Today’s post is brought to you, for the first time here, by a young talented man @Joshua_Lean.
Do enjoy!


Gerald “Whites” Smith.

Owned a restaurant down the street.
Sold Toutierre for a living.
Called Pearly Whites because any time he smiled, his teeth would light up.
Wonder if she noticed his smile when he tore her head off.
Diagnosed with schizophrenia,
Wonder if that was what made him rip her heart out as she watched.
He was not normal, not like anyone you’d ever met.
As a kid, he sold toys. Toys made from bones of dead animals.
A quarter a piece. It was good business, no wonder he was never caught.
How come he slipped? Was it the blood on his chef uniform.
I wonder where he keeps the bodies? He is not going to be charged.
Old man Jerry said he once saw a finger in his Toutierre.
But Old man Jerry has Alzheimer’s…
No one will believe him, after all, it is Whites.
62 years, never caught.

James “Fresh Face” Johnson

“You are what you eat”,  James always said to himself .
He was really picky with his food,
Everything had to be fresh.
It worked for him, the Casanova
Can you blame him? Charming, something about his eyes
He had a thing for brunettes, something about how their hair fell.
“They say you are what you eat” he always said to me.
If you are what you eat,
then Mr James must be Samantha, Cheryl, Jane and Mary.

Donald Kramer



Captain Ricardo Wallace of the NYPD rushed into the station, still eating the half doughnut he’d found in his car. There was little time for food these days and sleep seemed to be taking naps of its own. He nodded to Paul and Anderson as he walked into his office, both weary looking. His face contorted into a grimace as he remembered the latest twist in his case, one that threatened to swallow the entire police force. He moved to his desk, opened the drawer and found the red-taped envelope he was looking for. He stared at it for what seemed like eternity before finally picking it and peeking inside with one eye; hoping the document inside had vanished.
It had not.
He sighed.
He pulled off the brown paper and read its contents for the millionth time since it arrived three days ago.

-Samantha Summers, 21, caucasian, brunette, first child, paralegal, cause of death: unknown.

Cheryl Garner, 24, caucasian, brunette, third child, swimmer, cause of death: unknown.

Jane Willows, 20, caucasian, brunette, dancer, last child, cause of death: unknown.

Mary Cheeney-Beckett, 18, caucasian, brunette, only child, cause of death: unknown.

There were 28 of them, but these were the only bodies that had been identified. Just days after being killed under very fearful circumstances and in horrid fashion by someone or something, some one or something broke into every single one of their graves and desecrated their remains. He flipped through the pages again and again, his eyes roving, searching for the link he knew was there but couldn’t find. He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the knock on the door. A mumble was all he could manage. Paul walked into his boss’S office and what he saw terrified him. The captain looked up.

”Uh, n-nothing. The governor called some minutes ago, its time for the press-conference. The families are going to be there.”
“Shit! I almost forgot!!” the captain punched himself.
“What are you going to say?” Paul asked, putting his jacket on.
“My head’s blank man, I have no idea.”
“God help us.”


Whites dug into his turkey and sighed in contentment, it tasted so good. Almost as good as Andrea. Ah! Andrea, she was strong, lasted longer than the others. He remembered her taste, her sweet sugary taste. Her insides…
His pants had begun to tent. He stood and took a sip of his wine, recalling the details from last night as his lips contorted into a smile. The others haven’t called yet to agree on where to meet this evening.
Very strange.
He went downstairs and opened a door that led to an odd-looking passage only visible to him and the ‘gang’. He walked into a dimly lit long hall. On the walls were paintings of over a hundred brunettes, all of them beautiful and voluptuous but most importantly, ambitious; he liked that in a woman.
The painting aspect was a delicate process, one he never tried to under-estimate, it took time and concentration and this meant the rest had to wait a while before they satisfied their hunger so he let them have solitary hunts first. He stared at the paintings with longing, wishing he could do more than just relive the moments.

He remembered his first, June. They’d gone to high-school together and there was a connection or rather he felt a connection to her. She was at the top of the social scene, he was a nerd and they therefore weren’t compatible. Well, that was the excuse she gave. But he wasn’t willing to just let go, he was a Virgo, and all Virgos were overachievers. Eventually he got his chance, that night, the one he will never forget…
He still wondered why the police insisted she was dead. He can still hear her, feel her; she lived, inside of him.
He remembered his old man and the things he’d taught him. The old man took time to explain his parables in detail. His father’s lips were an article of faith for him, he’d lived by everything that proceeded out of them, and not by bread alone, definitely not by bread.

“You listen to their heart and the song in their blood, that’s what should lead you. Don’t you be looking in their eyes, that’s where Eve lies. Be gentle, love them before you tear them open…”

He remembered his mother, one of his best performances, although she had struggled too much and didn’t last long enough. He remembered the look she wore when he walked into her room past midnight after the transformation. He could still hear her screams. They were with him, forever. That was his father’s gift to him before he died, just as his father had given him his mother and the one before him.
It was tradition, he smiled.

He still didn’t understand why people in the newspapers called what they did ‘grotesque and evil’. He shook his head at their lack of ability to appreciate true art.
“Such small-minded fools.” he cursed. He walked down the hall and stopped as his wizened eyes settled on Vanessa. She had been wonderfully crafted, but what he’d liked the most about her was her screaming. It was just the right pitch!
She was one of the rare ones and he took his time breaking her body and freeing her spirit – that was their calling. They were soldiers for the soul. The body was a cage and they held the key; yes, they did.
The last painting on the row, Rachel. All he could remember of her were her large breasts and tiny eyes. She was like the day, weak and submissive.
The night was who they paid homage to; to whom they offered bloody hands and bloody offerings.


James Johnson walked into Charlie’s at about twelve, in a three-piece suit. He was eye-catching, nothing like his scruffy bartender persona. The most colorful lure caught the biggest fish. He scanned the crowd, his eyes wandering till they settled on sleek toned legs crossed over each other on the high stool, attached to a blonde sitting at the bar.
She was too good to pass on, she was a novelty. He hadn’t fed on a blonde before. His saliva glands wet his palate as he wondered how the flaxen-haired would taste. He walked up to the bar and commandeered the stool closest to her.
“It’s not very polite to gawk,you know.” she giggled.
“How did you know I was ‘gawking?” He smirked.
She winked conspiratorially. “I always know.”
The hunger bloomed like wild-fire.
“People stare often, I presume.”
“All the time, they can’t help it.”
“Hmmm! And you enjoy it?”
“How can I not, having people stare is my art.”
He laughed at that, she had a sense of humour.
“Are you alone?” he asked
“…on what?”..
“How much of a good time you are.” She teased
The suggestion was clear as day.


It was a dingy motel, run by people he knew well. He said hello to a couple of people as they walked inside, his arm around her waist, hand slipping down to squeeze her buttocks every two minutes.
They slipped into a room. A quick shrug of her shoulders and her shimmery dress was a puddle on the floor. Her body was as flawless as her face.
Today was one of his luckier days.
He was on her before she knew it. He licked her from head to toe, juxtaposing soft kisses with hard ones. She moaned her appreciation. The hunger intensified and gnawed on his insides.
With one move he tore his clothes off and roared.
She tried to get up -something was wrong- but she couldn’t move.  He grazed her neck with an elongated canine and licked the trickle of blood that flowed.
“W-what are y-you doing?”
He laughed. “This, my darling… is my art, lie still and enjoy.”
She saw the white in his eyes vanish.
The hunger took his mind over now.
James was gone.
She started to scream or rather she was about to when he tore into her fleshy throat and worked his jaws down, chewing into her stomach and drooling all over, her blood splattering in all directions. He let out a territorial growl.
Minutes later, he had her inside him up to the midriff then he swallowed…
And James returned.
He wiped his bloody maw; that had been delicious, but too quick for him. She was like a buffet; he’d stuffed himself so fast, didn’t get to savour her or even ask her name. But all is well when the hunger is fed.
He tidied up the room, took an hour but he always bothered with the details.
It was what had kept him on the streets this long.
He smiled.
He was starting to think he was better at this than his father. He watched his father perform so many times; he’d always gone for the neck first, like his four-footed cousins. He knew, not only because he watched, but because he was once his father’s partner, in every way.  His father loved to touch him, everywhere. The bite marks across his back were proof of how impassioned things could get.
His father lived two miles away, one of the wealthiest men in those parts, yet the man didn’t even give him a dime. He hadn’t tasted a man in a while. ‘Time to pay the old man a visit’  he thought,’Time for the student to show his progress to the teacher’.


With the moon’s songs entwined in his head, the freckled boy woke up humming an unusual tune. He saw muddy paw prints on his bedroom window  – they had come and gone. He reached for his toy box, his army of toy soldiers; lips stiffened, eyelids unwavering, prepared for calamitous days.
His eyes strayed to his bedside. Arranged in alphabetical order, an ungodly number of leather-bound books; Marx, Plato, Wilde, Maslow. There were few things he did not know, he mused.
There were three walls in his purview; the one facing his bed was his pride and glory, his ‘baby’. On the wall he could see all fifteen of his sister’s dolls, stolen while she slept, beheaded and nailed to tiny crosses roughly hewn from the blocks of ornamental firewood beside their electric fireplace. He wasn’t moved by pulchritude. He lovingly gazed at it every night before he went to bed, it prepared him for the nightmares.
“This is it. Tonight, I join the sacred feast.”
The night was thick  and vinegary with bad tidings, just how he liked it. His shadow, an obtrusive, timorous creature followed him lackadaiscally, murmuring to itself.
“It is time” the boy said.
Engaging in primordial flagellation, he cut himself and then sprinkled the blood on the heads of the soldiers, anointing them.
“E puribus unum.” he whispered into their tiny ears.
He remembered the words of the redbreast (a reliable source in many things).
“They come just about midnight.”
He had to be quick. He looked through the window, at dread and death, ensconced in the darkness. A sharp cry rang out. The boy smiled, his shadow whimpered. One of the soldiers brandished a knife, a mock display of bravado. The boy shook his head and holding a fork, bludgeoned the soldier until all that remained were his eyes, those he kept.
“Emotions are bad for you. Never let them bully you into displaying them to the world, they want fame, the selfish things.”

He was silent for some seconds, then turned back to the window and there they were. Darkening clouds uncloaked a moon, red as blood. Earlier that day, another six-foot abyss had been occupied. The air was foul, the only noise, silence,  biting its overgrown nails. Beasts on the prowl, retreating to their respective holes as unseen hands carry their tools of trade. From his window, he could see everything.
His was just to watch and learn, nothing more.

He could make out the two creatures, one slightly more revolting and increasingly contorted than the last, limping in retarded fashion. Their ghastly eyes settled on the new headstone, bony clawed fingers outstretched over the recently dug earth. Muffled screams with heavy timolo could be heard from within. He knew what was about to happen,he had seen the same scene so many times before.
He knew who those creatures were. They were the hollow men and they’d come to feed. Donald Kramer watched as the creatures pulled the bodies out and expertly tore them to pieces; this was his favourite part.

But it wasn’t the highlight of the night, after the feast they performed some kind of dance and over time, he had studied this ritual; every flip, every turn and every twist.
He remembered when his sister walked in on him while he was practising.
She had screamed and he had hit her once on the head.
She died immediately. They were alone at home that night.
He said she had run away.
The thought of coming clean had crossed his mind  but he’d stayed it. He knew somehow that the police would believe his story, and they did.
Few could resist him.

”Fools.” he chuckled, his shadow finding no humor scratched its ugly head.
Convinced that his mother was still asleep and his door was bolted, he tore his clothes off.
It was time for the dance.
The creatures leaped and mumbled jargons to the fallen leaves. Donald followed every movement, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Then all of a sudden, he felt a growing heat in him and a presence that was not unfamiliar. He tried to stay still and figure out what was happening, he couldn’t…

The windows shattered, and he fell. He opened his eyes… and it hurt. Everything hurt. Slowly he rose and then he stopped. His room was in disarray, his books were in shreds, he looked at what remained of his mirror… and was shaken by the vulpine creature that replaced his 12-year-old frame. His eyes seemed to reflect the darkness around him.
He was about three feet taller, covered in fur. He felt a sharp pain in his gut, like a tuning fork vibrating and rattling his insides. Before he could recover from his fright, a hunger took him over; a different kind of hunger, a sentient hunger, the kind he only read of in a Stephen King book. It was distinctively primal and it seemed to call out to him.


Sergeant Parker Paul strolled into the SRU  (Strategic Response Unit) block, looking for somewhere to burn out. He was exhausted, they’d had three reports of ‘monsters’ in the town this morning. Normally, they would dismiss such reports but under the circumstance, his team was dispatched to hunt these ‘beasts’. They had been patrolling for hours,  didn’t even find a stray dog.
The phone rang. Reluctantly he answered.
“Parker… A missing girl?… last seen?… Charlie’s?… I’ll inform the captain immediately!”
First, a little nap he thought. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he was fast asleep, the details of the phone call dissolved into nothingness.


Donald walked out of class bubbling with life. The last period bell had just rung. He espied Kelly Wallace walk out of her class and felt that hunger rise again. A split second was all he needed to decide on walking up to her.
“I hear you got a ‘D’ in Maths. If you let me walk home with you we could go over it together.”
Kelly stared at the ground for a second, blushing all over. She was shy around guys.
“S-sure,but first, I have to get something from Sandra.”
“Okay,I’ll wait for you”..
She smiled a little and skipped down the hall, turning back to check if Donald was still there. He waved to reassure her and grimaced as the hunger spread. Amazingly, no one noticed the deep darkness that leached into his eyes. She had nice features, he thought to himself. She had beautiful hair, tied in a bun, brunette locks that caught the light as she ran. She would make a perfect first, one he could remember forever.


Captain Wallace had not slept in three days since the press conference, neither had anyone in the SRU. He looked over at the vibrating phone atop the leather vanity top beside his day bed. He instinctively knew that whomever was calling him now was going to give him reason not to sleep for the rest of the week. He reluctantly reached for his phone, looked at the caller ID.
He listened for a moment and then he got off the bed, cradling the phone with his shoulder and awkwardly dancing on the spot as he tried to pull on his jacket, still listening to every word.
“Mother called?… Hysterical?…Voodoo?”
He put the phone on speaker and pulled on his shoes as Anderson rambled excitedly.
“I’ll be on my way… tell them not to do anything till I get there!”


They swarmed into the first room. The smell hit them hard and his stomach grumbled in protest as his mind fed it images of maggots squirming in rotting flesh. He looked inside the inner room and his stomach roiled and he doubled over and retched, his stomach walls constricting in revulsion. Nailed to the wall, was the dismembered corpse of tiny Caroline Kramer. His heart beat faster now. He tried to look away but couldn’t; there was something about this that made him want to choke and gouge his eyes out.
“The killing style is different from the others, sir.”
The captain did not respond. He moved closer, it was definitely the same pattern only that this was… amateurish. Maybe they didn’t have time, a hundred maybes rushed into his mind…
The others went into the room at the end of the corridor, they called their captain.
They faced what look like a four-foot chamber, with great effort they pushed, rammed the steel door down, and froze. They were taken aback by what they saw.
“Oh God!!!” One of the other police men uttered.

He looked at the walls, the beheaded dolls. His eyes stopped at the drawings..he had seen something similar, Kelly had brought one like it home from school, said it was by one of her classmates…
Damon… Dave… Donald!! The child’s name was Donald. He paused, Kelly was still at school. A new dread crept over him, encapsulating him; he couldn’t breathe. He clutched at the knot in his tie, clawing at the stubbled skin underneath. The others surrounded him…
”KELLY!” he screamed.


*Insert GHEUN here*