Page 11 of Nightshades

Following the scent is simple, and when I find it, I’m going to kill whatever or whoever belongs to the smell confounding my mind.

The intriguing scent isn’t the only one in the air.

I’m in the middle of the woods, keeping a low profile for now, considering my appearance is far from human. That doesn’t bother me. I love lurking in the shadows and becoming what everyone fears.

Bending down, I swipe my fingers through the puddle of blood, snarling. I’ve been following a poacher for a few days now who has been killing deer illegally.

Would I normally give a fuck about deer? No, but it isn’t the right thing to do. People should be punished for the crimes they commit.

Sucking my fingers into my mouth, I immediately spit it out when the taste of rotten trash spreads over my taste buds. Add another reason to the list of why I need this scent to go away. Ever since I smelled it two days ago, I haven’t been hungry.

I haven’t been able to stomach anything. I immediately throw up, and all that does is enrage me.

About a mile ahead, dogs bark and growl, probably attacking another deer during a season when no one is allowed to hunt.

Black smoke in the shape of an oversized shadow of myself emerges from me, tendrils acting as fog, slithering along the ground to ensnare the killer. Every few feet, another deer liesdead on the ground with its antlers sawed off as close to the skull as possible.

I pat the dead dear, growling at the viciousness of its death. Not only was he shot, but it has bites all over its body and neck.

That is unnecessarily cruel.

Blurring closer to the hunter, I hide behind a nearby tree, smirking when the nightmare inches closer to the group. The leader is a blonde woman with blue eyes, flanked by two men. Over the last few days, I learned her name is Greta, and the dogs heel by her side, showing how well trained they are.

She squats, sawing off the antlers to the latest kill, and I urge the nightmare forward.

“La-la-la-la-la-la,”the malevolent black shadow sings into the cool morning air.

“What was that, Greg?” Greta asks, the grinding of the saw stopping mid-swipe.

“What was what?” Greg asks, twisting and turning to see if anyone or anything is there.

He’s tall and a bit scrawny. Breaking his bones would be a pleasure I wouldn’t feel guilty about. So thin, it’s as if he is daring me to snap his skeleton to see if the bones would penetrate the skin as easily as I think they would.

A low chuckle vibrates my throat. I’ve been playing with my food ever since I saw them kill three deer in an hour period, and I’ve been stalking them ever since.

After a day or so, I learned that the nightmare gets into their heads, and they are able to hear the song that reminds me of a horror movie.

“La-lala-la-la-laaaa.”

“What the fuck is that? Is that you, Ronald?” Greta hisses, dropping the saw from her hands. Her blonde hair flips over her shoulders when she looks left and right.

“I don’t hear anything, Greta,” the one called Ronald chimes in, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. He’s shorter with more meat on his bones, and I’m curious how he would beg for his life if he saw me snap his friend in half. “Maybe we should call it. These woods have been creeping me out, and we have plenty of antlers. We even have a few with the velvet still on them. That’s going to bring us good money. Come on, let’s go.”

“No,” Greta argues, squatting down to grab the saw again. “We can get a few more.”

The grinding of the metal against the antlers causes me to clench my teeth. I growl, pushing my nightmare forward, teasing them with death, and the best part is that they have no idea they will never leave these woods.

I’m going to poach them. I’m going to rip the skin off their bones and use their skeleton in whatever way I see fit. I miss my motorcycle, and their bones would bring a delicious twist to a bike I’ll build from the ground up.

I need a project to keep me busy when I’m not feeding on the fear and nightmares of others.

“La-lala-la-la-laaaa.”

She stops sawing again, and a grin spreads across my face when Greta looks over her shoulder. “You don’t hear that, Greg?” she whispers to her friends, her fear and anxiety kicking up a notch.

I inhale deeply, loving how good her terror smells. I can’t wait to get inside her head to see how fucked up her mind is. I wonder what her worst fear is? I wonder how she will die when I have her in the grasp of the evil that rules me.

“Greta, we don’t hear anything,” Greg exhales on an annoyed breath. “Stop trying to freak us out.”