I do not live. I am a creature, a thing. There are some that have called me ‘monster’ without knowing the truth. Without wanting to know. They would not understand anyway; their little minds would shrink away from the awful reality of my existence. I do not live, I just am. Forget what you think you know about me and my kind. The legends and myths were created by those that were the first, and kept alive by those that came after. We are not murderers. We do not live, but we do feed. On blood, as you might suspect. But only when what we call the Hunger takes us.
Other times, we eat as you mortals do, the breads and meats of Mother Earth. But when the Hunger takes us, then we are hunters. And you humans are sheep. We allow our chosen prey to know we are coming, and what we are. The knowing causes the fear to grow, and the blood becomes sweeter. Warmer. When we take our prey, it is almost hot, so hot that it eases the pain and the coldness within us that is the Hunger. Blood, though, is only a part of what we feed on. We feed upon the moment of death that releases of energy that is the soul. Oh, yes. Souls do exist. So does God.
Does that surprise you, to hear one such as myself speak of God? It should not. God created all. He is the Master. We fear Him, for it is by His hands that we are most often slain. His hands, you ask? The priests and other holy men and women that perform exorcisms, practically the only means by which we can be slain. Our souls are exorcised, cast out to the final Darkness, where it is His face we see, mocking us with His pity and sadness over the loss of our souls. How else can we be slain? By fire, or by dismemberment. The destruction of our hearts can also work, but please, no wooden stakes.
They make a hole, but do nothing more. Other means are myth. Silver does not work upon us, and neither does garlic. The sun is but a star, not a searing light that turns us to dust. Holy objects, such as crosses, make us uncomfortable, but only the oldest, most vile of us are harmed by them. Why am I telling you this? Simple. I do not live. I exist. And I am tired of existing. For five hundred years, I have existed, and have never longed for mortality like I do now. I wish for death, a real death. I want this blackened, twisted thing I call a soul to be released and cast out, for I hate it, and I hate myself.
Why, why, why? I will tell you why. The first time I felt this presence, it was in the night-club where I and a few other of my kind spend our nights. I own ‘The Place’. A stupid name, I know. But it caught on, and my customers are many. My sheep are many, for I and those with me pick our prey from among the patrons when the Hunger comes. My club is a cage, you see. A ‘free-range’ where I watch my herd and harvest it every so often. There are always more to take the place of the ones I and those with me feed upon. Always.
I sit in my place, a table in the rear of the club, which sits on a short platform overlooking the dance floor and bar, and from there I can watch you mortals enter. And I smile as I see you come, dressed in ‘fashion’ and giggling to each other. Trying to look important as you come through my doors. Trying to look powerful, you know nothing of power. All your money and contacts are meaningless when I come for you. I can not be bought, and who you know does not scare me. I scare you. And I feed on you. I ramble. This thing, this feeling, this presence suddenly engulfed me, swallowed me and took me captive for then I knew it had begun.
The very next night I went in search for it. What? I here you cry. But, you wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you. I left my club and emerged into the outside world, which I have grown to hate and despise. The trees, the pavement covered with black marks of gum and many different sticky delights, the black sky which constantly seems to be covered in clouds and then the roads on which my sheep arrive the cars, the buses, the taxes and endless noises of running engines and sounded horns. I turned left from my, what mortal legends would call, lair and walked through the busy area full of the virus of human life.
I had by then felt this presence again, crossing the road it got stronger. I looked up and had a momentary black-out of seeing nothing when this had passed away the first thing I saw was this large ancient brick building, with chipboard covered windows and a planked up door. As I got closer the area around me slowly begun to loose its volume, the cars became quiet and the endless talk stopped. Silence. I then went forward to reach the planked up door, which seemed impossible to get through from just looking, but instead of clutching the handle my hand went through just as if it was not there.
Unbelievable took a whole new meaning to me. I done this at least three times and yet the same thing happened every time. This was it, the time to go through what these once human eyes believed to be solid wood. I closed my eyes and took one stride forward. The feeling took over me like the ocean washing over a freshly written word in the sand. It took me over and almost knocked me to the floor then another like me came over and touched my neck then spoke, what must have been a password, in Latin, yeshual toubayoc patreis.
When I opened my eyes, for I had not been able to until now, the other like me said “haven’t seen you here before” I looked around my mouth dangling down, which showed my abnormal canines. It was like the seventh dimension. The walls seemed to be bending, the floor sunk, the ceiling bevelled upwards. I managed to splutter out the words “what, what is this place? ” The person, as I was, replied “this is the intersection building, meaning that it is the place between our dimension and the humans”. I shoot my head round and glared at him “we have our own dimension? “You didn’t know that”, “you were probably born there”. By this time I was confused, dizzy and just plain sick. I fell to the floor out of breath and gasping for air, well I thought it was air. When I awoke I was in a world that had no star and no moon.
The place was bright yet black, burning but not smoky. No buildings no structures just nothing, it was empty the only thing that gave of light was torch of the now demonic presence without a body which was looking after me. “What is this place? ” I asked. He replied in an almost screaming pitch “where do you think you are? “I thought I was in our world but this seems more like hell”, “your right it is hell” came the reply.
So, you see why I do not live. Because I have been to hell and back. That means that I posses a soul of so little value that even the place for the evilest of souls doesn’t want mine. For the ultimate meaning of hell is the soul trap. This curse means that I myself do not live, for living is having a soul of worth. This means I am the walking death, when the hunger is felt a soul will be released and go to the place that suits it best. Where would you go if I got the hunger for you?
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