Dear
readers,
I was recently contacted by a young writer named James Darko
who asked if I would allow him to write a short story featuring a character
named “The Behemoth” that I created for a story I published last year. Not only
did I grant him his request, but upon reading his story, I’ve decided to share
his work on my blog with his permission.
It’s my pleasure to introduce a new young writer to you. So
without further ado, I hope you enjoy his story and the Lovecraftian title as
much as I did.
THE THING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
By James Darko
Robert Combs is my name, and by the
time you’ve finished reading these hastily scribbled pages, you’ll understand
why people think I’m insane.
In fact, by the time you read this,
I’ll surely be dead. Overdrawn and unemployed, this old house is all I have to
claim. And soon, when I fail to keep up with the mortgage payments, the bank
will snatch the place out from under me.
But that’s not what unnerves me.
It’s the thing outside my bedroom window.
Every night, it lurks outside my
window. It conceals itself, hiding amongst the shadows, thinking it can fool
me.
Every night, I hear the scratching of prodigious claws and
the fluttering of its long, narrow wings. Every night, it waits patiently for
me to sleep. Just waiting for me to slip up and let my guard down.
As I jot all this down in a
drug-fueled frenzy, it’s been four days since I’ve closed my eyes to sleep. The
cocaine is still keeping me alert and responsive. But my supply dwindles with every
passing hour and soon it will abandon me entirely, leaving a void that can only
be filled by a bullet to the brain.
The .38 Smith & Wesson was
unearthed on my latest expedition to the attic. I found it in an old shoebox,
still loaded. I forgot I still had the thing. It belonged to my late father.
It’s the gun that ended his life. How ironic that the same gun will play a part
in my death as well.
Nevertheless, I will die on my own
terms.
This primordial creature… This retched
abomination… This sin against nature…I will not allow it to take my soul.
By speaking of this beast aloud, I
have alienated myself from my friends and family. My sister thinks I’m having a
mental breakdown. My so-called friends refuse to return my calls. My aunts and
uncles think I should seek professional help. And my erratic behavior cost me
my job at the steel mill.
Many who were born and raised in
Westlake have heard tales of the Behemoth. But few believe these tales to be
more than small-town mythology.
Judd Ballard believed the legends. He
believed them so much that after a brisk encounter with this legendary Behemoth,
he packed his car, fled Long Island, and never looked back.
Judd resided in Mill Pond, three towns
over from Westlake. He was there the night Victor Ward, Harold Dinsmore, Glenn
Parker, and Drayton Sawyer were torn limb from bloody limb.
For whatever reason, the Behemoth
chose to spare Judd’s life. Perhaps so he could spread the word of the macabre
incident and add to the mythology. Or perhaps because it assessed that Judd
Ballard was an innocent man.
Vic, Harold, Glenn, and Drayton all
had something to hide. They all had a part in the death of Julian Campbell.
Campbell, a registered sex offender, was under suspicion for the rape and
murder of Victor Ward’s daughter, Mallory.
It turns out Julian was innocent. The
guilty party was none other than Drayton Sawyer. But Sawyer got what he
deserved. All the men involved got what they deserved.
This monster, it punishes the evil souls, the wrongdoers.
The ones who seek justice on their own terms. The ones who carry out their own wicked
agendas. At least that’s what the legends dictate.
The Behemoth is a guardian, a protector. A purveyor of
justice. So by now you must be asking yourself what horrible atrocity I
committed to warrant its presence.
The .38 Smith & Wesson, I mentioned it ended my father’s
life. I just never said how. It wasn’t suicide. I killed my father, shot him
dead with his own gun. Then staged it to look like a suicide.
I was dishing out my own brand of justice. I felt my actions
were justified. It was his infidelities that led to my mother’s alcoholism. It
led her down a path of self-loathing and destruction that ended in a fatal
crash that claimed her life.
Toxicology reports confirmed she was drunk at the time of
the accident. She lost control, skidded off the road, and collided head-on with
a tree. It was an ugly scene. Barely anything remained of the car.
We couldn’t even give her a proper service and have an open
casket at the wake or the funeral.
If my father had kept his affairs private instead of flaunting
his whores in public, mom never would’ve known. She still might be alive today.
My father didn’t stand to speak at the
wake or the funeral. He never even shed a tear. It wasn’t a week she was in the
ground before he was out running around with his whores again. I couldn’t stand
the sight of him anymore. Something had to be done. So I took matters into my
own hands.
I confess. I’m a sinner. I’ve done
plenty of bad things in my life. And now this beast has come to harvest my
soul. I deserve to pay for my sins, but not at the hands of this abomination.
I got a glimpse of it one night when it was hovering in the
shadows. It could’ve been eight or nine feet tall for all I know. Its weight indeterminable.
Its body was a crust of dry reptilian scales. Long, narrow wings flapped
effortlessly in the breeze. Atop its broad shoulders rested the head of a
triceratops, a prehistoric creature that’s been extinct for about two-hundred
million years.
Three horns jutted from its misshaped skull. Two vertical
horns protruded above its glowing yellow eyes and one curved horn above its
mouth. Its sharp, prodigious claws looked capable of tearing through a steel
vault. And did I mention its fangs?
Oh, sure, go ahead and say it. Robert Combs is crazy. He’s a
loon. But be warned, citizens of Westlake. The Behemoth is real, and one night,
you might find it lurking outside your bedroom window.
Oh, God…I see it now. Two yellow eyes staring back at me through
the window. It’s closer than ever before.
Please don’t judge me. Please forgive me. I’d forgive you if
you were faced with the same utter annihilation that awaits me outside that
window.
The .38 is in my left hand. My finger is wrapped around the
trigger. The barrel is pressed against the side of my head.
Please forgive me.
No comments:
Post a Comment