#Devland Petrov

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome to Glance.

His Death.

The walls shudder ever so slightly as the wind outside blows in  a harsh tantrum. Pattering from the rain permeates the dark, silent house. Animals hidden in the barn and crops flapping around from the storm. Doors and windows locked and sealed. The boards over the windows creak. The day’s work and repairs run through his mind as he sits in the rocking chair with his shotgun on his lap. The chair groans and whines as he rocks and waits patiently. Not even a glint of light, besides the lightning outside, touched a corner of the inside. None was needed. Too much light may allow it to find him.

Time always seemed to slow on nights like this. Always agonizing. But he can’t risk it. Not after what happened to Pa. His mind jolts to attention as heavy steps hit the porch. Seems it has decided to come to the front this time. Screechy laughter hisses from the creature. He stands up slowly. His grip on the gun tightening as he lifts it to the door and follows it to one of the windows. Flashes from outside allow him to see those all too familiar eyes. Each gleamed dark and pupiless. Its mouth filled with an unimaginable amount of teeth. Sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone like it were chewing gum. The grey, almost human skin dripping from the pour. Devland doesn’t move any further. His focus completely on the creature. Claws fall slowly down the window. The sound rivaling the thunder. Devland’s shoulders stiffen.

Don’t move. Don’t give yourself away. It didn’t get you last time. It won’t succeed. Ever. Again.

This stalemate continues until light hits the window and seeps through the cracks between the boards. 

It’s gone. Did the rain stop?

He lowers his gun and lets out a shaky breath. His steps swift and as light as he can manage. Checking outside his eye graze over the wet grass and soaked porch and blood. Blood? Against all instincts and common sense he fumbles to unlock the door and swing it open. The slam of his heart falling into his stomach makes him freeze in the doorway. Damp morning air and a strong supplement of blood fills his nose and the home. 

Tears blur his vision. Blurs the scene. If only it could blur the pain. The tearing of his heart. The tearing of his vocal cords. His arms wrap around his cold lifeless body. His once perfectly warm and comforting body. Blood tainting his clothes. His hair. His face. That’s why it had gone quiet. That’s why it did so little. He should’ve listened. He should’ve. 

Ash circles about in the air as the fire crackles.

“You did warn him dear.” Her voice shakes with age, “Make sure you bury all his bones please. We don’t need the dogs getting ahold of them.”

His silence is all she needed to start her way back to the house. Once the hole was deep enough Devland climbed out and watched the flames cook and burn. 

The sun starts to say its goodbyes as Devland passes the stone marked with a knife the engravings read, “Here Lies Harvey Yavall. Blessing from the Gods and keeper of my heart.” 

Within the week word spread like a virus through their small town. 

“Heard it ripped ‘im limb from limb. ‘Course I know what I’m talkin’ about!” 

“Did you hear the tourist got eaten? I know. Should’ve read the warnings.”

“I saw Dev sitting on his porch all week after 6pm! It’s like he’s asking for it to come back!”

Can never escape their eyes and questions for very long. Information about an attack always seems to make its way from friends to the bars and storekeepers. Tourists are known to disregard the posters and concerned warnings. Normally costing precious, sentimental belongings, eyes, legs, lives. Depends on what they run into. They all knew the newest tourist was going to meet one of the supernatural residents at some point or another. It's always the reporters and journalists who stick their noses too far and find the consequences they were told to avoid. It doesn’t make it hurt any less for Devland though.

His drinking habits and risky nightly behaviors made the residents conclude he may have finally snapped. Finally started following in his father’s footsteps.

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome To Glance.

Devland My Beloved

Days on end dissecting the tiny town for an elaborate story,

Only for the disheveled and disoriented farmer 

To pass.

Dark curled locks tamed by an ushanka,

Eyes of the forest, and an outfit full of color. 

Sorrow and stains.

Your appearance was breathtaking,

In more ways than one.

Time spent meandering around your farm,

Speaking with your mother,

Mourning the loss of your cattle and crops.

Your laugh and your smile, 

The warmth they gave

Made even the coming Winter 

Cold feel only a haze.

The dead didn’t dampen my

Deepening desire.

Echoing groans and growls every cold night I came to see you 

And the scolding 

Never stopped me from sneaking onto your farm.

Never did I think that beast was not satisfied with

All the meat it had stolen from you.

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome To Glance.

Apology Not Accepted.

Halls longer than the Mississippi and darker than a starless night sky. Never had the darkness bothered Devland until that night. Never had the dark halls of the home glimmer streaks of red.

That night was like any other. Bedtime story, good night kisses, and goodbyes. Lights out, all the windows locked and some boarded, the doors shut and locked tightly, and his father sitting up in bed with the shotgun by his bedside. Creaks and groans sneak their way around the house. The occasional scratch or growl heard. Nothing to fear as long as everyone stayed quiet. As long as everyone stayed still. 

Devland, only seven years old, decided the rules weren’t real because nothing has ever happened. Getting out of bed he tiptoes his way to the bathroom down that dark hall. Floor whining with every step. Silence met his ears when he reached the door frame. Not even the whistling from the wind alerted his sense of hearing. Nothing. The quiet night startled the boy into a moment of pause. With quick steps and squeaking of his father’s door meant he wasn’t the only one put off by the soundlessness. 

Eyes wide and wild and pajamas disheveled, his father looks at him, gun in hand. Hastened strides bring his father to him before a loud crash of glass and tearing of wood from downstairs makes the two stiffen. The pounding of his heart hit his ears and make tears well in his eyes.

“Go to Baba’s room and lock the door. Do not open the door until an hour after sunrise, do you understand me?” His fathers voice is sharp and hushed. When Devland doesn’t give him an answer he looks at his son with a hard expression, “Do you understand?” 

Breathing became a chore as he closed the door to the largest room in the house. He had no need to wake Baba as she was already up and tying on her robe. 

“Come.” She commands in a soft whisper. Her embrace is only able to ease a select few nerves. Noises from downstairs only become more concerning as her hug tightens. Roars, yells, and blasts were all she could hear. That is until he hears his father yell out in agony. Baba says nothing as she releases him and goes to check her window, making sure it was locked securely. Without a thought in his mind, Devland runs out the door. The dreams had gone silent and blood traced the walls. Heart in his throat and a body of jello he wobbles down the stairs. 

Blood replaced most of the wallpaper and floorboards. In the middle of the living area lay the source of the new paint job. Right on the carpet was his father. Red covered his nightwear. His eyes moved from the ceiling to his only child. His gasps gurgled and wet with the blood in his throat. His body was eaten and mangled. The creature, the monster, stood over him. It is still chewing on his left leg. Its long brown legs tangled with themselves, body bent and snapped in odd angles, and antlers scraping the ceiling. The deer-like monster slowly turns its head to the kid. Within a second it charged at him. Hands and feet slam against the stairs as he attempts to escape. Success lasted all but a minute until hundreds of sharp teeth dug into his leg and tore through it as if it were gum. 

Screams of pain left him as he slid back down the stairs. The beast swallows the leg whole and before it could try for another bite a blast to its chest makes it stagger. Another hits it in the back and then the hip. Its clawed hooves dig into the bloodied boards and it launches itself out the door and in an instant it is gone. It was gone and so was his father.

The visit to Dr. Cummings at four in the morning was mostly a blur. He had been put to sleep and when he woke his missing leg was now a stump of injured flesh and stitches and bandages. Numbness consumed his heart as he spent the next week in a wheelchair and later at his father’s funeral. Ms. Hangerman apologized profusely to Baba and him. Apologizing wouldn’t bring his father back. Nothing would. 

“She didn’t do it, Devland. It wasn’t her. Don’t take your grief out on those who cannot control it.” Baba explained in a cold voice as she cleaned his wound. If he had been an adult he would’ve gotten to partake in all the alcohol Ms. Hangerman delivered to them as compensation. His father was worth more than alcohol. More than apologies. More than his leg. Why can’t the adults understand that even if they are monsters they don’t get to pay for his forgiveness. Not anymore.