Uzumaki Menma
Active member
DARK STALKERS
"Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men´s eyes, because they know -or think they know- some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain.”
― Bram Stoker
Chapter 1
Marshall Matthews hated people. He hated the company of others. He hated new relationships. He hated the smells and looks, the "impressionable impressions", as he called them. He hated the benefits. The long talks, the special inside-jokes, the accompanying-to events. He even hated the damn ***.
All of this was known about Marshall. He made it known. So some ******* wouldn't get the wrong idea and try to make small talk with him when he sat at a bar. Or at his desk doing work. Or at the store getting groceries. He liked to think of it as a personal service. A one-liner that read, "**** you", that was permanently stamped on his forehead.
Sometimes, people ignored it. The veil that protected him from dumbassery would often times be pierced by desperate soccer moms, flirtatious clerks, fellow gym-goers, and simple pedestrians . Each time it made him wanna sit back and smoke a cigarette, marveling at the grand universe. A girl would come up and innocently ask something trivial. A guy would make some vague remark, expecting conversation to follow.
Usually, he shut them out. But these were persistent creatures. Many times, it happened like this: "I never once met a man in Louisiana that shopped in the vegan isle!" a woman would remark, approaching from someplace out of his peripheral. This was important to note because had he seen her approaching, he would've ended shit, then and there.
"You must be shopping for a wife or something, aren'tcha? Pity me... if I knew a man that would publicly shop over here, I wouldn't be single anymore..." she lament lamely, purse swinging widely as she made jerking movements, signifying her sadness over vegan-less friends. He would scoot further down the aisle, rummaging through random food packages, as if he hadn't heard. And he hadn't.
They would pursue, almost unabated.
"Have you seen the Tofutti? They always seem to be out when I get here." she asked jollily.
Then she'd look at him expectantly. He would look back, lips pressed into a thin line. Their stare off would last less than three seconds, but they always got that look on their face. One of confusion and bewilderment.
"Why am I getting the evil eye?" some internal voice in their heads would ask.
And his eyes were evil: two black holes that bored right through people into their imaginary souls. What wasn't imaginary was the thalamus sending signals to the sensory cortex which then buzzed the hippocampus before finally stopping at the amygdala which processed the raw emotion into something discernable; fear.
She'd falter and make up some excuse before speedily walking to another section and then disappearing all together. He had that effect on people. You could call it his charm. This was an example of an extraordinary case, though. Usually, he didn't even look at the person talking to him.
He decided he would employ this strategy as he approached his destination. Currently, he was pulling up into a tattered farm land. Weeds and crops stuck up out of the field on both sides of the road he sped down. In the distance, an old farmhouse held on the last vestiges of its long life.
It was crazy.
Mere hours ago, he sat in his apartment, staring at the wall, when his phone buzzed. He remembered the conflicting emotions as he read the caller ID. Oh well, life had been boring the last couple of years, so he had answered, not letting it ring three times. The voice on the other end said nothing so he waited, perhaps anxiously. Finally, a voice cracked over the bad reception of Louisiana.
"Marshall..." it started slowly. And from there, his life changed. Gone were the days of masturbating furiously to slow buffering videos. Gone were the days of staring at shitty programming on TV. No, noooo, he had his old life back. One of obsessing over serial killers and child molesters. One of late, drunken nights and harrowing nightmares.
And make no mistake, he much preferred the latter no matter how good Cindy Lou's tits were.
An FBI agent was waiting for him just outside the crime scene perimeter, near the barn and approached briskly with a file in hand. He radioed in on his walkie talkie something Marshall couldn't hear as he snatched the keys out of his minivan ignition.
"You him?" the agent asked nonchalantly.
Marshall took the folder and peered inside before closing it and looking around.
"I'm me." he responded.
There were police everywhere. Some were walking. Most were talking. A few of them, just gawking. Hell, some of them just stood there, looking like idiots. He hadn't missed this part of his job.
"Where is it?" Marshall asked solemnly. The officer pointed over to a large tree, straight down the side of the farmhouse. Marshall squinted and made out the heavy body of the man who had called him here. SULLIVAN was plastered on the back of his jacket.
Sucking his teeth, Marshall proceeded on, trudging past the forensics unit and other personnel groups. As he got closer, he saw the leg of the victim sticking up from underneath Sullivan. It was pale. Exceedingly so. He tried to duck underneath the yellow tape, but a hand stopped him. A young-looking kid with round glasses barred him from the crime scene.
"Shouldn't you be at school, kid?" he asked, reaching in his jacket for his badge only to find it empty. He had forgotten. He gave it up long ago.
"It's alright. He's with me." Sullivan said, looking expectedly at the boy-cop. Marshall ducked underneath the tape and walked up to Sullivan. The light skinned man had grown darker since the last time he saw him.
"You came," Sullivan said half surprised. His eyes scanned Marshall's as if expecting to see something there.
"Checking for signs of instability, Agent Sullivan?" he asked quietly. The bigger man nodded slowly.
"What do you see?" Marshall pressed. It had been four years since he had a psych eval. And the last guy ****ing sucked.
". . . Nothing" Sullivan said after a while. He continued to take in Marshall: the un-kept hair, the five' o clock shadow, the "evil" eyes. Marshall shifted his weight to his other foot.
"How does that make you feel?" Marshall asked sarcastically, cocking his head to the side and widening an eye.
Sullivan did not laugh. He was a man of no humor. "It makes me feel good. We'll need that for this case." And then Sullivan moved, clasping his hands together as he continued to study Marshall who saw the body for the first time, in its entirety.
Marshall sucked in his cheeks and took two steps back, planting his hands firmly on his hips. He was not surprised. Not surprised at all. If one thing had stayed constant since his leave, it was people do ****ed up shit, still. He hadn't expected that to change. Humanity was so shit, he couldn't expect anything else. So when he saw the mummified body of some person who's hands were thrown up above their head as if posing for a photo, he did the only thing he knew how to do in these situations.
"Hahahahahaha... somebody got ****ed up real badly, eh?" he asked, spitting into the grass and lighting a cigarette. Sullivan frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What do you see, Marshall?"
Marshall clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"I see... I see some type of weird creature laid out in front of me. You sure the Area 51 guys ain't suppose to be here taking this thing to play with its balls or something?" he asked, looking at the other man hard.
"It's a girl... So you've never seen anything like this?" Sullivan affirmed, motioning towards the corpse with his head.
Marshall nodded emphatically. "Oh, I've seen stuff like this... if we're talking in terms of ****ed-up-ness."
Sullivan now faced forward, staring at the body intensely, hands fiddling with something in his pockets. Marshall noticed the jittery movements and took another puff of his cigarette.
"You nervous?" he asked quietly.
Sullivan remained silent. "I've never seen anything like this, Marshall. I was hoping you could reassure me on this."
Marshall understood. But unfortunately, Sullivan was at a loss here. He hadn't seen something like this in his seven years apart of the force. Maybe if he had had more time at his job, say nine years on the force as it should have been... but Sullivan had made sure of that.
"Her name is Annabelle Vaccarella. She's the daughter of Johnny Vaccarella who owns a Museum up in New Orleans. Had been in the state for just two weeks from a trip to Cairo before her mother reported her missing." Sullivan informed him.
"Father didn't care." Marshall asked, observing the crusty skin that looked a lot like fried pig's skin.
"Father believed there was nothing wrong. She was out doing 'teenager' stuff."
Marshall nodded. He had come to expect shitty fathers in these situations.
"There appears to be no sign of trauma. Body lacks any marks that say a struggle went on..." Marshall stated, taking out his pad and pencil.
"You know why that is?" Sullivan retorted, his eyes narrowing again. He used his gloved hand to move an arm up and down. It looked dangerously close to snapping.
"She doesn't have an ounce of blood in her. Drained. And with no exit wound to be found."
Marshall blinked. And then he blinked again. He dropped his stuff and kneeled close to the body, sniffing. "No stench." he told Sullivan, mildly surprised.
"I know. Forensics also found something else odd. They're estimating time of death was about three days ago. She was laid out her yesterday sometime. When they checked her, there were no insects or bugs on her. No birds. No nothing." Sullivan responded.
Marshall shook his head and whispered something inaudible. Sullivan grimaced. "Speak up, Marshall. I can't hear you."
"No need to say bugs and insects . . . it's redundant."
Sullivan crossed his arms.
Marshall walked in a semi-circle around the body. He gazed at Annabelle's blue eyes, her blond hair. Her clothes were simple; a white gown adorned her and nothing else. She was naked underneath. It was as if when the blood was taken, she had lost her girlish shape.
Marshall stopped his pacing. Something else had caught his eye. He picked back up his notepad and pushed the thing's head sideways. It rolled over and hit the grass with a thud.
On the tree bark behind her ear, a small pentagram was scratched into the wood. Marshall ran his finger over it before stepping back.
"Fresh..." he said matter-of-factly. Sullivan, who had stepped closer to examine the newfound evidence, nodded.
"What's this mean?" Sullivan asked, bent over, looking at the symbol.
Marshall stood up, staring at the remnants on his fingers. He rubbed them back and forth.
"They're still here." he whispered.
And then, he drew his gun.
Please, tell me how you liked it!
"Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men´s eyes, because they know -or think they know- some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain.”
― Bram Stoker
Chapter 1
Marshall Matthews hated people. He hated the company of others. He hated new relationships. He hated the smells and looks, the "impressionable impressions", as he called them. He hated the benefits. The long talks, the special inside-jokes, the accompanying-to events. He even hated the damn ***.
All of this was known about Marshall. He made it known. So some ******* wouldn't get the wrong idea and try to make small talk with him when he sat at a bar. Or at his desk doing work. Or at the store getting groceries. He liked to think of it as a personal service. A one-liner that read, "**** you", that was permanently stamped on his forehead.
Sometimes, people ignored it. The veil that protected him from dumbassery would often times be pierced by desperate soccer moms, flirtatious clerks, fellow gym-goers, and simple pedestrians . Each time it made him wanna sit back and smoke a cigarette, marveling at the grand universe. A girl would come up and innocently ask something trivial. A guy would make some vague remark, expecting conversation to follow.
Usually, he shut them out. But these were persistent creatures. Many times, it happened like this: "I never once met a man in Louisiana that shopped in the vegan isle!" a woman would remark, approaching from someplace out of his peripheral. This was important to note because had he seen her approaching, he would've ended shit, then and there.
"You must be shopping for a wife or something, aren'tcha? Pity me... if I knew a man that would publicly shop over here, I wouldn't be single anymore..." she lament lamely, purse swinging widely as she made jerking movements, signifying her sadness over vegan-less friends. He would scoot further down the aisle, rummaging through random food packages, as if he hadn't heard. And he hadn't.
They would pursue, almost unabated.
"Have you seen the Tofutti? They always seem to be out when I get here." she asked jollily.
Then she'd look at him expectantly. He would look back, lips pressed into a thin line. Their stare off would last less than three seconds, but they always got that look on their face. One of confusion and bewilderment.
"Why am I getting the evil eye?" some internal voice in their heads would ask.
And his eyes were evil: two black holes that bored right through people into their imaginary souls. What wasn't imaginary was the thalamus sending signals to the sensory cortex which then buzzed the hippocampus before finally stopping at the amygdala which processed the raw emotion into something discernable; fear.
She'd falter and make up some excuse before speedily walking to another section and then disappearing all together. He had that effect on people. You could call it his charm. This was an example of an extraordinary case, though. Usually, he didn't even look at the person talking to him.
He decided he would employ this strategy as he approached his destination. Currently, he was pulling up into a tattered farm land. Weeds and crops stuck up out of the field on both sides of the road he sped down. In the distance, an old farmhouse held on the last vestiges of its long life.
It was crazy.
Mere hours ago, he sat in his apartment, staring at the wall, when his phone buzzed. He remembered the conflicting emotions as he read the caller ID. Oh well, life had been boring the last couple of years, so he had answered, not letting it ring three times. The voice on the other end said nothing so he waited, perhaps anxiously. Finally, a voice cracked over the bad reception of Louisiana.
"Marshall..." it started slowly. And from there, his life changed. Gone were the days of masturbating furiously to slow buffering videos. Gone were the days of staring at shitty programming on TV. No, noooo, he had his old life back. One of obsessing over serial killers and child molesters. One of late, drunken nights and harrowing nightmares.
And make no mistake, he much preferred the latter no matter how good Cindy Lou's tits were.
An FBI agent was waiting for him just outside the crime scene perimeter, near the barn and approached briskly with a file in hand. He radioed in on his walkie talkie something Marshall couldn't hear as he snatched the keys out of his minivan ignition.
"You him?" the agent asked nonchalantly.
Marshall took the folder and peered inside before closing it and looking around.
"I'm me." he responded.
There were police everywhere. Some were walking. Most were talking. A few of them, just gawking. Hell, some of them just stood there, looking like idiots. He hadn't missed this part of his job.
"Where is it?" Marshall asked solemnly. The officer pointed over to a large tree, straight down the side of the farmhouse. Marshall squinted and made out the heavy body of the man who had called him here. SULLIVAN was plastered on the back of his jacket.
Sucking his teeth, Marshall proceeded on, trudging past the forensics unit and other personnel groups. As he got closer, he saw the leg of the victim sticking up from underneath Sullivan. It was pale. Exceedingly so. He tried to duck underneath the yellow tape, but a hand stopped him. A young-looking kid with round glasses barred him from the crime scene.
"Shouldn't you be at school, kid?" he asked, reaching in his jacket for his badge only to find it empty. He had forgotten. He gave it up long ago.
"It's alright. He's with me." Sullivan said, looking expectedly at the boy-cop. Marshall ducked underneath the tape and walked up to Sullivan. The light skinned man had grown darker since the last time he saw him.
"You came," Sullivan said half surprised. His eyes scanned Marshall's as if expecting to see something there.
"Checking for signs of instability, Agent Sullivan?" he asked quietly. The bigger man nodded slowly.
"What do you see?" Marshall pressed. It had been four years since he had a psych eval. And the last guy ****ing sucked.
". . . Nothing" Sullivan said after a while. He continued to take in Marshall: the un-kept hair, the five' o clock shadow, the "evil" eyes. Marshall shifted his weight to his other foot.
"How does that make you feel?" Marshall asked sarcastically, cocking his head to the side and widening an eye.
Sullivan did not laugh. He was a man of no humor. "It makes me feel good. We'll need that for this case." And then Sullivan moved, clasping his hands together as he continued to study Marshall who saw the body for the first time, in its entirety.
Marshall sucked in his cheeks and took two steps back, planting his hands firmly on his hips. He was not surprised. Not surprised at all. If one thing had stayed constant since his leave, it was people do ****ed up shit, still. He hadn't expected that to change. Humanity was so shit, he couldn't expect anything else. So when he saw the mummified body of some person who's hands were thrown up above their head as if posing for a photo, he did the only thing he knew how to do in these situations.
"Hahahahahaha... somebody got ****ed up real badly, eh?" he asked, spitting into the grass and lighting a cigarette. Sullivan frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What do you see, Marshall?"
Marshall clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"I see... I see some type of weird creature laid out in front of me. You sure the Area 51 guys ain't suppose to be here taking this thing to play with its balls or something?" he asked, looking at the other man hard.
"It's a girl... So you've never seen anything like this?" Sullivan affirmed, motioning towards the corpse with his head.
Marshall nodded emphatically. "Oh, I've seen stuff like this... if we're talking in terms of ****ed-up-ness."
Sullivan now faced forward, staring at the body intensely, hands fiddling with something in his pockets. Marshall noticed the jittery movements and took another puff of his cigarette.
"You nervous?" he asked quietly.
Sullivan remained silent. "I've never seen anything like this, Marshall. I was hoping you could reassure me on this."
Marshall understood. But unfortunately, Sullivan was at a loss here. He hadn't seen something like this in his seven years apart of the force. Maybe if he had had more time at his job, say nine years on the force as it should have been... but Sullivan had made sure of that.
"Her name is Annabelle Vaccarella. She's the daughter of Johnny Vaccarella who owns a Museum up in New Orleans. Had been in the state for just two weeks from a trip to Cairo before her mother reported her missing." Sullivan informed him.
"Father didn't care." Marshall asked, observing the crusty skin that looked a lot like fried pig's skin.
"Father believed there was nothing wrong. She was out doing 'teenager' stuff."
Marshall nodded. He had come to expect shitty fathers in these situations.
"There appears to be no sign of trauma. Body lacks any marks that say a struggle went on..." Marshall stated, taking out his pad and pencil.
"You know why that is?" Sullivan retorted, his eyes narrowing again. He used his gloved hand to move an arm up and down. It looked dangerously close to snapping.
"She doesn't have an ounce of blood in her. Drained. And with no exit wound to be found."
Marshall blinked. And then he blinked again. He dropped his stuff and kneeled close to the body, sniffing. "No stench." he told Sullivan, mildly surprised.
"I know. Forensics also found something else odd. They're estimating time of death was about three days ago. She was laid out her yesterday sometime. When they checked her, there were no insects or bugs on her. No birds. No nothing." Sullivan responded.
Marshall shook his head and whispered something inaudible. Sullivan grimaced. "Speak up, Marshall. I can't hear you."
"No need to say bugs and insects . . . it's redundant."
Sullivan crossed his arms.
Marshall walked in a semi-circle around the body. He gazed at Annabelle's blue eyes, her blond hair. Her clothes were simple; a white gown adorned her and nothing else. She was naked underneath. It was as if when the blood was taken, she had lost her girlish shape.
Marshall stopped his pacing. Something else had caught his eye. He picked back up his notepad and pushed the thing's head sideways. It rolled over and hit the grass with a thud.
On the tree bark behind her ear, a small pentagram was scratched into the wood. Marshall ran his finger over it before stepping back.
"Fresh..." he said matter-of-factly. Sullivan, who had stepped closer to examine the newfound evidence, nodded.
"What's this mean?" Sullivan asked, bent over, looking at the symbol.
Marshall stood up, staring at the remnants on his fingers. He rubbed them back and forth.
"They're still here." he whispered.
And then, he drew his gun.
Please, tell me how you liked it!
