Chapter Text
It had been over a year and a half since Kevin Kelson, local cashier, had gone missing.
Friends had searched, police had combed the area, and wanted posters littered the streets, all seeking his safe return.
It was after Kevin was linked to an attack from Velseb that the manhunt quickly took on a more dour tone. It became a search for remains, and family mourned his assumed passing.
Come winter, Bob Velseb was gunned down by two officers near his safe house. One officer, tragically, fell in the line of duty. His partner was able to secure Velseb’s homestead.
Multiple shallow graves were found on the property.
Kevin Kelson’s remains were not among them.
While the rest of his friends and family had given up hope, one young man took the search solely upon himself.
The hunt might be foolish, and the search may last forever, but in Streber’s eyes, it was better than accepting the worst.
•••••••••••••••••
•••••••
•••
The dog that led Streber along trotted with a noticeable limp to her gait. The young man knew that she had been retired due to injury on the field, but what she had actually sustained remained a mystery to him. He hadn't asked, and her former handler didn't say.
If he had to guess, someone might have grabbed and dislocated her leg. He had no real proof of such a claim, the theory was mainly backed on how her ears pinned back and her snout wrinkled in a warning snarl if he made any motion to grab her- even by the collar. That kind of restriction wasn't too bad, though. The dog responded obediently to most commands- particularly her name, which was all Streber could ask for as a first-time dog owner.
Though, such obedience is a given for a police dog, even if she was retired. Streber had to admit that taking her in was an impulse move. He had heard that retired K-9 units could be outright dangerous to rehome, but Mako honestly wasn't nearly as bad as he expected. She actually exceeded his expectations, doing stellar work already in her current task. Diligently, she made her way across the neighborhoods, sniffing occasional bushes and patches of grass before arriving at the edge of town.
Seeing the treeline, Streber paused their walk.
“Mako, heel.”
The German shepherd immediately stopped and sat, her tail stoically unmoving as she looked back to her owner.
Streber's free hand dug into his cargo shorts, aimlessly thumbing at the evidence bag containing a cheaply made hat. A relic of past employment at the Candy Corner, stained on one corner with aged blood. It was the last clue the police were able to find regarding Kevin's disappearance, and gifted to him by an officer who, while clearly good-natured, was not the best at abiding strictly by protocol.
The hat had led them here, the invisible scent beckoning the former K-9 into a territory that made her visibly anxious.
The air felt…tense.
This isn't where Streber was hoping to go. A missing person appearing in the wilderness was, more often than not, found as a corpse. That's how it was in the articles he read, anyway.
Mako seemed to feel the ambient sense of stress as well, though her response of pinned ears and unhappy glances to Streber were more than justified. It was out in these woods that she received the injuries that retired her, after all.
Streber stroked the German shepherd’s head to soothe her, taking his time to get behind her ears rather than look straight into the maw of the wilderness that awaited him.
The midday sun beat down relentlessly. It was the kind of dry heat that made you feel the potential sunburn in store for you the moment you stepped out into it. Streber’s hand left a (slightly betrayed) dog to instead tug at the sweat-dampened neck of his T-shirt in an effort to cool himself. He took an absent minded glance down at what he was wearing.
A grinning skeleton riding a motorcycle was emblazoned on the front of his garment, the flaming text of ‘RIDE ON’ displayed proudly across his breast.
This was not what Streber wanted to be found in if he mysteriously died today.
But- he's sure Kevin wouldn't want to die in his dumb uniform either. His dumb, cute uniform. With the little accents of pink that bring out his goofy charm and-
Streber shook his head quickly. He was going to get heat stroke at this rate, just standing here.
He took a deep breath.
Ride on. For Kevin.
“Let's go, Mako.”
••••••
••••
••
•
Kevin stumbled through the dark, only able to see little more than a meter into his pitch surroundings.
Fortunately, sight was not particularly necessary in the maze Kevin now walked. The floor was free of debris- his stumbling mainly came from his unfamiliarity with his anatomy. Legs that did not need to be crouched to avoid his head touching the ceiling. Hands that, rather than scraping on the floor, remained at his sides. His arms swung aimlessly as he walked, irking him with an anxiety that something might reach for them and rip them off.
The maze was familiar by now. He had seen it many times over, through countless nights now. The walls were made of a slightly bumpy, yet squishy material, curving overhead to give the tunnel a rounded roof. As progress was made, traversing further and further, the trek became more hazardous.
The ground gave way easier, as if sinking into swampland.
The path went up or down, resulting in a need to crawl or climb.
The ambient temperature grew in heat and humidity.
The walls of the labyrinth grew close.
Kevin felt small. He tripped and staggered, forced to walk human as the terrain around him grew more soft and pliable, yet steep and twisted. Sweat and humidity clung to every inch of his skin as he pushed forward, climbing inclines of tunnel so steep they were vertical walls.
The roof lowered more and more, the further he went. Until, finally, he simply crawled on his belly, pushing through the gaps between walls until he would no longer budge.
He was stuck.
It was sweltering.
Kevin, unable to do much else, began to cry. For help, for anyone to just please- find him. Help him.
He heard a deep sigh all around him, from beyond the walls.
And in that moment, Kevin could hear the labyrinth's heartbeat.
•••
Kevin blinked awake, his brain immediately greeting him with a migraine that was so graciously gifted to him by the sun above near cooking the neurons out of his head. His hands immediately raised to shield his face, blocking out the sun that shined through his ivory skin with ease.
It took him a moment to turn onto his belly and begin a four-legged crawl out of his resting place- a truck that had been repurposed into a sort of crisis nest in these past few months. The ancient vehicle creaked as its occupant leaned out of its bed, placing spread hands into the muck that trapped the old pickup here.
The source of the mire, a pond directly next to the car, Kevin practically slithered to. Denizens of the water were given an unexpected greeting by a man suddenly thrusting his head into the shallows, scattering tiny fish as his hair flowed out in the water like a coal-black, invasive kelp. The intruder to their domain remained for some time, until he began to blow a plume of bubbles from his nose, heaving a sigh into the water. It was only when his chest began to ache that Kevin lifted his face from the pond, his hair now utterly sopping wet.
Kevin grimaced. His hair was matted severely. Water weighed it down, making it pull on his scalp, and goading the migraine into dotting his vision with bursts of black. As much as the cold had helped soothe his head, the pain he received in turn was almost worse.
It was as pond water sloughed over his bare back, as his rat’s nest of hair was itching every bit of skin it grazed over, that Kevin considered cutting the tangled mess short.
It had been so long since he had a real haircut. He had no scissors, but maybe… the tools he kept in his bed?
Kevin, now sufficiently cooled, returned to the truck with socks that made a slorshy, squishy sound when he walked.
The truck likely would've been cooked to an intolerable degree by the summer heat if not for the fact that the back end of the vehicle was covered thoroughly in fabric. Human clothes that were spattered with blood filled the space Kevin would usually lay upon. The clothes were from a miss-mash of sources. Garbage bins, Bob’s closet, camping grounds, clothes lines, victims-
Casually, Kevin picked through the hoard and fished out a top that did not belong to him. The torn, weathered tee did not cover even half of his back, but it was better protection from the elements than nothing at all.
All his belongings were here, in this little bed he had made out of the back of the truck.
Tools, keepsakes, fluffy things to keep him warm, trash.
The centerpiece of it all was a red garment that served as an oversized pillow. An XXXXL sweater, stuffed with fresh leaves and feathers from wild birds. It was worn out from love, fraying at its edges and coming undone at the seams. The fabric was pilling and dirty, but the sweater remained. If possible, Kevin hoped it would stay forever. He gave it a gentle nuzzle, sniffing it closely.
…it didn't smell like Bob anymore.
Kevin still breathed it in, desperate to remember the scent that had faded some time ago now.
No memory came to mind.
Kevin gently placed the prized keepsake to the side. He couldn't even wear it for comfort. Not in this heat.
A belt of butcher’s tools lay where the sweater had been, kept in as good of condition as Kevin could manage. Out of the sun and rain, hidden away.
Kevin took a seat in his nest, folding his legs as he brought out the carving knife from its loophole on the leather belt.
He held it in silence.
Bob sharpened this last. Did he really want to dull it?
Dull Bob’s knife on something as pointless as his own hair?
Kevin tenderly thumbed at the grip of the tool. He ignored the looming man in the reflection of the blade.
…no. He could never.
Long, bony fingers inserted the knife back in its place on the belt. The sweater was returned, covering the treasure once more.
Kevin’s hair still pulled on him.
It hurt.
But there was nothing he could do.
Not with this knife, sharpened to cut.
Waiting to be used.
He couldn't.
•••••••••
••••••••••
The ground of the woods seemed to have a flavor of decay for every time of year.
Autumn was a dusty, aging orange. Leaf litter that was crunched into a dense, warm colored confetti by the foot traffic of living things.
Winter brought a dense clutter of naked branches and blackening foliage, easily crushed into dust as their lifeless forms grew hollow.
Spring brought an onslaught of pollen that coated the forest floor in a sticky yellow powder coating. Tiny flowers from blooming trees formed piles on the corners of trails, decorating the sunny-colored dust with pinks and whites. The beauty didn't last long- spring rain turning the fallen petals into browning mush.
Summer was when all of those forms of decay led to a true explosion of life. Moss grew freely in the darkened undersides of logs and rocks, and mushrooms grew grotesquely fat as they gorged on months worth of decomposing plant matter. The foliage seemed to be near bursting with new life, every leaf a deep green with a waxy glow. Sunlight dripped through cracks in the arboreal canopy, making spiders in their overhead webs seem to shine like angels. Their silhouettes danced over man and dog, as their trek progressed deeper into the wilds.
As Streber walked, protected from the sun’s angry gaze by the trees overhead, he breathed, trying to center his mind. It wasn't easy. There was so much to think about- mainly fear. He was absolutely terrified he'd find a dead body out here, one half eaten by a cannibal, the other half ravaged by nature. What state would Kevin even be in by then? Just bones? Less?
…The hell is less than bones? Just the teeth, maybe? Could he even SPOT a random fistful of teeth on the ground? He glanced around to check, only to make himself jump seeing a small group of white pebbles.
It took a moment after that scare for Streber to square his shoulders, attempting to get himself back on track. He has to keep a grip. Kevin cant be dead yet, and he DEFINITELY did not evaporate into teeth. If he gives into thoughts like that, he’ll just get stuck sitting on a log feeling miserable- or be stuck out here for hours scrutinizing every molar-adjacent rock.
Puffing up his chest, Streber quickened his pace.
The plants around him became only more dense as he pushed further into a world far outside of his element.
•••
After only walking for a rough 20 more minutes, the path Streber had been following diligently with Mako had graciously decided to vanish from existence.
He was in the thick of it now, wading through shrubbery and pushing past branches that retaliated with harsh smacks to the back of his arms. Mako had no trouble, wiggling through the underbrush like the creature she was.
Lucky bitch.
Streber felt itchy just from the thought of whatever insects might be chowing down on him. He always suffered the worst from bug bites in the summer- his mom always said he was ‘terminally delicious’ as a result.
It was a long time ago that Streber decided ‘being delicious’ is a fate worse than death.
Just keep going. Almost through. Kev’s been through worse, so just keep-
Streber finally pushed into a clearing, near stumbling from the lack of obstacles at his feet. He waved his arms to regain his balance, looking up at the hill before him that was covered in weeds and grass that grew up to his waist. Butterflies and grasshoppers danced among the dewberry and brush in a way that would be beautiful if not for the stain in the center of the scene. The slumbering beast that once held so much death and destruction.
The house.
Streber knew of the home- Velseb’s ‘house of horrors’ the news called it. The residence was cleared out of officers and reporters weeks ago. Any and all foot traffic from the affair that was once so thoroughly reported, documented and scrutinized, was now fully overgrown with milkweed and grass. It gave the illusion of peace, the field being blanketed by greenery like this.
Peace, disturbed by the lone, shingled structure in the center of it all.
Just the outline of the ancient building made Streber hesitate. It was stout and humble- a small home, all things considered. It lacked a second floor, or even a garage, and the paneling on its sides warped with age. Regardless of the homely nature it held, it carried an energy not unlike a trap. Set, now waiting.
The last remnants of the investigation gave the house’s insidious side away. Broken police tape still clung to trees, their torn ends twirling in the occasional summer breeze like streamers off a kite. A neon yellow reminder of what had transpired here.
As Streber approached the house, the dog at his side became less and less cooperative, his movement being halted by increasingly frequent tugs from behind.
It took a frustrating amount of time and energy just to trek up the front yard. Mako pulled on her leash, barking and whining defiantly the whole way. At their arrival to the foot of the building, she refused to even set a paw on the stairs. She was practically giving herself a dewlap with the scruff of her neck that the collar yanked taut against the sides of her head.
Streber finally stopped to catch his breath, frowning at the dog. It was unlike Mako to behave like this. He wasn't going to hit her or scold her, but he wasn't going to turn a blind eye to the fact that his dog was actively choking herself on her own collar trying to avoid entering the building. Even with gentle touch and soothing words, Mako did not budge. He didn't have any treats in his pockets, but offering the shepherd a lint-covered cough drop to climb the stairs provided no allure.
He sighed.
At this rate, it would be cruel to force her in.
“Alright, girl,” Streber sighed, “you keep watch.”
With deft hands, he looped Mako’s leash on the handrail that led up the patio stairs.
“There. Just bark if there’s trouble, ok?”
As much as the young man tried to reassure the animal with a gentle pat on the head, her sinking ears gave away how useless the action was. She watched Streber climb the stairs with the same mournful gaze one would give their pet before it was put down.
••••••
•••••
•••
Kevin wandered in a daze.
Purposeless, a husk with no goal aside from the task of foraging, he prowled his territory.
Starvation wasn't easily staved off with jay eggs and clovers, but it was better than nothing. He paused every so often to pick out a bug or plant to eat, but his eyes were glossed over with a lack of consciousness that wouldn't be out of place on a battlefield.
He had learned to dread his thoughts. His longing, his guilt, his self-hatred, his yearning.
The seemingly bottomless hole in his stomach that reminded him constantly of the man he had lost.
The process of thinking, after months of loathing it, was no longer second nature.
Kevin’s mind was an animal’s first, and a man’s second.
It was in this mindless patrol of a footpath that was more instinct than choice that he stumbled across a clearing.
A familiar stretch of land, pierced by a railroad.
The safe place.
It felt like it had been ages since this place’s title, given to it by Bob, had been suitable.
Safe.
It hadn't been safe since Bob died here.
The surrounding woodland was quiet, but the ghostly echoes of a train careening down the rails still sang in Kevin’s head. That sound was the most clear, out of all that he remembered of this place. As for the rest of what occurred here, it was tinged with a cloudiness that made recalling any particular moment a blurred mess.
The gunshot itself was vacant from his memory, as was the sight of Bob’s death. It was a mercy that his brain granted him, but it felt disrespectful just the same.
Every memory of Bob was sacred, and yet… he allowed the very last fragments of the man slip away somehow.
Kevin gazed over the apples of the tree by the tracks as his stomach complained of its lack of a proper breakfast.
The sun had caused the fruit to balloon in size, each roughly the size of a softball, full to bursting with sweet flesh and juice. Their skins were a beautiful red, each seeming to shine in their home among the branches with an inviting lack of blemishes. Even those that had fallen to the ground and now lay rotting, fermenting in the heat, held an allure that unborn birds and fistfuls of ants could not even dream to capture.
Kevin’s midsection ached with a hunger that was hopeless to sate with tiny morsels from the forest– but he did not dare enter the clearing.
It just…wasn't possible. He couldn't. The nonexistent sound of metal pounding down the tracks grew louder inside his skull, vibrating his teeth if he even thought of entering the clearing.
The apples were right there, but…
Kevin’s hackles raised as he heard the not-too-far sound of rusty hinges creaking so loud it could wake the dead.
Bob’s front door.
Someone…
Someone was in the house.
The beast wearing human skin charged to its most sacred site with the unrestrained haste only an animal could have.
Wrath burned at his heels as it climbed his body with every pounding heartbeat, enveloping him in its flames within seconds.
Someone was daring to disturb Bob.
Again.
Kevin grit his teeth so tightly he could taste the blood spurting from the creaking enamel. Heavy breaths seeped through his jaws with such fervor his saliva foamed pink.
He'd kill them. Bob doesn't want guests. Not now, not ever. Trespassers are as good as fast food. That's what Bob always said. They just come right up like they're asking to be killed! Kill the intruder, kill them, rip them apart, Bob is sleeping, he's always sleeping during the day, on the couch, if the intruder wakes him up he’ll be mad. He needs his rest, he needs it, because he's hurt, once he's rested he’ll feel better, then they can go hunting together, then Kevin can go back into the house, as long as he kills them, kills them, kills it, kill IT KILL IT KILL IT KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL-
•••
••••
As the hinges of the front door screamed for mercy, a stranger entered the home for the first time in months.
The house had all the inviting warmth of a 3-day old cadaver, and hardly looked any better than one. It carried the ambient pressure most sites of death seemed to wield- one that made Streber’s lungs feel too big in his chest.
…The patches of mold that were visibly growing on the walls may also be contributors to that feeling. Streber suddenly felt a lot less comfortable breathing in here.
The floor had a blanket of dust that was disturbed by the odd animal track. Streber was not thrilled to scatter the pseudo-frost of human skin cells and lint into the air- he felt asthmatic just looking at it all. As he placed careful steps forward, he noted the sight of tiny, hand-like prints in the debris. Raccoon paws, surely, but the thought of child-like hands in this ossuary of a homestead made Streber’s blood run cold.
Did Velseb have any child victims? He was above that, right? Hell, Streber wasn't sure. He tucked the thought away as he proceeded, his shoes leaving perfect, cookie-cutter prints behind him.
The expedition into the home was at best unfavorable, and at worst, repulsive. A dead, rotting possum lay on the kitchen table- expired of natural causes, but still morbidly placed in its death. It even curled up on a plate before it breathed its last.
As soon as Streber’s gaze met the midsection of the possum, he averted his eyes with the kind of reflex one would have yanking their hand away from a hot stove.
He forced himself before the sink, swallowing as he tried to purge the visual from his mind.
Just stare into the lime stained steel of the basin.
He had still caught a glimpse, to his chagrin.
The possum’s exposed, rotted belly was laden with maggots. Horrible, awful things.
Streber hated maggots. He hated anything close to them- worms, grubs, larvae, and he hated most of all…what they did. To what they found. How they burrowed inside, and how they ate and ate and-
He choked on a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He could hear the flies buzzing about the room, hovering around the nursery of rot. Streber steeled his nerves. He wasnt going to get anywhere just standing petrified like this.
He huffed a quick breath, taking a waste bin from near the counter and dumping its contents of paper towels, used napkins and rat droppings onto the floor.
Streber turned, holding the bin in front of himself as a censor as he used what he could see around it to triangulate his position in front of the table.
Right…about…
Here!
Streber slammed the wastebin over the possum and jerked his hands away like the squirming grubs within the flesh of the desiccated marsupial would leap at him and start digging in.
They did no such thing, of course.
The possum, and its scavengers, now lay out of sight under a plastic bin that rested on the table.
Streber stared at the bin, thankfully an opaque white, that now hid the little demons from view.
Out of sight out of mind.
Streber took slow breaths, attempting to purge the Helminthrophobia from his mind by sheer force of will.
Crisis averted! Crisis…averted.
And he didn't even throw up!
Streber took a deep breath, deep enough to make his diaphragm ache, and puffed it out all at once.
It wasn't very refreshing.
He glanced at a patch of mildew that encompassed a good chunk of the ceiling.
That's probably a contributing factor.
He REALLY shouldn’t linger here if he doesn't want to get some kind of mold-induced brain fungus.
Streber dusted his hands on his pants (he'd love to wash them after getting so close to those nightmares, but there's no telling what lay sleeping in the pipes) and turned his attention to the in-home meat freezer.
What an odd thing to have in a home… did Velseb have this dump built with the freezer in mind? Or did he just stumble across this place? Like, it was an eatery-turned homestead? An eatery…in the woods. Yea, scratch that.
The concept of this nest of sin being hand-tailored by the cannibal himself made Streber all the more unnerved. A home built just to kill in.
...The freezer was waiting to be opened.
He took the handle firmly, and turned it.
The door practically wailed, solid steel grinding against hinges that were starved of oil, emitting a sound so loud it rivaled only the bathroom stall doors of fast food establishments. Streber cringed from the noise, forcing the door open faster to try to hush its screams.
The freezer lay empty.
All evidence had been marked, photographed, bagged and taken away by the police. It figures. This was one of the hot spots for evidence. Of course it would be picked clean.
Streber can't help the sinking feeling in his chest, seeing the empty freezer. It wasn't even cold. It offered not even a moment's reprieve from the sticky heat of the dormant building.
The young man sighed, and sulked back to the living room. He braved the maggots for nothing.
As Streber began to inspect a hallway on the leftmost side of the home, Mako began to bark.
No, more than that, she began to utterly lose her mind. As Streber craned his neck to look at her from the living room, he could see her in a state she’d never shown before. Her ears were low, hackles raised, tail tucked to her side, her snout wrinkled and lips curled to show her teeth. Like she was ready to strike, but was cornered and afraid to. Barking, snarling, crying, she tugged on her leash, trying to stay as far away from what she threatened as possible. She sounded like she was-
The sudden sound of splintering wood startled Streber enough to jump.
Mako, in her desperation, yanked so hard on the leash that she managed to peel the rotting post she was tied to clean off the hand railing. It thunked aimlessly behind her as she took off into the woods like a shot.
Streber began to move for the door,
Only for a figure to block the light of the outside as it clambered through the frame.
For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
A spider in the shape of a human curled its limbs to contort into a doorway a half-meter too short for it.
It had a face that was missing pieces. Matted hair and shadow engulfed features, leaving the imagination to fill in a face that could only be ghoulish in completion.
What could be seen was gaunt, skin tight to the body from starvation. The tone of the skin was near translucent. Veins stood out so clearly they practically looked painted on. The exposed mouth heaved low breaths, revealing teeth that were just too large to be human. Just beyond what could be identified as a genetic mutation or deformity. Barely, yet tangibly, too far.
One eye managed to pierce the veil of hair. It was an icy white, pupil dilated into an uncannily small dot that pointed at Streber with nothing but hate.
It was only a second that Streber had to take it all in. To see its wiry, massive body, hunched midway through his only exit.
He only needed that one second. He could tell instantly from its eye
It was going to kill him.
Time unfroze, Streber retreating from the living room so hastily he slipped on the dust, stumbling into the hallway in a lopsided, three-limbed gait.
He uprighted himself sloppily as the monster shrieked, lunging into the home with hands that snatched at the air he once stood in with such speed he could feel the rush of air the thing left in it's wake.
Streber, barely given even a second to decide his route, took a sharp right down the hall, bolting past an open laundry room, and near-slamming himself into the door that stood at the end of his path.
The screaming nightmare behind him shoved its bony form into the hall, rake-like hands carving scratches into the floorboards as it rushed Streber on all fours.
He swung the door open. Pure instinct, no time to question what could be inside it.
Open space. Not a closet. A chance.
Streber.
Tried.
To run inside.
With an arm that could reach a treetop, the beast grabbed Streber. Wickedly curved fingernails hooked into the exposed flesh of his arm. The fingers of the monster curled, digging its claws in deeper, trying to get a grasp on seemingly the very tendons in Streber’s arm.
There was no pain. Only panic.
It might've been that very lack of pain that saved him.
Or the slickness of his blood, combined with his unhesitating yanking on his arm.
The claws
slipped
from his flesh.
It felt like he was outside his body, just telling it what he wanted and it would suddenly happen. Like there were no in-between frames of his actions, he was merely existing as a storyboard.
Lock, twist.
Stairs, jump them.
Grab big heavy shape.
Back up the stairs.
Shove under the doorknob.
Brace.
Streber held himself firmly against whatever it was that he had used to barricade the door. He sincerely had no idea at this point, but it was hardly relevant. Just hold the door. He trembled, straining himself as firmly in place as he could. Weathering the feverish pounding, screaming, and gurgling swears choked by spit and rage just beyond the door.
Streber could barely think. Where there once was thoughts, there was instead the pounding of his heart, drowning out every semblance of emotion, logic, or pain.
It felt like he stayed there, bracing against his blockade, for an hour.
Slowly, as each minute passed, thought returned. His body, with time, began to feel again.
His arm was whispering in pain, slowly building up to a scream.
Streber kept it pressed to the barricade until the agony of the strain forced him to pull it back, resting it to his chest.
He couldn't look at the wound. Not now. Not when…
It could break the door. It could. He had no doubt. It was big enough to. It tore through his skin like paper, it could break a door down- especially one like this, rotted with time and exposure and mold.
But the pounding had stopped. He wasn't sure how long ago, but it had. He was sure he had heard the door splinter from a particularly hard strike- but after that…
The door had not been touched again.
Streber heaved slow breaths, trying to ease the aching in his chest. His heart hurt. It had practically bruised his ribs with how hard it had been pounding in his chest.
Just breathe.
Just…
…the thing outside was panting, too.
Low, huffing breaths. It growled with each exhale.
Streber desperately did not want to move from the barricade. He did not want to relax, he did not want his heart to stop it's incessant rattling. He needed to be ready, he...
He looked down at his arm, finally. Just a peek.
A mistake.
There were five gashes, one for each claw that had cut into him and peeled a row of flesh as easily as warm wax. The ribbons of skin still clung to where they were left, uncut.
Streber felt nauseous just watching the blood flow down from his arm. It would scar. He'd need stitches- did he have the money for that kind of thing? No, now isn't the time to worry about finances of all things- he was bleeding! He would bleed OUT at this rate!
Surely if he just…pressed those ribbons back into place, they'd heal, right? But first, he'd need to wash it, using…
Streber glanced around the basement.
A fridge. Water heater, shop-vac. Tools, tables and forgotten woodworking and recycling projects. Old clothes in a box labeled ‘yard sale’. A cpap machine and several gallons of distilled water.
The man slowly got up.
The monster did not react.
Carefully, Streber crept down the stairs that he had practically flown up and down earlier. Screws, nuts and bolts littered the floor.
Guiltily, he looked back at the ‘thing’ he had shoved to block the door. It was a hardware organizer. He had practically dumped every last one of its contents onto the floor in his effort to fling it up the stairs, 3 steps at a time.
He stepped around the debris that littered the solid cement floor. Last thing he needed was to trip and bash his head.
Streber rummaged in the yard sale box until he procured the cleanest garment he could find inside. A white shirt with only a few stains, and holes that were hopefully from wear and use, not mice.
Taking the tee, Streber found a seat on the floor by the cpap. He wrestled the safety seal off of one of the jug’s necks with his good arm, popping the cap and shakily dousing his wound with a stream of lukewarm water.
It wasn't disinfectant, and the water wasn't even sterilized, but it was better than nothing, at least until he got to a hospital.
With his teeth and unmarred arm, Streber ripped the T-shirt into strips. He doused the first with water before gingerly poking the strips of flesh back where they were torn, and firmly patting the wet rag over them.
The dry rags were wrapped over the damp one. Tight, but not too tight.
Streber stopped only when he had run out of strips of fabric, taking in his handiwork.
…it looked like shit. He never learned first aid, only how to use an eyewash station- and it showed.
But… it would do. Until he got out.
Until that thing went away.
Streber stared at the door at the top of the stairs.
…this was a basement. He had only just now put it together.
He looked around again, expecting to spot torture implements hidden in the shadows of the walls, blood-caked weapons on tables, or hooks dangling from the rafters to hang victims on.
There were no such things.
Even with the limited light of a single window near the ceiling of the basement, Streber could see no tells that this place was once under ownership of the mad butcher, Bob Velseb. In fact it was pretty mediocre as far as basements went. He remembered his cousins at least had a couch in theirs. This old place just had a lot of failed tinkering projects and belongings that never made it to the next yard sale. It wasn't even cluttered in a cozy way- it felt like a junk drawer full of miscellaneous nothing-items.
He couldn't tell if this was a blessing or a curse. No haunting imagery, sure, but… j ust in case what waited outside knocked the door down, a weapon, even used, would be better than nothing.
Streber stood in the light of the lone hopper window, arms pulled close. That... thing was still out there. He could see its shadow under the door.
How long would it wait for him?
Taking another glance at the window-
…maybe he wouldn't have to find out.
The adrenaline in his system was running on fumes, but still, Streber forced himself to carry on. The simple act of pushing one of the work tables made Streber’s veins feel like they were full of molten lead. His body was screaming for a break, unable to summon
the strength to lift the old piece of furniture properly. It scraped against the floor, loudly protesting as it was pushed flush to the wall.
The monster outside growled at the noise, making Streber rapidly duck away and into a corner.
Still no slamming. But now, there was a new noise. Footsteps. Pacing. It grew distant, then close. Back and forth through the hall outside.
It was getting restless. Streber wasn't sure why rearranging furniture of all things was riling it up, but he wasn't going to ask it. Best to just quicken the pace.
The welcoming glow of the hopper filtered sunbeams onto the table that now lay positioned below it.
Carefully, Streber mounted the table. It wobbled, slightly. One leg was shorter than the others.
The unstable footing trembled as the young man stood, examining the basement window.
It opened in an odd way. Inward, and from the top. Not a window someone could climb out of without totally obliterating the hinges.
And even then…
Streber’s heart sank. The frame of the window was smaller than his shoulders. He wouldn't be able to fit, even if he did break it.
Well… that's ok.
He’ll just wait.
Wait for the thing outside to get bored and go.
...Whatever it is. He can process that part later.
Streber climbed down from the table, and sat on the floor.
He immediately got up.
Nope. No. Not unless he wants a bruised tailbone.
One last push. To the yard sale box. A limp shove pushed the container over, dumping its contents on the ground. Arranging them into a pile, the hard floor of the basement became tolerable with a newfound nest of old clothes to sit on.
With that modicum of comfort in place, it was against his will that Streber shut down then and there. Back to the wall, wounded arm in his lap, and adrenaline completely exhausted, was when his consciousness finally left him.
He slept, dreamlessly, in the basement.