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find-the-devil · 2 years ago

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I. The Stranger

Night loomed, heavy and important, hanging over the cornfield with only an orange band separating the tall dark stalks from the sky. The breeze carried a scent with its mildness, thick and sooty. In the town, abandoned but not empty, every light remained lit as the children stayed awake and alone, the eldest had their faces pressed to the windows. The atmosphere wasn’t silent, nocturnal birds whistled to one another, small feet pattered in the grass, warning the others of the fast approaching fire that marched on hundreds of legs. The ardent mob appeared to be led by a man who ran a few yards ahead of them.

He sprinted, straight like an arrow shot by an expert marksman as the swarm behind seemed to jostle and stumble in the haze of their emotion.The calling and clamoring rang faintly in his ears. His breaths came fast and with stinging urgency, ashy air filled his lungs and burned his throat. Rhythmically crunching and scraping the ground, his feet hit the dirt road. In his eyes, you could see the smartness of fire pressing him forward.

This hunt was not his to lead, he ran like the foxes and snakes hiding amongst the weeds.

The path stretched out, long and dry, bordered by grasses yellow and sunkissed, scarred by tire tracks. Finding himself in the middle of the gaping opening of the cornfield, some 25 yards away from him and the two hundred sticks ablaze at his back he hurtled himself forward with animalistic survivalism and momentum. Lungs raging and irate from strenuous over-exertion, his heart pounded with merciless desperation and his chest strained to contain it.

The gap between the man and the field closed. He found himself engulfed and absorbed by a sea of obscurity that rustled and sliced as he ran. One has no bearings at the bottom of the ocean. There is only crushing weight. The dark that pulls you down is the same that draws you up. There’s something swimming beside you and you don’t know it’s there. The sky above and the soil on which the tread matched in color. Direction had no place in his mind, his steps were furtive, impulsive, thoughtless.

No higher reason governed his movements, his limbs were affixed to a cross bar that moved his feet, the hand that held it was survival. There existed only “away�� from the blaze set out to consume him and the crimes for which he was to burn.

Fire rounded up beside him.

The pack of wolves on his white tail could be heard barking and snarling as they gained speed on their weary prey. Soon the flame would overpower him and whoever held it would be awarded the honor of affixing him to the pyre. He was going to be taken by the wave that crept up in his peripheral vision. All sound escaped him, sucked in by his frantic breathing before he had a chance to hear it, he refused to feel himself being caught.

The villagers shouted, wailed and cursed in a sort of mass hysteric fury. The waving wands of righteous flame sent embers like red stars into the sky to lose themselves and burn out like the celestial bodies which they aped. Robin dashed, unsure if the ground moved beneath his beaten feet.

A scream like that of a deer shot during the hunt crawled out of his lungs and ripped itself out of his throat, like a creature too eager to be born. He carried the haunting sound of acrimonious despair in his gut as he charged forward still, letting it echo and fizzle out among the deaf ears of corn. Someone was buried in his ribcage. With nails uncut and jagged from time and use they tried to tear the flesh off of his bones from the inside out. The orange band that kept earth and sky divided had ducked under the field, below his feet. The air shone, alight by flame encroaching.

Only a white light, the size of his fist, led him through the ocean, a lure in the deep. The chaos at his back faded, and the flames approached more slowly, as if hesitating not by knowledge of what they were to find but by fateful fatigue that kept them safe.

Robin met the light, small and artificial. His foot caught the mound that lay unmoving and rigid in the dirt and he saw the man crouched beside it, almost looming above it, shoulders curled over, the only part of his figure visible.

“You look lost, stranger.” spoke the man with a coolness that stilled Robin’s limbs, unconscious and conscious tremors alike were forced calm by a cooperative instinct “There’s an awful lot of ruckus behind you. Fire too… Tricky thing to bring into a corfield.” he added, standing with shoulders rolled back and flexed, eyes tracking what little movements he made, imposing among the grasses.

A white, plastic mask obscured his features, his eyes spoke for his expression. His hands were dark as if engorged by the world around him, thought given a different hue by the lantern at his feet, almost claimed entirely from view.

“Help me take this back to mine, you can stay there if you’d like.” he offered plainly. Robin had met night hunters before, given permits and the like, but he’d never encountered one who hunted without a rifle or camouflage. There was no weapon to be seen, and for dress he wore a simple tank top, the same dark color as his hands and blotched with white. He took the brunt of the game’s heft in his hands, holding it behind his back and waiting for the other to follow suit.

“What do you hunt?” Robin asked, prompted more by a morbid curiosity as he neared the dead mass on the ground.

“Deer.” replied the man casually, neck craned to one side to better see him, wavy hair falling limply down over the other side of his face. Robin felt cloth, textile in his grasp as he heaved the other side of the mass into his hands.

“This doesn’t feel like deer.” he spoke, considering the weight and the fabric he felt. His senses were dulled by his fatigue, his mind was dull and his head throbbed painfully shooting waves of a pulsating ache through his skull and down through his bones as if eating away at the marrow inside and fracturing them each as it passed. Yet he stood, with the weight of this clothed animal in his hands.

“It’s not.”

Something unsaid in the atmosphere festered and writhed as a pause lingered and shouting people drew nearer. The pair remained still for a moment as realization trickled into Robin’s altered consciousness. Shoes resting just past his palms, the checkered shirt stained, body slit down the middle, not cut deep enough to split but gaping darker than the rest of it all. It disfigured what he carried.

“My house isn’t far.” the man said. Hands and scythes cut and tore the stalks, the shape of the mob like a circle coming closed at his back, flames threatening to take him, uncaring of the havoc wreaked on the harvest. Move forward, or burn. He righted the weight in his hold and jogged to keep up with the man in front of him. The lantern affixed to his hip illuminated the leaves as they ran past, corn silk like heads of hair kneeling in the grass, eyes of some creature or another shining as they ran past.

The sounds dissipated, the crowd dispersed, seeping and moving like rivulets divided from an immense roaring river into the field as the two of them ran to its edges, emerging some minutes later into a dark less crowded but just as opaque. His only bearing was a small white light as he marched along the dirt road, leaving an inky trail that he stamped into the gravel with his busted soles.

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find-the-devil · 1 year ago

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IV. Scarecrow

The house creaked slightly. Darkness still held the sky, stars still shimmered in their place. A greenish yellow bled through from the horizon, but the dirt road by the front was untouched by the rising sun. The pines still moved in the wind, a haunting howl that weaved through their branches where the sounds died out in the expanse of treetops. Crows flew, invisible against the black, speaking to one another quietly so as to not wake the rest of the forest, they came from the yellow band that rooted itself on the ground far away, obscured by the wooden spires that stood like a swaying, uniform edifice.

Doves whistled with heavy hearts, grief stricken as the sun rose at a crawling pace. Ennis held the neck of a coyote in his steady grasp, sickle at his hip as he let the carcass fall onto the grass, limp body hitting the ground without resistance. He wiped stained hands among the small green blades, dew taking the blood from in between his fingers where it would dry in the heat. His weapon, tossed down beside its victim, a dull, dark metal that reflected no light and bled with another’s life.

His breaths came hard through his nostrils, he muffled the sound, commanding his lungs into a slower rhythm. Sweat lined his brow, his dusty-golden hair sticking to his forehead, hanging above dark eyes that looked upon the animal, breaking it down into its base components in his mind. He flexed his upper back and shoulders, stretched his fingers, his neck cracked soundlessly as he knelt beside the creature, pressing the spine of his hunting knife to the calloused pad of his index finger. From a place deep in this throat, far within his chest he exhaled heavily.

Its mouth hung open as if it wished to howl in death but could not find the life within it to scream. Instead all that came from between the hunter’s teeth was blood.

“For the life I’ve been given I take yours. You grant me survival in death.” He mumbled quickly, running a broad, outspread hand through its stained fur, the color of aloewood and cherry. He lifted its body, holding the slack weight across his shoulders. With a red string affixed to a hook on the overarching roof, he hung the animal by the back paw, staining the grass as it leaked red from its mouth.

He flicked on the lantern that hung above his head.

He took the knife, holding one of the animal’s slender heels in his wide, sturdy, tender hands. The flesh resisted his blade, giving slightly once he cut the skin from the elbow joint, small tufts of wispy fur falling to the grass at his feet. Bone began freeing itself from the pinkish tissue, knife tugging as he moved it up towards the coyote’s rear. Quiet slicing sounds, quick scrapes, faded in among the dawn-time noise, as the land came awake and the night was laid to rest under the rising sun.

The pelt hung lax, taut against its muscles, ankle bones broken, bleeding minimal and bright against the pale skin. Ennis dragged his thumb across the wet blotch, tracing a trail to the base. Tail freed after patient and meticulous work, unhasty and precise, he worked down the abdomen of the beast, crouching on the damp grass, tossing the hair that obstructed his view back with a quick head movement. Spinal bones stuck out from the skin. Muscles, a light, greyish-purple, resembled marble in the light, each separated by a thin line of tissue that lent them an almost stone-like appearance, organic and firm to Ennis’ touch as he steadied the swaying carcass.

The arm bones severed and freed, reddish-yellow seeping from the cut, the head of the animal hung enshrouded by its own hide. He lowered his work, setting it down on the grass before affixing the skin around its neck to the hook, blood trickling from the gaping wound down its back. A dark pink blotch, mixed with hues of red and purple at the base of the coyote’s neck glinted wetly in the white light as the weight and tension let the blade cut with ease, the corpse slowly descending downwards. Ennis looked up, on a bent knee in the soil, at his work with satisfaction, unshown on his focused and intense expression. He skinned the ears with care, as the head of the body hung, nearly birthed from its removed flesh. He dug his fingers into the tissue fold, working down the reddened cranium, slicing with successive motions before hacking at the top of the head.

He reached the beady eyes of the coyote, he pressed his index into the socket, the give minimal under the taught tension of the skin and skull. They glinted back into his own as he freed them from its face, blade close to the bone as he worked attentively, brow knit in concentration. The body was stretched, as if pulled down to the earth by hands unseen, neck long, legs limp as its tailbones shook with the movements further up the carcass. The neck wound, spreading and deep, stretched and struggled to hold the rest of its weight. His knife scraped against its teeth as he freed the bleeding mouth.

With a final slice, the body fell into the green blades below, pelt above swaying in the wind as Ennis sat down in the grass and admired the outturned rosy colored hide, flexing his fingers and tossing his knife aside.

A clean result, virtue of a minutiose, taxidermic approach to his work. With a long inhale he took in the scent of bluebonnets, staring up into the rocking pine canopy as light finally bled into the tree-line.

Rob awoke to birdsong and cooking smells, as the sun shone through open blinds from its place in a cloudless blue sky. He leaned against the couch cushions, smoothing his tousled hair, dragging his hand down the front of his faded shirt as another arm stretched to one side, upper spine cracking quietly as he did so.

“You get up early.” he remarked, standing on legs stronger than they’d been in the days previous. The endless ache in his shin bones, radiating from his knees, quieted for a moment as he padded with a cautious optimism towards the kitchen island.

“It’s 10. ‘Been up for hours.” Ennis replied, head downturned as he monitored the sizzling pan. “Caught this one fresh this morning.”

Rob fell still, silent and stared at him with empty green eyes, widened slightly with a kind of careful dread. His body was tensed, rigid and wound on spring controlled by a hairpin trigger and an antsy triggerman.

“Coyote.” Ennis clarified. “It’s the off season, yeah, but this is the fourth time he’s gotten into the field. Don’t want him eating anything he’s not supposed to.” he said without further explanation. The other hummed in response, peering down into the frying pan, watching as the meat was grilled in a small quantity of what smelled like garlic butter, tempting aroma wafting through the small kitchen and sitting room directly adjacent. “I can make some scrambled eggs too, if you’d like. You’ve got to have an appetite like a fall time bear, haven’t eaten since you’ve been here. I’m not used to hosting.”

Rob felt a powerful hunger tear at his stomach and through his chest at the man’s words. He nodded, curling over into himself as the pain in his abdomen grew more marked. His fingers dug at the soft fabric of his shirt, scratching aimlessly at his middle as the scent of rosemary accompanied grilled meat and garlic. He spotted the bowl of marinade on the dining table beside the open window, considering drinking the vinegary, intensely acidic liquid for a moment of animalistic impulse before he turned his gaze, like that of an owl intent on a mouse, to the food being plated in front of him.

“This really didn’t sit long enough, b-” he stopped at the clinking of utensils, loud in contrast with the hushed space, save for muted bird calls from the outside. Rob took no time savoring the venison-like meat, nor the tang of the apple cider vinegar and the garlic. Primal need overtook flavor, juice dripped from the corners of his mouth with a kind of bacchanalian eagerness.

“You’re not eating.” Rob asked, wiping his lips on the back of his wrist, leaving a greasy streak that glinted slightly on his skin. Ennis tapped the white mask affixed to his face with his fingernail wordlessly. “You ever take that thing off?” the man returned, confusion and curiosity in his expression as one sentiment.

“Yep.” the man replied without further comment as he placed ingredients, spices, oil and garlic cloves back to their respective places.

He dried the dishes as Ennis washed them, the tattered dishcloth the texture of flannel shirt, hemmed crudely at the edges. Rob, as he folded the rag over one of the cupboard handles to let the water evaporate, considered what other use discarded clothes could have for the man. His build was bigger, all strength, tall, a few inches above his own head. The man was broad, with a midsection almost as wide as Rob’s shoulders, muscles flexing slightly with his movements. He had a sturdy, boxy, hefty frame, the tank top he wore fit only just so. He didn’t wear the clothes he gathered.

“Where'd you shop?” Rob asked, oblivious to the long moments of silence that had led up to his query.

“What?” Ennis returned, slightly surprised by the inanity and unimportance of the question, cocking his head in the man’s direction with an almost confused expression. “Uh, I don’t go into town too often, but I get stuff there sometimes.” he answered plainly, unsure if that was the correct response that the man was pushing for.

“Then what’s the clothes for? I mean the ones you… get. Flannel’s an easy enough thing to reuse but the Hell d’you do with jeans?” he inquired further, sitting back on the stool behind the island as Ennis gathered what the man was saying.

“Right.” he gave a small nod, leaning back on one of the counters behind him, crossing his arms “I usually use ‘em for scarecrows.” he explained.

“I didn’t see one.”

The air around grew colder, squeezing tighter, tenser around the pair, as if a cloud passed overhead, despite the unencumbered sky that shone bright sun into the room. The faint sound of swaying stalks murmured outside, leaves rustling as a hare being chased by a rabbit, invisible, darted within the green.

“Crows know better than to come into the field.”

“How’s that?”

“Not sure, but I gather birds are brighter than we give ‘em credit for, detective.”

“Coyotes not so much, then.”

“Not so much.”

Rob looked out of the open back door that drew in a soft, fragrant breeze that brought the day’s heat back into the small space. He imagined, absently, an all-denim-clad scarecrow amongst the corn and smiled to himself slightly, huffing out a small chuckle, inaudible. The man in front of him stared him down without his knowing, as if stalking him from those few feet away, a dark gaze set on him with intent unknown.

“Sometimes the rejects become scarecrows, easier to dress than a bunch of wheat.” Ennis spoke suddenly, snapping Rob out of his thinking. He met the man’s slowly widening eyes as he began to put the words together in his mind.

“Oh.”

“Not the latest, he’s a bit too far gone,” he explained further with a cold factuality. “Pretty sure he’d fall off the stick like meat off a bone.”

The room fell into a common quietude once more, neither speaking a word but simply letting what had been said waft through the room without further observations or remarks. Robin barely dared a breath, turning his head back to the field and watching the dancing leaves shimmer in the wind with a tension locked into his shoulders.

#find the devil #creative writing #my writing #remember to reblog if you like it <3 #writblr #writeblr #writing #chapter 4

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