Link to Book 1
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/8sBzSGw13A
Years, enough of them that I’ve started to believe everything I went through was some drug induced hallucination. Missing fingers, scars, there’s no real reason they couldn’t have mundane explanations. And with every day that goes by that thought becomes more and more comforting.
In the years since the mountain, I’ve really gotten my shit together. Nothing better than a few months of a drug fueled death march to make a guy really appreciate it when he gets a second chance.
I did my share of drifting, wanted to put some distance between myself and….well fucking everything really. But I’ve settled in a place that vainly calls itself a city in the middle of “I dare you to find booze here. “ Utah.
I do night shift at a scrap yard, since the supernatural misadventure, my welding skills are a bit shot, but I can still run a cutting torch good enough, and not doing it drunk or high helps a bit.
I don’t mind my unimpressive job, or my less impressive apartment. Better than being strange bedfellows with a murderous clown, on the run from some kind of cursed media mogul. Which, for those of you who are too lazy to have read a little backstory, is pretty much how I spent the most important part of my life.
Name’s Kevin by the way.
But now that I’m back in the free world, there is one thing I do mind.
People.
I don’t have a social circle, I talk to my boss when I absolutely need to, and if I can avoid a face to face interaction, I’ll do it.
I see everyone else going about their lives, without a God damn clue. Folks with kids, walking around ignorant as sheep about the shit in the shadows around us.
I don’t hate other people, fuck, if anything I envy them. But I just, can’t. I can’t sit there talking about the mundane shit I cherish so much, when all I want to do is drive into their brain, that right behind the world we live in, is every fear we have, and about a million that we couldn’t think of.
Tried letting a couple folks in, telling them what I know. What I’ve seen and done. Went exactly as well as you’d expect.
So, my life is lonely, but it’s also crank free, and probably won’t end with me sitting in a pool of my own blood. I figure that leaves me somewhere in the ball park of even.
But, I wouldn’t be back here, if things stayed, even, would I?
I ignore the buzzer for obvious reasons, if I were in a cartoon, a cloud of dust and a few angry spiders would have came flying out of it. But whoever is operating the other side presses the button relentlessly.
“Bro, you’re a couple numbers off, okay? Stop. “ I say into the old, beige speaker.
A minute or so of silence, but then the harsh analogue buzz starts again.
“Who in the hell…” I say putting on a pair of worn out sneakers and making my way to the front lobby.
I stop dead. Backlit by a flickering streetlamp, is a tall, lanky man. The jeans and faded New York Dolls t-shirt throw me off a bit, the ancient Grateful Dead baseball cap even further, but it’s him.
I shake my head and turn, Mike pounds on the glass door, his pale fist shaking the thick pane. I make eye contact, and as much as I want to turn my back on that part of my life, the look of fear in his eyes makes me open the entryway.
We sit in my kitchen, shitty instant coffee in front of us. Mike smells like he hasn’t showered in a couple of weeks, it’d be redundant to say the state of his clothing.
“Are you okay? Jesus, last I heard didn’t you find some cult that was supposed to get you back where you came from? “ I say.
I had some contact with Mike, for a while. Art caught him, imprisoned him, tortured him, but he came out the other side somehow, never was too clear on the details.
But I just couldn’t be around the guy, every time I heard his voice, I felt broken ribs. Every time I’d see him, I’d remember scrambling for our lives in a God damned living forest. It was cold, but it’s what I needed.
“Yeah. “ he says, laughing, a sick, high kind of dry snicker, “ I was on the way home. Those crazy old bastards figured out all the steps.
But then he took them. “
“Who, and who did he take? You’re not making sense Mike, even for you. “ I reply.
“Who the fuck else Kev? “ Mike says, that harsh aggressive edge barging it’s way into his tone, “And the only two people that relied on me.
Back when we were in the mountain, I said I needed to get back, they were the reason I needed to get back. They were the only thing in this entire fake God damned universe I gave a shit about.
And he took them. Actual fucking kidnapping. “
Mike slams his fist on the table, I’ve seen where this kind of mood can go, and slide my chair back.
“So, you, for some reason, had possession of a couple kids. I’m not going to look much deeper into that part. And then, Art took them? “ I say, trying to piece together the puzzle, “Why? If he wanted to fuck with you, why wouldn’t he have just nabbed all three of you and started in on some torture? “
Mike glares at me, I can see I touched a nerve.
“I saved them. And that Demonic piece of shit wants them because they can help him. They were born just south of human, and things like Art have all kinds of uses for them.
I thought I found them somewhere safe.
I was wrong Kev, I need help. “ Tears start to fall down the pale face of the killer.
So, I want to say something here. I read all of your comments my last run through. Every single one. You guys really seemed to want to like me, personally I don’t understand it, but you do you.
That being said, what I say next, and my reasons for saying it, might make you rethink that a bit.
“That’s a sad story man, but hear me when I say this, really listen.
I want nothing to do with it, you, Art or anything scarier than the IRS. “ I keep my voice calm, I don’t want to rile Mike up, but I want him to know where we stand.
He keeps eye contact as he pulls out a folded picture and slides it across the table. The two girls, maybe 10 or 12, have a strange otherworldly look to them.
“I can’t leave them with him, and the longer I stay here Kev, the more this place, your corner of reality, changes me.
I hoped it was just the path and the mountain, but no, every day in this place is twisting me. Kinda makes me feel like Junior. “ Mike ends this with a mirth free laugh that goes on for much longer than it should.
“Mike, maybe back home you’re a soldier or a superhero . Me? I’m just some dickhead who is trying his best not to be some junkie.
And do you know how you quit drugs Mike? You cut them out of your life. It’s the only way, you keep hanging out with scumbags and users, you will inevitably become one.
Want to know what I hear in your story? You started fucking around with some evil cult, then you started babysitting some paranormal kids. And if I was a betting man, I’d guess a few more semi intentional brushes with the beyond between A and B, am I wrong? “ My rant gains steam, Mike’s face gives me my answer, “ What did you think was going to happen?
Sorry Mike, dead kids, no dead kids, I’m not doing this kind of shit again. And I say that knowing full well how you handle things. Kill me bud because the only way I’m running Into hell with you again is if you drag my corpse behind you. “ I expect death , but Mike stands, no suddenly appearing knife, no jaw shattering punch.
“I thought more of you Kev, but I get it. “ He says, as he begins to leave the apartment.
I start to relax, not the reaction I was expecting, but I have to say, much better than the alternative.
Mike opens the door, and for a moment, it seems like his stance, and body language are different. Probably just nerves on my part.
“You might want to keep an eye out Kevin, it’s been a while, but remember, the things you did on the path, had echoes in reality. Might come a time when you find yourself needing friends in low places. “ Mike leaves after dropping this bomb, and I spend most of a day off sick to my stomach.
Regardless of the fight for survival on the path, here, it put innocent blood on our hands. I didn’t know if what Mike said was a guilt trip or a threat, but either way, it was screwing with me.
When I wasn’t watching over my shoulder for the cops I was seeing Mike in every tall guy and dark alley. My normally solitary life began to turn into a rearview watching nightmare. A constant fear of a knife in the back or a boot on my door making me lose sleep and weight as quickly as any upper.
I’m half way thinking of skipping town as I get to work, my boss, Kamal, is tinkering with the engine of an old sports car, good guy. Little bit on the shady side, but in all the right ways. Everyone here has a bit of a past, or, conversely, not enough documentation of a past, if you catch my drift. We are all paid under the table, but we are paid well, and the fifty something dark skinned man has done more than one favor for the assorted misfits that staff this place.
Tonight though, it’s just him and myself. Him working on the car, me cutting cracked engine blocks and brake rotors for scrap.
The work gives me time to think, which in my current situation might not be a good thing. Too many ways shit can go sideways at the moment, too many dark paths for my mind to take.
I turn off my torch, the last of the scrap I plan to cut before I eat my 3:00 am lunch cooling from red to a dark slag grey.
“ 20,000 “ I hear someone say.
As I turn around I see Kamal backed up against a tool chest about as tall as he is. The man well inside of my boss’s personal bubble is a six foot flesh slab of a guy in a black turtleneck and brown leather coat.
The aggressor is bald, tattoos I can’t make out peeking from above his shirt collar.
“I can’t pay that, be reasonable. It’s just a storage shed. “ Kamal says.
I take a cool piece of scrap about the size of a television remote and slip it in the back pocket of my welding overalls.
I walk over, not trying to hide, not trying to come in aggressive.
“Then we keep using it, as before. “ The large man shrugs.
“I can’t, it’s not just me, if cops come crawling around here, most of my employees will wind up in jail. The risk is too much. “ Kamal pleads.
The man notices me and turns just fast enough to let me know I should proceed with caution.
“Easy, I’m not here to get hurt. Just want to see if I can help. “ I say, holding my hands out to my sides.
“You have 20k?” the dead eyed criminal says.
“Nope, but pretend for a minute you are talking to a guy who knows a couple of things and has the ability to strip a car down in an hour and a half.
Why the squeeze here? Folks really looking at 20K to relocate some swag? “ I keep my racing heart from showing in my voice. I’m calm, and just south of friendly.
The man shrugs, I continue.
“Yeah, probably more like a dime, but your looking to make a little on top.
But 10k, damn, even that’s a bit on the ‘everyone hates you’ side of things.
How about, you give me a week, whatever I find a place for, you tack on 50% everyone wins. Kinda. “
The man seems to think for a moment, mulling the idea over. And then, in a flash of violence, turns and throws a straight punch that knocks Kamal out, slamming his head against the steel toolbox.
“Fuck your offer. “ The man says in his maybe, eastern European accent.
He stalks toward me with violence on his mind, I’d run, but I think of Kamal.
I’m sure you’ve put the foreshadowing together by this point. I grab the piece of steel, I don’t try to cave in his skull, even if I was capable of this, it’d attract a hell of a lot more unwanted attention.
If you’ve never been hit full force in the liver, you have no idea the amount of debilitating pain it delivers. This is what I try for, and to a small extent, succeed in doing.
I swing accurately enough to hit, with enough force to send a bone numbing shock up my wrist. The massive man reacts with a look of shock and pain, veins bulging, tendons standing out hard enough to burst the buttons on the cuffs of his jacket.
He stops, inches in front of me, breathing heavily, skin reddening. Obviously experiencing massive amounts of pain.
Then he grins, slapping me on the shoulder. His grip is like a bear trap.
“You ever watch a drop little man? “ he says, appraising me.
“Once or twice. “ I say, no longer able to keep the panic from my tone.
The big man begins to walk, leading me away from the unconscious form of Kamal.
“Then maybe you can do your boss a favor….”
And that’s how I found myself two states over, sitting in the back of the most child abduction insinuating cube van I have seen in my life.
Driving, is my temporary boss, Heinrich, the creepy, stoic meat slab from the scrap yard.
8 of Heinrich’s associates join me in the muggy, cramped van. We half sit around a crate big enough to make the journey alone barely worth what I’m getting paid. Kamal’s debt included.
The van rocks to a halt, the dusty stagnant air reeks of body odor and flatulence. When the back rolls up the sudden burst of cool night air damn near feels like taking a hit.
We’re at a construction site, parked under the skeleton of a large building, temporary RockCrete flooring above us, and the silent hulks of machinery all around.
For it’s size the crate is light, only takes myself, a twenty something kid with face tattoos and square jawed clean cut guy with heavy military vibes to lift it.
I’d give you their names, but this isn’t the kind of outing where folks get to know each other that well.
The couple of hours before the buyers arrive go by in a typical boring fashion. Despite what film has you believe, these kinds of high end/low stakes illicit deals seldom go south. No point, you want to buy, they want to sell.
The buyers are a group of ancient men, expensive suits are the order of the day, and expensive security by the looks of it as well. These guys are a half dozen pros, not like the methadone clinic looking crew Heinrich decided to bring.
One of the tactical vested bodyguards takes a pry bar to the crate.
“Oh fuck off. “ I say, under my breath.
I was expecting drugs, guns maybe, And despite the terror both of those wreak on the world I’d have been okay with that.
Guessing from the artwork on the boxes, few hundred VHS tapes contained a lot of things I’m not okay with. Violence of every stripe displayed in a gaudy tasteless fashion.
The man to my left, a soul patch sporting guy with curly black hair and resting ‘Sick bastard’ face, snickers.
“Worse than that, I hear those tapes show a new movie every time. Souls of the actors in them. “ Sick Bastard whispers sounding jealous as opposed to disgusted.
This is not something I would have signed up for, but I’m also not suicidal. I’m surrounded by armed men with a lot of cash on the line. I’m assuming SB is full of shit, but just at face value, fuck anyone who’d watch this kind of twisted crap, supernatural or no.
Something hits me, I count heads and confirm my suspicion. I try to run through the assortment of nameless faces from the van, but before I can, I hear it.
“And now, the end is near and so I face that final curtain” My heart sinks, I know the voice, and I know what’s coming.
Heavy footsteps above us as the assortment of thugs look to each other, confused, hands on pistols and cut down shotguns.
I hide.
“My friend, I’ll make it clear, I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain” The lunatic is doing a spot on Sinatra, but his rage and insanity begin to creep into his tone.
The Rockcrete floor above the open crate begins to crack and buckle. Old men shout orders, and the bodyguards scramble to move the case.
“I’ve lived a life that’s full, I travelled each and every highway” “ Mike’s voice travels like a wraith, and a chunk of the flooring above the crate smashes to the floor, the bloodied and torn face of the missing member of the group, a little accountant looking guy who didn’t know how to conceal a handgun for shit sticks through the hole.
In a film, everyone would start shooting upward, in real life, everyone wants to keep this whole situation as silent as possible. Indecision grips Heinrich’s men.
“And more, much more, I did it, I did it my way” Mike finishes a verse and the round man crashes through the ceiling followed by a half pallet of bricks.
They hit the crate but the damage is minimal. The bodyguards spring into action going to remove the body and get their clients merchandise.
I can’t say I saw it coming, but I knew, a mutilated mercenary wasn’t going to be all Mike threw down.
The man is soaked In a thick yellow fluid, all but 2 of the tactical team notice this too late.
A single strip of paper, maybe a receipt or torn bit of newsprint floats down from the ceiling. An orange flame brightly burning in the gloom of the night.
“Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, to few to mention. “ Mike cackles as the crate, man, and most of the tactical team are engulfed by an almost explosive rush of flame.
My heart pounds, and I regret taking this job about as much as telling Mike, basically, to fuck off.
Then I see it, and SB must not have been as full of shit as I thought.
Ghostly grey forms begin to scream out of the burning crate, some violently entering the dead or dying members of the tactical team. They tear back out of the burning men, making them spasm and cough as they vainly try to save themselves.
I realize something, the ‘clown at the door ‘ theory ( a clown in a circus is funny, a clown at your door at 10pm is scary. To boil it down.) of fear, holds very true in real life.
See, on the path, the creatures, and entities, it all became mundane. It was what made the path, the path.
But seeing actual tortured souls, in the real fucking world, freezes me in fear.
“I did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption “ Mike falls from the hole like a shadow, The old men and their remaining guards give up on the burning pile of plastic and moral failings, and burn rubber out of the construction site.
The military guy takes a shot, Heinrich scowls at him and points into the shadows where Mike should be. Before the thug can follow, SB soul patch and all is dragged into the darkness, Mike’s song doesn’t even break tempo as the wet, sounds of the man’s life being ended ring out from the darkness.
A wet piece of gore rolls out from the shadows, eyeless, Sb’s head stares at Heinrich, his men and myself. Most break, running for the street, they break ankles on trip wires, tear themselves open on cleverly hidden bits of barbed steel, but despite this limp and drag themselves to freedom.
The soldier takes aim, and advances into the gloom, tiny pistol mounted flashlight finding no target. At first I think he’s waving Heinrich and myself forward, to get into position, but his arm movements are exaggerated, then one knee starts to buckle, his pistol hits the ground and as he turns I see the last four inches of about a foot of rebar sticking out from his chest. Blood fountains from his mouth, I scream, Heinrich sighs and begins to take off his coat.
I start to run, “Stay! “ Heinrich screams, something in his voice stops me cold, as I look to him, something is off.
As he takes his shirt off, his muscles twitch and coil unnaturally under his skin, and Mike saunters from the darkness, half serrated yellow grin dripping with gore. He fixes Heinrich with a lunatic stare.
“Yes there were times I’m sure you knew, when I bit off more, than I could chew… “ Mike drones as he sprints at the massive man.
The clash is a dirty scrap between alley cat and snapping turtle. Mike producing knives and bludgeons seemingly from nowhere, as the large man takes the punishment, and every so often connects with a looping brutal blow that breaks ribs or sends the clown flying.
They break, exhausted, though Mike clearly having had the worst of the encounter.
In a moment Mike goes from nearly doubled over, to holding a massive clearly homemade revolver. Before Heinrich can react Mike’s fired four times, each shot putting a fist sized hole in the shirtless man.
For a moment Mike looks smug, but as Heinrich’s body begins to twist and warp, the look of confidence is wiped away.
The holes heal, and what is standing before us, looked like the first draft of a werewolf.
Eight feet and easily four hundred pounds of wiry, long patchwork fur, twisted asymmetrical limbs, and an elongated jaw full of strange, flat teeth.
Despite it’s deformity it moves in a blur, Mike has no time to brace before it grabs him, throwing the clown through the tin wall of a storage shed.
It lopes after him, leaping through the hole it created.
I could have ran, probably should have, but maybe, I’m not just some asshole, or some junkie. And if that is the case, running isn’t an option.
The discarded shotgun I pick is still hot from the slowly smoldering crate, faces of souls not lucky enough to escape, slowly freezing in the cooling plastic. I don’t know how much it will do, but maybe I can distract the thing long enough for Mike to get away.
I jog, and at first I hear the sounds of combat, gunfire, rage, and screaming. But after a second of quiet, I hear a wet, percussive noise, I’m 60 feet away, I start to run.
I see a few stray drops of blood fly from the shed, I drive myself forward, shotgun awkwardly held to a shoulder. I try and block out the mental images the brutal, tearing and crunching conjure.
The night is silent, I aim at the hole in the wall, waiting, heart racing, certain death on the other side of scrapyard aluminum.
The canine creature is torn up, one eye a torn mess, ribs gleaming in the scant moonlight. Intestines spill from leather skin, but these wounds staunch and heal even as it drags itself over the jagged tin wall.
I take aim, seeing this unnatural thing, the harbinger of my death stalking toward me. Hoping I can finish the job Mike couldn’t but knowing I won’t.
Before I can fire, a black gloved hand, dripping with gore springs from the shadows, it’s fingers digging hard enough into the dogman’s shoulder to pulp bone.
The look on the things face, as it’s dragged into the darkness of the shed is almost pathetic.
Pieces too small and mangled to identify fly from the shed, and following them, dripping with blood like the victim of an unholy baptism, is Mike.
I notice the eyes first, black like spilled ink, tiny, firey red spots in the center.
He was grabbing me long before he should have reached me, moving like a nightmare. He holds me aloft with one hand, I struggle to hold on to his forearm to catch a breath.
“Mike, I know what this is, it happened with Art. “ I choke out, but even before he replies with a shake of his head and a chuckle, I know I’m wrong.
He walks up a rusted stairway, and holds me above the hole in the ceiling. Black acrid fumes from the fire stinging my eyes.
I beg as I see him let go, it takes a moment for it to hit me that I’m not falling. Though I am completely immobile.
“Oh Kevin, I’m not one of Michael’s little rage born quirks. I’m no snipe or fairy like you’ve seen and vainly coined yourself an occultist.
I am the darkness, I am the bad man, I am the fucking ripper. Though you can call me Demitrious.
Your friend and myself have a pact, once he gets back to his dim little corner of reality, I’m given a from of my own once again. But he can’t do that without a rudder.
I’m sick of wrestling control for minutes, spending endless hours trapped in the fucking void that is your friend’s skull. “ the voice isn’t Mike’s at all, it’s pompous, and full of dark power, “ You will be his rudder, if not, I will flense the body and soul of everyone and everything you’ve ever held dear, ending with yourself.
Do you doubt I can do this Kevin? “
As I float over melted plastic and dully flaming wood I honestly answer, “ No. “
The thing borrowing Mike’s face grins, “ Do not tell Michael of this, I worry he’d take, extreme, measures if he knew the extent of what I am capable of. “
I’m moved slightly to the side and begin to drop, it takes everything in me, to land one foot and throw myself to my right, avoiding a long fall into a lethal landing.
When I get my bearings and look to Mike, his eyes are simply bloodshot and twitching, gone is that looming aura of evil and power. He wears his underdog grin and looks at me in triumph, “ We killed a fucking werewolf! “
Neither of us really did, but I agree to the fictional memory Demitrious implanted in Mike’s brain. A tale of me overcoming fear, and Mike preforming feats more akin to a comic book than the brutal supernatural slaughterhouse we live in.
I tell Mike I’ll help him out, not like I have any choice. And the next day we find ourselves driving across the country. Me, Mike and whatever the hell is living inside of him, on our way to a conversation with the one person on this side of reality we know has any connection to the mountain.