After slowly searching the "mannequins" looking at each face one by one I see him. He's hanging above the desk, a place of honor, naked like all the others. His belly button is missing, I know it's him.
I remember his voice, it echoes in my ears: I died, right in this room. He's been here the whole time; those gaping holes in his face seem to be actually taking in everything. He stood like a silent sentinel above everything in this room. A witness to my resistance, my illness, my rape.
I know it's dumb but suddenly I'm ashamed. I didn't want him to see everything.
Still I continue to look at him, fascinated. He is real. I'm not going insane. He once existed, and he died a terrible death. His face is largely expressionless, since with out his eyes the Creeper could give him much expression. However I can see the blood and claw marks, his mouth hangs slightly open.
A sudden sound next to me makes me jump.
It's the Creeper, he's looking at the corpse with-weirdly enough-a sort of fond remembrance on his face. He continues looking, then kind of tilts his head side to side, a gesture someone will do when they're struggling to remember something. I watch him silently. Then I see the realization in his head Ah!, he turns to me noticing my unabashed curiosity. "Darius Jenner" he says in his rough gravelly voice.
"Darius? Dari-" Then I abruptly stop. I remember!
I can feel the blood drain from my face. I'm looking right at him, the boy from only half-believed rumors and urban legends. Darry Jenner!
I've heard of him of course, the whole story became a campfire legend practically, I always wondered if it was real. A scrap of song comes to me. Late at night/When you're sleeping/That's when Creeper comes a-creeping/Big, awful and scary/He'll get you like he got Darry!
It was an old childhood song; I think we sang it while jumping rope, or something.
I walk like I'm still in a dream towards him and touch his corpse. His foot is hard, like petrified wood. He's real. For the second time reality seems to have shifted. I don't know what to make of it.
Then I suddenly get angry.
"How could you do this?!" I demanded, smoldering. "How could you just-just-" I can't say it. The horror of it suddenly dawns on me. He had his eyes ripped out.
The Creeper looks at me with a bemused expression. I think he honestly didn't understand. This shocked me. I gestured to Darius's corpse. "Why?!" I demanded, nearly on the verge of tears.
He took two fingers, pointed them to Darry then to his own eyes, smiling. "Good eyes." Another thrill of horror rushes up my spine. I really couldn't comprehend it. Nothing in my life has ever really prepared me for this. Sure I've heard of serial killers, rapists sadists. People who destroy other people's lives. People with no empathy. I had been taught when I was small to not get into cars with strangers, given mace when I was older. All the good cautious behavior responsible parents instill in their children. Still all that stuff was an abstract, it didn't apply to me. I realized then how truly innocent and happy I once was. It didn't make me feel any better.
"Why?!" I ask again in anguish, not really understanding. "Why, why do you hate us?"
The Creeper looked utterly bewildered.
Then he considers. He takes a step forward. "Hate you?" he asks amused, suddenly he grabs me and pushes his nose against mine briefly. He breathes in my scent for the millionth time, and he moans in ecstasy like the first time. Then settles his eyes on me again. He rubs his nose against mine.
"Like you." He insisted.
Later
I've been thinking about what he said. It's so hard to understand his mindset. I can tell he has trouble understanding me.
In a weird way, it's like culture shock, but instead of being confronted with a human being raised in a foreign environment and thus having different values and assumptions then me, I'm confronted with a world view that isn't even human. He's free of typical human assumptions, prejudices, hatreds, beliefs, hopes, ideals, decency, love… I shake my head. It's like dealing with an alien.
I don't know exactly what he is. I look around the room again, at the corpses trying to divine answers from them. He preserves them, keeps them around, to take pleasure from their pain? Or was it something else?
I look at Darius Jenner, the boy from the myth, I look at his body, now he's just a hollowed out shell, preserved and hung like art. He was so young, probably only a few older than me. He was killed for his eyes, and kept because he likes us?
I can see it now. He may prey on us; cause us untold fear and misery. Maybe even look down on us for all our faults, but in a weird sick, twisted way, he likes us.
Darius Jenner, dead but preserved for an eternity. His fleeting life captured forever in this grotesque image. It's like something out of a myth, the immortal inviting the handsome youth to share in immortality, albeit dying to obtain it. He liked Darry; he wanted to keep him around. Even now I can see a glimmer of his youth and beauty sealed in death, disrespectfully used as a decoration, but used with affection nonetheless.
I began to understand his mindset.
---------------------
Darry was setting his plan into motion.
It would take time; all the while she would suffer at his hands. He felt regret, but nothing could be done at that.
He drafted allies transcended through the barrier between worlds, plotted and schemed against his killer. He would make him suffer as much as that thing could suffer. He vowed it.
The dead shouldn't hold grudges, but like most things humans shouldn't do he did it anyway. Besides, he couldn't leave Maria at his mercy. He had to do something. He loved her, he loved her like he loved Tricia.
The dead can influence the living, even if it's mostly oh-so-subtle and inaccurate manipulation. But it has been done. The native woman who fell into the Creeper's hands proved that. Even now her sad echo reached Darry through the past, coming up from beneath a deep cliff.
He spoke to her through dreams. Since sleep was like death the afterlife was like dreams.
Giselle Gay Hartman was with him. After the gruesome deaths she was forced to witness she had been granted a remarkably peaceful death in her sleep. She felt a very brief crushing pressure on her chest one night and then there was utter serenity. Darry was the first one to welcome her.
"You know what to do." He said quietly to her.
Maria's mother was in agony, she thought she was in hell. She prayed to God, the Virgin, anyone. She knew what was happening to her daughter, but she couldn't stop it. If she were alive she would have ripped the monster's head off. With her bare hands.
"It'll be okay, Mrs Adams" Darius promised.
Sometimes he saw his sister. He came to her in dreams as a comfort. However he never said anything to her. He was just checking on her. Made sure everything was alright.
Now he would break his own rule. He came to her in her sleep; he saw her eyes grow wide. He saw how she had aged while he stayed the same. He gave her the words that would set everything in motion. He saw his sister's eyes grow wide with horror.
On Highway 9
He was driving along, keeping a good look out, because that's what he had been trained to do, but he was also a bit relaxed. The highway was utterly empty, he turned on his radio. A song warbled out like a premonition:
I see, the bad moon a-rising.
I see, trouble on the way.
I see, earthquakes and lightnin'.
I see, bad times today.
Don't go around tonight,
Well, its bound to take your life,
There's a bad moon on the rise
A song he liked yet he felt a very slight discomfort at it. He rechecked his mirrors and felt the pistol strapped to his side. The one he always carried. Nothing looked unusual. The road was empty. Everything looked completely normal. Still…
Hope you, have got your things together.
Hope you, are quite prepared to die.
Looks like, we're in for nasty weather.
One eye, is taken for an eye.
The drive was utterly uneventful.
The song wound down as he pulled in to his driveway. Good familiar place, the farm had been in his family as long as any one could remember. He gazed around appreciatively at it.
A sudden swift movement caught his eye. He spun around. It was his mother.
"Don't sneak up on me Ma," he hugged her and shepherded her back into the house. "You should be resting."
His mother didn't argue, didn't roll her eyes or call him paranoid. Her face was a grim mask. Her grey hair, tinged slightly with what must have been a once stunning blond, hung limply around her face. She looked very frail.
Inside the house, she gazed at her son. He immediately sensed something important.
"He's back." She whispered.
He didn't need to ask who "He" was.
"Are, are you sure?" he asked his mother. "How do you know?"
The old woman looked at him with the same solemn expression. "My friend told me." She said simply. Like all rational people he had an instant shot of disbelief go though him, but he knew his mother wasn't crazy or lying. He had seen too much to disbelieve her.
Suddenly he felt as old as his mother.
She put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this." She advised him. He shook his head. "I have to." He said simply. No mention of his father. He knew he just had to.
"Please, please be careful." His mother begged. He could clearly see love in her eyes.
"I will." He promised. "Always have." She watched sadly as he went to the barn.
It was still there. He pulled the tarp off, dust threatened to choke him. Daddy-long legs scattered in panic, their webs scattered everywhere. It was still here, everything he had inherited. He checked it thoroughly, wiped it off. He would test everything tonight.
Time for the hunter to become the hunted.