Masks and Monsters nosleep

The other day, I decided to drive the winding road that led down to the cabin my old man built back before I was born; he had suffered a stroke a year ago and no one had been over there since. I figured I might as well clean it up a bit, make it nice again, try to bring my old man while I still had the chance.

The cabin was about an hour drive from Manitou Springs and I made it there at around 6PM. The first thing I noticed was the unsettling amount of trash surrounding it; I had heard stories about drifters setting up at abandoned or out of season cabins and hesitated, wondering if I should call the police or at least one of the other cabin owners. But none of the trash looked recent, so instead of doing either, I drove my car right up to the front door and got out.

The cabin was locked and untouched, though, thank god, I don’t think my dad could’ve handled it if it had been broken into. I breathed a sigh of relief, unlocked the front door and went inside.

It was dark; the windows were covered in patterned curtains my mom had sewn when I was a kid. There was this un-lived in feeling, this unused smell, and I quickly powered on the generator and turned on the lights.

A warm glow filled the room and any fear I felt quickly dissipated. I flicked on my phone, saw I had one bar, and texted my mom, telling her I had arrived safely and the cabin was fine and that I was probably just going to stay the night, clean up a bit, and head back in the morning. She told me to be safe and that was that.

Now, it was always tradition for my family to watch a horror flick while we were staying at the cabin and, so, for some strange reason it felt wrong to not have one on. I know, I know, who watches horror movies while staying alone at a cabin in the middle of the woods that could have drifters—or worse—nearby?

But I wasn’t scared, honest; I had grown up here, had spent many summers hiking the surrounding woods and fishing the nearby lake for trout and there was a gentle kind of nostalgia imbued in the place, it made me feel comfortable, at ease. Besides, if it came to it, I had my old man’s old rifle at the ready.

I knew there were bunch of old classic horror VHS tapes stuffed in the dresser next to the old, boxy TV. Night of the Living Dead, Nightmare on Elmstreet, The Poltergeist, The Shining, and so on. There were also a few tapes of recorded episodes of The X-Files and Goosebumps stacked on top of the TV.

I popped in The Poltergeist, popped open a beer, and packed a bowl. Outside, the sky was clear, colored blood orange by the setting sun. I cracked the window and blew smoke out while staring at the sky above. It was slowly changing from orange to deep purple.

Happily not sober, I decided to start cleaning and left the cabin to grab the supplies from the car and pick up some of the trash. As I was making my way to the car, I glanced towards the trees and saw what looked like the shadow of a man duck behind the trees. Startled, but trying not to panic, I grabbed my stuff and hurried back inside the cabin, locking the door behind me.

I paused for a moment, breathing, thinking, watching the hallucinating ghost hunter picking the skin off his face on the TV. I wondered if I should alert someone or if I was just being paranoid…maybe I didn’t see anything, maybe it was just the wind shifting the branches, creating strange shadows…I shook my head, walked over and popped the tape out without rewinding it all the way back to the beginning, put in Night of the Living Dead, and got to polishing up the kitchen area.

By the time I finished it was pretty late and I had just gotten to the part where they’re listening to the news broadcast and learn that the murder victims are being eaten by their killers. Strange shadow in the woods totally forgotten, I laughed and sat down for a few minutes watching the drama, the fear, unfold.

“Mr. Cooper is such an asshole,” I muttered to myself, taking another swig of beer, and standing up. I grabbed some of the used paper towels I had thrown on the floor and stuffed them into an almost bursting trash bag, then tied it up and set it next to the front door before slipping on my shoes.

Outside crickets chirruped and the wind whistled through the needles of the pines and a lone owl hooted. The sky was bright and magnificent and beautiful. A rounded moon hung low over the forest, gilding it silver and grey. Behind it, around it, the stars sparkled mischievously.

I rounded the house and threw the trash bag in the small storage shed. I stopped on the way back ‘round and glanced up, trying to pick out constellations I recognized from the sea of stars above me, which was harder than it sounds.

Between you and me, there were times when I wished I would witness something spooky: a quick glimpse of a large hairy humanoid, the glint of red eyes watching me from behind a tree, the call of a hunting skin walker, a UFO zooming across the sky…

As a child—and even now as an adult—I was always fascinated by the real monsters, those Lovecraftian type beasts, the leviathans beneath the surface, the old gods up beyond the stars, the cryptids wandering our world—there was something about them that made me more curious than scared. There was this yearning inside me, this desire to see something strange, unexplainable, inexplicable. I wanted to believe. I wanted to know.

What scared me—really scared me—were those monsters in masks. Humans. People who hid behind false personas, narcissists, psychopaths, killers, rapists—bad people. That was the kind of horror that truly terrified me: the kind that could actually happen.

There was a sound to the left of me, near the tree line of the forest, and I jumped. It was a meowing sound, like a cat in distress and then, behind it, fainter, the sound of a little girl crying. It sounded like someone had lost their cat and was trying to find it. I knew that there were a few other cabins in the area and wondered if a little girl had gotten lost herself looking for her lost cat.

I hesitated, thinking that it wasn’t up to me to interfere, that I should let her family find her, or, at the very least, drive over to the nearest cabin and ask about a little girl. But then I remembered what happened to Kitty Genovese and realized that I was part of the problem, that a good person, an unmasked person, would help. So, I ran back inside, grabbed my old man’s rifle and a headlamp.

The woods were quiet that night, calm, and it would’ve been a nice time for a moonlit stroll if not for the sound of the cat yowling and the girl crying. It sounded like she was mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out. Maybe she was calling out for her cat.

I stumbled through the brush, sweeping the beam of my headlamp across and between the trees, trying to see where the sound was coming from. And then I saw it.

And it wasn’t a girl.

It wasn’t a cat.

It was a shape, large as a man, crouching in the darkness between to stumps. I stopped dead in my tracks, eyes wide, lungs bursting from not daring to breath. I lifted the rifle with shaking arms, aiming it directly at the shape. It stood up slowly, and I realized that it was a man, a man wearing a horrific ghostly mask. He laughed and lunged at me. I fired once, but he was too fast and I was too scared. He knocked the rifle from my grip and sucked punched me right in the mouth, then ripped off my headlamp throwing us into total darkness.

I staggered back, and felt something soft, warm, behind me. It was another man. He too was wearing a mask, but instead of a grinning ghost, it was a glaring demon. He was holding a shovel.

“A perfect specimen,” the one in the ghost mask said in a raspy voice.

“A suitable sacrifice,” the other agreed. Then he meowed.

The ghost laughed, then cried out, high pitched, warbling—a perfect mimicry of a little girl.

The one in the demon mask swung the shovel at me, hitting me square between the shoulders and I screamed in pain, falling to my knees. I tried to scramble up, but felt a tug near my feet and looked down, the ghost was holding them tight, while the demon pulled out a round of duct tape. I moaned, dazed and afraid and slow. I struggled for a moment, then heard the sound of my own voice screaming out.

“Help me! Help me! Oh god!”

The demon slapped me and then placed a strip of tape over my mouth. I started to hyperventilate, choking on my own spit. I rammed my head forward and felt it connect. The demon gasped, his hand shooting up to his face, releasing their grip from my arms.

“Ooo. A fighter. I like that.” The ghost laughed again, stood up, and shoved the demon aside.

I started to cry, great heaving sobs, but for a moment the fear of suffocating outweighed everything else and, arms now free, I ripped the piece of tape off, gasped for air, and screamed for help again. The ghost lifted his leg, ready to stomp down, and then, above my own sobs, I heard it; faint at first, then stronger, closer: a low rumble.

Two red eyes emerged from the darkness of the forest.

A dog—no, a wolf—huge and fast bounded out from the trees and leapt at the ghost, latching itself onto his arm. The weight of the canine threw him back and he landed on the ground with an echoing thud. He made a gurgling sound as his hands ripped at the wolf’s fur. It growled again and shook the man like a doll until his arm popped out of his socket. The ghost screamed in pain, trying to shove the wolf away. The demon was on his feet now, scrabbling around the forest floor for the shovel.

The wolf half turned, almost like it was about to leave, then lunged back at the ghost, at his throat, crunching down with force then jerking sideways, ripping out his entire trachea in the process. Blood, thick and steaming, pulsed from his neck, soaking the ground beneath him black. The man gurgled again, reaching out at the wolf who was crouched above him, eating him, before letting his arm fall, limp, dead.

Shovel now in hand, the demon came up from behind the wolf and hit it, hard, with its edge. I screamed and the wolf yelped then staggered, falling forward as its legs buckled beneath it. The demon raised the shovel again, but there was a series of pounding footsteps and a shadow flew out of the trees and tackled the demon before he could swing down.

It was another man wearing yet another mask—a gas mask. The thought that he might have been part of this and just got cold feet crossed my mind, but then I realized that couldn’t be right…where did the wolf come in? And he was wearing a suit.

He was now straddling the man in the demon mask, pinning him down, punching him repeatedly in the face with his left hand. The demon made a yelping noise and attempted to protect his head with his hands to no avail. The man in the gas mask suddenly spoke, each word punctuated by a blow straight to the face.

“Fuck. Your. God. Damn. Cult.”

He stood suddenly, leaving the demon sputtering beneath him, it sounded like he was saying something.

“Puh…ple…puh…”

The guy in the gas mask picked up the shovel and hefted it high above him.

“Please..,plea—”

He brought the shovel down and it slammed into the demon’s head, making a sickening crunch as his skull shattered. A dark, viscous liquid leaked from underneath the mask.

And then, that was it. The demon was dead. Beaten to death. Job done, the guy in the gas mask threw the shovel to the ground, walked over to the wolf, and knelt down beside it.

The last thing I remember seeing was the guy holding his hand out to the wolf, several of his fingers looked broken. The wolf sniffed it, then turned towards me, as if it suddenly realized I was watching. Its entire face was stained red with blood and it opened its mouth in a pant but I swear it was smiling—its eyes bright in the moonlight.

I lifted my head half an inch off the ground to see better and then…I fainted.

When I woke up I was back inside the cabin. The lights were still on and so was the TV. On the counter, I saw two or three more empty beer bottles than I remember and a dirty plate of an almost finished pie. Confused, I sat up and peered around noticing how incredibly spotless the cabin now was and wondered where the pie could’ve possible come from when I saw it. On the table next to the refrigerator. It should’ve scared me, really, but it didn’t. Seeing it there, innocently, neat, made me feel safe, protected.

It was a plate with half a sandwich, some chips, an uneaten slice of pie, and a large glass of water. Next to the water was the bottle of ibuprofen I had packed, just in case.

I glanced back over at the TV. It wasn’t playing Night of the Living Dead anymore, but an X-files episode…Shapes the one where they go to Montana to find a murderer and end up finding a werewolf instead.

I stood, slightly woozy, and walked over to the table. My throat was on fire and my head was pounding. The glass of water felt cool in my hand and I took several long, deep gulps almost emptying it before popping two pills into my mouth and swallowing them with the rest of the water.

In my mind, I could hear the sound of the guy’s fist hitting that demon’s face again and again and again. The sound of the mask crunching into his skin, of his nose shattering, of his skull splitting wide open. The sharp snap, snap, snap of the gas mask man’s fingers breaking.

Behind me, through the slightly cracked window, a playful draft of wind ruffled my hair and I glanced over at it; the first rays of the sun were just beginning to climb up and over the mountains waking the birds, making them sing. In the distance, carried by the wind, a lone wolf howled.

I shuddered for a moment, and then, slowly, timidly, grinned.

Submitted July 31, 2017 at 08:06AM by darthvarda http://ift.tt/2vkirYe nosleep