Beyond Stories

hollmonster:

This is the Buckley Family. The children’s names were Susan and John. As a Halloween joke, all the kids in the neighborhood were going to get a dummy and pretend to chop its head off. The Buckley children thought it would be hilarious to actually murder their mother, so when the kids walked up the the door, they got an axe and slaughtered her. Once everyone figured out what they had really done, they called the police, but the kids were long gone by then. The only picture of them was this photo, taken by a trick or treater. The mothers body was later found half eaten.

hollmonster:

This is the Buckley Family. The children’s names were Susan and John. As a Halloween joke, all the kids in the neighborhood were going to get a dummy and pretend to chop its head off. The Buckley children thought it would be hilarious to actually murder their mother, so when the kids walked up the the door, they got an axe and slaughtered her. Once everyone figured out what they had really done, they called the police, but the kids were long gone by then. The only picture of them was this photo, taken by a trick or treater. The mothers body was later found half eaten.

Part 4
The minotaur had kicked open a boarded-up door and ran into a rotting hotel. The hero ran through and saw the monster’s work. 
Walls had been pushed down and hallways blocked. The creature had knocked holes in the floor and covered windows to create pools of shadow. 
The hero appreciated the effort. He drew his combat knife and a sawed-off baseball bat and crept into the labyrinth, following the smell of blood and cow. The hero could hear the monster’s breath, quick and heavy, and he could feel himself panting along. 
The smell of blood and cow changed, grew sweet and heavy as the hero turned the corner. He saw bodies lined up in rows on the floor, face up. The hero counted thirteen. 
Six Barbies. Seven Kens. 
The monster stopped breathing. The hero knew it was close, and he tensed before it rushed. 
The minotaur burst through a wall, bellowing in a voice just short of a man’s. It stood, eyes rolling and muzzle caked with blood and foam, and howled at the hero.
The hero howled back, diving at the minotaur. He stabbed and pounded as the minotaur crushed him, ignoring the tight, floating pain as his ribs began to break. The hero tore and bit, babbling a stream of meaningless sound that became “Get it! Get it! Get it!” as the beast screamed and died beneath him. 
The hero stood, ignoring the pain. He cut the minotaur’s ears and tail off quickly, stuffing them into a trash bag. Money from the Greek, money from a collector. Good day. 
He stopped as he heard a whimper from the room where the minotaur had waited for him. A girl sat in a pile of rags, shivering and crying silently. She reached bound hands to him. 

The hero walked past the girl the minotaur had left. She was dead anyway. 

Part 4

The minotaur had kicked open a boarded-up door and ran into a rotting hotel. The hero ran through and saw the monster’s work.

Walls had been pushed down and hallways blocked. The creature had knocked holes in the floor and covered windows to create pools of shadow.

The hero appreciated the effort. He drew his combat knife and a sawed-off baseball bat and crept into the labyrinth, following the smell of blood and cow. The hero could hear the monster’s breath, quick and heavy, and he could feel himself panting along.

The smell of blood and cow changed, grew sweet and heavy as the hero turned the corner. He saw bodies lined up in rows on the floor, face up. The hero counted thirteen.

Six Barbies. Seven Kens.

The monster stopped breathing. The hero knew it was close, and he tensed before it rushed.

The minotaur burst through a wall, bellowing in a voice just short of a man’s. It stood, eyes rolling and muzzle caked with blood and foam, and howled at the hero.

The hero howled back, diving at the minotaur. He stabbed and pounded as the minotaur crushed him, ignoring the tight, floating pain as his ribs began to break. The hero tore and bit, babbling a stream of meaningless sound that became “Get it! Get it! Get it!” as the beast screamed and died beneath him.

The hero stood, ignoring the pain. He cut the minotaur’s ears and tail off quickly, stuffing them into a trash bag. Money from the Greek, money from a collector. Good day.

He stopped as he heard a whimper from the room where the minotaur had waited for him. A girl sat in a pile of rags, shivering and crying silently. She reached bound hands to him.

The hero walked past the girl the minotaur had left. She was dead anyway. 

Part 3
The hero tracked the thing for two days before he saw it. He could see the signs in the neighborhood where it had been hunting. The streets were empty. Taggers had quit pissing over one another’s turf markings and posted up eyes and horns in spray paint and marker. Old, broken dolls sat around a fire hydrant, eyes gazing into the distance. 
Seven Kens. Seven Barbies. 
The streets were free of the little predators that made the hero’s job harder. No gang kids trying to play hard, no pushers protecting their patch. No women to distract him. 
All the little predators gave The Greek a taste. Big predator had his hand in the Greek’s pocket. 
The hero heard a scream from an alley. He ran hard, saw the thing haul its bulk over a wall. The thing wore rags and torn cloth over a barrel chest. It stared back at him, blank, tossing its horns as it snorted. 
The hero stepped over the girl the minotaur had left. She was dead anyway. 
The hero ran.
***
The hero had gotten the tattoo on his throat after killing a bloated thing with corpse skin and rows of pointed teeth in an old storm sewer. The thing had taken a chunk out of his thigh, so the hero went to ground and healed and read. 
School hadn’t worked for the hero. He’d been sent to a special school after the fifth incident, where he’d learned to fight when no one could see you and keep your head down otherwise. A teacher read myths to the students, stories about monsters and heroes and wars a thousand years and a million miles from the school. 
“These were hard men,” the teacher said. “Hercules? Tough. Achilles? Tough. Beowulf was so tough, they used the same word for him that they used for the monster he killed. Aglæca. Fearsome. 
“These were hard men who knew how to fight and didn’t fight to fuck other people over. They fought for the right.” 
The hero had thought about that while he healed. He used the money he’d gotten from the collector who’d wanted the bloated thing’s heart and had the word tattooed on his throat. 

AGLÆCA, the hero thought as the needle bit. Fearsome. 

Part 3

The hero tracked the thing for two days before he saw it. He could see the signs in the neighborhood where it had been hunting. The streets were empty. Taggers had quit pissing over one another’s turf markings and posted up eyes and horns in spray paint and marker. Old, broken dolls sat around a fire hydrant, eyes gazing into the distance.

Seven Kens. Seven Barbies.

The streets were free of the little predators that made the hero’s job harder. No gang kids trying to play hard, no pushers protecting their patch. No women to distract him.

All the little predators gave The Greek a taste. Big predator had his hand in the Greek’s pocket.

The hero heard a scream from an alley. He ran hard, saw the thing haul its bulk over a wall. The thing wore rags and torn cloth over a barrel chest. It stared back at him, blank, tossing its horns as it snorted.

The hero stepped over the girl the minotaur had left. She was dead anyway.

The hero ran.

***

The hero had gotten the tattoo on his throat after killing a bloated thing with corpse skin and rows of pointed teeth in an old storm sewer. The thing had taken a chunk out of his thigh, so the hero went to ground and healed and read.

School hadn’t worked for the hero. He’d been sent to a special school after the fifth incident, where he’d learned to fight when no one could see you and keep your head down otherwise. A teacher read myths to the students, stories about monsters and heroes and wars a thousand years and a million miles from the school.

“These were hard men,” the teacher said. “Hercules? Tough. Achilles? Tough. Beowulf was so tough, they used the same word for him that they used for the monster he killed. Aglæca. Fearsome.

“These were hard men who knew how to fight and didn’t fight to fuck other people over. They fought for the right.”

The hero had thought about that while he healed. He used the money he’d gotten from the collector who’d wanted the bloated thing’s heart and had the word tattooed on his throat.

AGLÆCA, the hero thought as the needle bit. Fearsome

Part 2
The hero learned he was a hero at a FOB south of Day Chopan. The judge had looked in his eyes and told him that a war might do him some good, and the hero agreed. 
He’d been on patrol when the thing jumped his fire-team, all long hair and scorpion claws and howling in Pashto. The thing killed two men before the hero raised his rifle and clipped the gun in two with a brass claw before he had a chance to fire. 
The hero didn’t remember feeling much during the fight. He’d drawn his combat knife and ducked under the thing’s tail, smelling honey and battery acid as the thing screamed in his face. He remembered stabbing the thing, his knife pinning its mouth shut as he sawed at it.  He remembered dried flowers pouring from its neck when he pulled the head free. 
“She gone, hoss.” The dead-eyed Okie stared at the thing’s corpse and licked his lips. “Power down. She gone.” 
The dead-eyed Okie dropped a grenade on the thing’s corpse and reported enemy action and kept the thing’s head. That night, he sat with the hero downwind from the FOB. They smoked and the Okie told him about killing vampires in Tulsa and setting a werewolf on fire in Muskogee. 
“Good money in it, once you get loose of this. Collectors and folks in the know and whatnot. Gotta be prepared, though.” The dead-eyed Okie pulled a small toolbox, unrolled a worn wool blanket. The hero saw knives and pliers, plastic bags and silver bullets, lockpicks and rubber gloves and a pair of torn panties with teddy bears on them.

“Gotta get you a kit.” The dead-eyed Okie licked his lips as he rolled the blanket. “Had to change my kit, when I learned about monsters.” 

Part 2

The hero learned he was a hero at a FOB south of Day Chopan. The judge had looked in his eyes and told him that a war might do him some good, and the hero agreed.

He’d been on patrol when the thing jumped his fire-team, all long hair and scorpion claws and howling in Pashto. The thing killed two men before the hero raised his rifle and clipped the gun in two with a brass claw before he had a chance to fire.

The hero didn’t remember feeling much during the fight. He’d drawn his combat knife and ducked under the thing’s tail, smelling honey and battery acid as the thing screamed in his face. He remembered stabbing the thing, his knife pinning its mouth shut as he sawed at it.  He remembered dried flowers pouring from its neck when he pulled the head free.

“She gone, hoss.” The dead-eyed Okie stared at the thing’s corpse and licked his lips. “Power down. She gone.”

The dead-eyed Okie dropped a grenade on the thing’s corpse and reported enemy action and kept the thing’s head. That night, he sat with the hero downwind from the FOB. They smoked and the Okie told him about killing vampires in Tulsa and setting a werewolf on fire in Muskogee.

“Good money in it, once you get loose of this. Collectors and folks in the know and whatnot. Gotta be prepared, though.” The dead-eyed Okie pulled a small toolbox, unrolled a worn wool blanket. The hero saw knives and pliers, plastic bags and silver bullets, lockpicks and rubber gloves and a pair of torn panties with teddy bears on them.

“Gotta get you a kit.” The dead-eyed Okie licked his lips as he rolled the blanket. “Had to change my kit, when I learned about monsters.” 

Part 1
The hero stared at a concrete wall, lifted a barbell and waited for something to kill. 
He worked out in a gym frequented by ex-cons and second-string cage fighters. It was a small, dim place but the hero liked it. He’d gone to one of those fancy-plain places before, a place with posters yelling on concrete walls and pretty people yelling and feeling strong. 
It didn’t work out that well.  
Ex-cons didn’t ask questions when they saw the eagles and swastikas in thick, broken lines on his arms, nodded and let him work out whatever he needed to work out that pushed the hero to ink HOPELESS on his knuckles in a child’s unsteady scrawl or AGLÆCA across his throat in heavy block letters. The cage fighters knew better than to pick a fight without a purse, so they’d look away once they looked into his eyes. Neither of them usually brought girls to the gym. That helped too. 
The hero had read enough and had made enough mistakes to know that heroes didn’t do well with girls. 
***
“Stealing bitches on my patch!” The Greek spat and ground his teeth. “This fucking thing! Fuck this fucking thing!” 
The hero waited and thought about killing the Greek. He thought about looting the restaurant and burning the restaurant and taking the Greek somewhere quiet until there wasn’t anything left of him to play with. 
“Wipe the drool off your chin, you sick fuck.” The Greek stared into the hero’s eyes for a moment and looked away. 
People didn’t like to look at the hero too long. 
“We know where it takes them, we know where it leaves what’s left.” The Greek ticked the points off on his fingers, one, two. “We know that it’s strong enough to break a man’s back and we know that it doesn’t give two tugs of my dick about bullets.” Tick, tick, three, four. 
“What else you need? You need the money up front?” The Greek swallowed and looked at the men he had guarding the door. The two men kept their eyes away from the hero. 
“Tell me where it was and I’ll do the rest.” The hero stood and walked past the guards, dwarfing them as he walked out. “I’ll get the money after.” 

Part 1

The hero stared at a concrete wall, lifted a barbell and waited for something to kill. 

He worked out in a gym frequented by ex-cons and second-string cage fighters. It was a small, dim place but the hero liked it. He’d gone to one of those fancy-plain places before, a place with posters yelling on concrete walls and pretty people yelling and feeling strong. 

It didn’t work out that well.  

Ex-cons didn’t ask questions when they saw the eagles and swastikas in thick, broken lines on his arms, nodded and let him work out whatever he needed to work out that pushed the hero to ink HOPELESS on his knuckles in a child’s unsteady scrawl or AGLÆCA across his throat in heavy block letters. The cage fighters knew better than to pick a fight without a purse, so they’d look away once they looked into his eyes. Neither of them usually brought girls to the gym. That helped too. 

The hero had read enough and had made enough mistakes to know that heroes didn’t do well with girls. 

***

“Stealing bitches on my patch!” The Greek spat and ground his teeth. “This fucking thing! Fuck this fucking thing!” 

The hero waited and thought about killing the Greek. He thought about looting the restaurant and burning the restaurant and taking the Greek somewhere quiet until there wasn’t anything left of him to play with. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin, you sick fuck.” The Greek stared into the hero’s eyes for a moment and looked away. 

People didn’t like to look at the hero too long. 

“We know where it takes them, we know where it leaves what’s left.” The Greek ticked the points off on his fingers, one, two. “We know that it’s strong enough to break a man’s back and we know that it doesn’t give two tugs of my dick about bullets.” Tick, tick, three, four. 

“What else you need? You need the money up front?” The Greek swallowed and looked at the men he had guarding the door. The two men kept their eyes away from the hero. 

“Tell me where it was and I’ll do the rest.” The hero stood and walked past the guards, dwarfing them as he walked out. “I’ll get the money after.” 

davethegame:

theremina:

John Brosio

The crab one is my favorite (even though it’s probably the wrong color)