Howling

He slowly opened his eyes, his vision slowly breaking the blur. His head ached with a sharp pain making his stomach twist in knots. He was going to throw up, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, or the horrendous smell that resonated from around him. 

He lifted his head and peered around at his surroundings. A singular lamp swung above him like a pendulum, illuminating a metal table adorned with leather straps and dirty rags. His gaze lowered to the floor where a thick pool of crimson liquid laid spread out around the table’s legs.

Blood.

             He kicked himself backgrounds in horror, scrambling to get away from the mess that laid before him. A pain in his stomach intensified as he began to hyperventilate at the grotesque site. He patted around his body to make sure he was okay. If it wasn’t his blood, whose could it be? In fact, who was he?

             He sat there a moment in the dark corner trying to retrieve thoughts that just weren’t there. He took a deep, broken sigh and took stock of himself. A green button up shirt, muddy worn boots, grey cargo pants, and a key to an old Ford in his pocket. He didn’t even have a wallet on him. He began to fear the worst. Maybe he was taken hostage with his captor taking all forms of identification from him to suppress him. Who could he have been to be worthy of a kidnapping?

             He climbed to his feet, and a wave of dizziness swept over him like a rush of water. He braced himself against the wall, and squinted as he looked at the lamp above finally slowing its oval motion. He pressed himself against the wall, and skirted past the blood that caked the floor. The door leading out was left wide open. A stupid mistake by his captor. He began to formulate a plan to quickly by passing any doors, and immediately throw himself at the first window leading outside he found.

             He quietly crouched walked through a cluttered room, finally able to recognize it as a small basement. He took a glance back at the weird operating room he had just came from, now fully understanding how out of place it was compared to everything else. It’s almost like it was recently walled off from the rest of the basement since it was clear that the new dry walling didn’t match the rest of the surrounding stone, and wood flooring above him. A sudden screech form the basement made his heart sink into his stomach.

“IT GETS AWAY, IT GOT AWAY, WHAT SHALL THE MASTER SAY?”

His eyes darted around to pin point the source of the crazed voice, when his gaze fell upon a man. Or what was left of one. A torso with a head sat chained from the ceiling, bellowing out nonsense as he made himself swing back and forth. He stopped as his eye met the terrified man by the operating room door.

“OH MASTER, MASTER. HOW EVER SHALL WE PUNISH THE RUNNER?” The hanging man asked locking eyes to him.

“Quiet you damn idiot!” He hushed approaching the poor hanging fool. “Where the hell are we?”

“WHY, WE ARE AT THE FUN HOUSE, SILLY GOOSE.”

“Jesus Christ, what have they done to you man?”

The hanging man stopped, his expression turned sour.

“I AM WHAT THE MASTER MAKES ME. I AM HIS HOLY WATCHER OF ALL THINGS!”

“Who? Who is the master?” He said glancing around the basement for signs of anyone else.

             The hanging man began to laugh hysterically, crying out for his master with each gasp of air he took. It was a disturbing sight that cemented the idea of jumping head first through the first window he could find.

He left the hanging man to his torment, knowing that he was beyond any help he could give him currently. He knew that if he could find a way out, he could alert the authorities to get him the help he needs. If there even was such a thing.

        His eyes finally came to rest on a wooden stair case in the back corner of the basement. He scurried his way through the piles of junk that littered the space around him. He slowly peered up the steps to a metal door at the top. Of course it would be metal, why wouldn’t this freak have a steel door to keep his prey down here?

             He slowly began to ascend each step, eyes glued to the door above. He kept having thoughts of the door swinging open, and a redneck with a chainsaw standing at the top daring him to finish his climb. As he reached the final step he noticed the metal door was cracked open. He peeked through the slit and saw what appeared to be a kitchen on the other side. He listened for a second. Nothing. This was his chance to escape!

             He quietly pushed the door open and crept into the kitchen that appeared to be straight form the 1970s. It was disgusting. The dishes in the sink haven’t been cleaning in month, trash bags stacked anywhere his captor could fit them, and cockroaches darted into the stove at the sound of movement. The smell made him gag, but he placed his hand on his mouth forbidding himself to make a peep.

             He tipped toed around the bags, bracing himself on the walls to not trip over anything and reveal his escape. He made his way into a long hallways, much cleaner than the kitchen he had just left. Joy came rushing as he saw the front door at the end of the hall.

Freedom!

             He unconsciously made the decision to make a mad dash towards the door in a full sprint. His boots pounding on the hard wood floor with every massive stride he took. His hand grasped the door knob, the excitement building up in his stomach. He heard a loud crack followed by an ungodly amount of pain on the back of his head. He slumped to the floor in agony, holding his head tight with both hands fearing additional follow up strikes.

                He looked up as a young woman stood over him with a wooden base ball bat, the blood from his head staining the name ‘lil sluggers on the side. She stared down at him with hatred painted on her bruised and battered face. She raised the bat over her head and brought it down on his knees with a thunderous crack.  He cried out in pain, and began to wildly kick at her at put some distance between them.

“Stop, please!” He pleaded scooting away raising an arm to protect his face. “Why are you doing this to me!”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Please, I won’t tell anyone I was here. I’ll tell people I went for a walk in the woods and got lost, please!”

The woman stared down at him with a puzzled look drawn on her face, now turning pale with the fading of her adrenaline.

“What are you-“ She started lowering her guard for a brief moment, but catching herself and raising the bat once more. “Think you can trick me? I’ll kill you!”

She ferociously  pummeled him with the bat, each strike delivering with enough force to smash a pile of bricks. She began to huff and puff as each blow grew weaker. She put everything she had left physically into that attack which left him curled up in a ball on the floor sobbing.

“You took the wrong girl.” She spat tossing her cracked weapon into the hall beyond them. She opened the door, exiting the torture house, and limped out of sight down the dirt driveway.

             He uncurled himself, and laid on his back staring at the ceiling above. Every inch of his body ached from the assault he just received. However, his tears of fear became tears of anger. His memories came flooding back like a locomotive with no brakes. The blood. The sweet, copper smell of blood brought a smile to his face like it has for so many years. Reminiscing on her savage face as she pummeled him reminded him of his first kill. Maybe, in another universe, she could’ve taken his place.

             He climbed to his feet, and stumbled his way back down into the basement. The garbage bags piled in the kitchen bringing him joy for being full of mementos of past glories. He walked over to the hanging man, pulling down a nearby hook and chain. He puffed a broken breath on the tip, and wiped it with his shirt. It had to be perfect for this one. This ‘trial’ was going to be his best one yet.

“THE MASTER HUNTS TONIGHT?” The hanging man asked with a crooked smile.

“Yes, I’ll bring you home a wife. A sweet, sweet little wife.”

He darted up the stairs, and out into the crisp summer air. It was dusk, perfect time for the hunt. He felt silly for letting her get the better of him, and briefly forgetting how much of an important person he was. He was important. The people on the news talked about him all the time. He let out a loud howl that echoed through the trees. The hunt had begun, and he ALWAYS got his prey.

He was Geoffrey Dunner, the howling killer, and he will never forget that again.