Young Writers Society

Hello, and welcome to chapter eleven of "We, Cryptids". As always, I'll be tagging all entries as Action/Horror as those are the primary genres of the story, even if each individual chapter does not reflect this

(Chapter Eleven: Open Up To Me)

Somewhere, the sun does not shine. In these places, the light is unavailable to expose the underbelly of the world, where filth and rot seem almost clean by comparison. The air of such an establishment is suffocating, such that one might inject a straw into their throat just to taste the sweetness of oxygen once more. It's raw. It's gross. Yet to some...

It's what they call home.

In this place where the sun does not shine, a circle was formed. This sphere comprised dozens of "men'', in a sense. Some taller, some shorter. Some thinner, some fatter. All breathed uncomfortably, their sounds barely audible. Of what could be heard, though, it would be appropriate to remark that the sound was guttural and scratchy. Lungs strained beyond belief like they were perennial smokers, these men coughed and heaved like the diseased abnormalities they were. The suits they wore served as little more than a slight masking of their nature. Their face, or lack thereof, was the first thing you would notice. No ears, no nose, no mouth or eyes. Their gurgles and wheezes were confined to the inside of their throats, not allowed the mercy of exit through an orifice.

Next, your attention would be grabbed by the stitches and threads littering their bodies in the hundreds. All designed to hold together the messily woven-together folds of skin. Skin that differed in color, texture, and level of decay, all tacked onto each body. These were the trademark features of the abominations which circulated the nigh-empty space that defined the sphere's center.

In that very center were three men, two standing and one kneeling on the floor. The kneeling one found himself battered and bruised, his eyes swollen and his nose broken. He was bald and middle aged, as well as borderline naked. Only his underwear offered him cover, allowing all to gaze upon the pathetic, cut up flesh he possessed. His eyes watered and he bit his lip with his few remaining teeth, struggling to look up and face either man next to him. A solid steel chain wrapped around his throat, and had it been tighter he would have suffocated long ago.

That very chain led up to the gloved hands of a tall man. His body was protected with thick boots, sturdy camouflage pants, and a black kevlar vest strapped across his chest. With a facial region that displayed rough patches of chin hair and a displeased scowl, he clearly wasn't a man known for his charm. While he remained silent and still, and while the abused man stayed frightful, it was the third man who spoke up instead.

"So I see you've brought him to me, just as I asked. This is very pleasant."

He, whose voice was muffled as a result of the dirty, gray bandages cloaking his face like a mummy, spoke with a gruff tone. His movements and general appearance were largely concealed, a large leather coat covering him. He too had gloved his hands, although he slowly reached toward the glove's bottom so as to begin removing it. Though the vested man remained silent, his victim finally glanced upward and started to beg.

"Y... you're... please don't. It wasn't my fault! I was just following orders, I swear. They... They contacted me, offered me so much money. I just wanted to feed my family. Please, I'll give you anything. You want a cut of the pay? Do you want information? I can give you that. I can... I promise I can be useful!"

Despite his pleading, it did not stop the bandage-wrapped man from proceeding. He pulled his gloves off, revealing his hands. Stitches had been etched into his flesh, pulling together a variety of different flesh-flaps much like the stitches of the various creatures surrounding them.

"Useful to me," the bandaged man inquired. "Provide me money? Of what purpose is money to us? What is it that money can buy that will satisfy us? And what of information, too? Do you doubt my competency? Do you claim someone like me couldn't figure things out on my own? How do you think I found you and your little operation in the first place?"

The beaten man coughed blood upon the cold concrete floor, panting with exhaustion and terror. He bowed his head down, grasping at any possibility for mercy.

"N-No, I wasn't implying that at all! I know you're capable, I know you are. I just want to help. I can do that, I know so. Please, listen to me! I'll be your tool, your instrument. I'll do whatever you need of me-"

The man paused, for he felt a finger placed upon the underside of his chin. The finger was cold and prickly, and applied an uncomfortable pressure underneath his lower jaw.

"You people always give the same excuses. You were only trying to care for your people, only trying to make ends meet. That's always it, is it not? Your people come first, your people must prevail, even at the expense of mine. I suppose I wouldn't blame you for that. For operating within the world's machinations. But then, my dear friend, I would expect you to understand when I exemplify those very same principles. Maybe once, I would have asked how much that man paid you to do what you did. To hurt them, to kill them, to sell them. I would have tried to find reason in the madness. But... I've come to accept the Editor's cruelty as being natural, as natural as the cruelty of this world and all its occupants."

The man traced his finger up the broken man's chin and up his face. The nail glided along his lips and nose before arriving at his forehead. In its wake, it left a stitch trail. One that followed behind the finger's direction perfectly.

"But at least that man is honest. He won't deny that he delights in it, takes pleasure in his actions. You, though, you're just like the rest. You never release your true feelings, but that doesn't mean they're purely hidden. I can always see them. The contempt behind your eyes, the disgust in your voice. How you look down on me and my brothers and sisters. Sometimes it's little things. The attitude of your people when interacting with us, or perhaps your lack of desire to interact with us at all. But when you get the chance, and a little bit of power and confidence, your disregard truly reveals itself. When you slaughter us, trade us, all because it puts bread on the table, as you put it. Yet here you are, vehemently denying it. It's so depressing."

He stepped back, facing the quivering, petrified man. The stitches which vertically aligned his face disrupted the movements of his mouth, and he didn't dare speak further lest he risk tearing his lips apart.

"I'm going to kill that man one day, no doubt. For what he did to me, for what he did to us. Don't delude yourself into believing I would respect transparency. Transparency only makes a pill easier to swallow. It doesn't make that pill any less poisonous. So, please... if you're going to be a venom to this world, at least be more easily digestible. What I'm asking of you is very simple."

The man pulled at his bandages, loosening them and removing them from his face to reveal what was underneath. As the broken man gazed upon the visage of he who stood above him, his face went pale and his trembling only intensified.

"All that I'm asking of you... is to open up to me."

He positioned his hands in the air, his palms touching each other. Then, he began to push his hands apart, dividing them from one another. As he did, the man on the floor began to scream, and scream, and scream. The stitches that were summoned upon his face also began to separate. Within moments, his entire head was pulled apart and mirrored the appearance of an opened cantaloupe. His skull had also split, and the pink brain-matter slid out and collapsed to the floor in a wet, slimy pile. With a display of gore analogous to that of sewage spill, the man reapplied the bandages over his face and sighed.

"No matter how many times I do it, it never gets old. Bastard had to drag himself into this business. All for the sake of his family, so he says. I hope it was worth it to him. His poor wife and child, what a shame it will be that they'll receive the same fate. I suppose there is such a thing as the sins of the father, after all."

Shifting his gaze towards one of the suited monstrosities behind him, he signaled it to approach, and so it did. Holding a briefcase, the suited creature forfeited it to the bandaged man, who in turn tossed it towards the vested man. Catching it, the vested man peered inside and was greeted with an abundance of money. Once more, the bandaged man spoke.

"They're right about you, you get things done. You have my gratitude for bringing him here in one piece. I'll be repurposing his skin, just like all the others. Now, I think you know what I want from you going forward, yes? These scum think they can do what they want with us. With my people. Correct them. Bring the ringleaders to me, they will be the strong-bodied and useful ones. Slaughter the rest as usual. You do that for me, and you'll have all the money and hunting supplies you could ever desire."

There was no vocal response, only a silent acknowledgment as the vested man turned and walked away. As his footsteps faded into the distance, the bandaged man picked up the remains of the newly deceased guest and advanced in the opposite direction, his suited beasts following behind him. Approaching a large metal door, he opened it and stepped through, entering a spacious room. The floor and walls of the place were iron and rusted. The purpose of the area was a simple one. Containment, and collection. In the center was a pile. Hundreds upon hundreds of roughly stitched together flesh creatures, squirming and writhing like maggots as they feast and breed.

What's more, on the far right side of the room, the wall hosted several dead bodies, each in various states of ruin. Some corpses missed their legs, others had chunks of their torso or arms removed, all depending on what fate the stitches dictated for them.

Setting the corpse down, the bandaged man inspected his victim and pondered for a while. As he did so, he wandered over to the right side wall, inspecting the bodies. Finally settling upon the one he liked most, he removed one corpse, the remains of a woman, and took her with him. Getting to work, he began carefully tracing his finger along the perimeter of her face, once more manifesting a trail of stitches. Then, he gently slipped his nails underneath the thread, peeling the face off with utmost care. With it now in his grasp, he delved into his craft, compounding the freshly removed face with the broken folds of his male victim's head.

With gentle care, he scooped up his new creation and carried it to the pile, placing it down into the twitching mass.

"There... I've fixed you. Delivered you from cruelty, changed you from that monstrous form you once had. Now you belong somewhere better. With me. With my people. Please, enjoy this feeling, savor it. I've remade you, there's no more room for hate in your heart. And I won't stop at you. The world will feel the reverberations of our actions. They will, and so will that man. And when they do, and he does as well, things will be right again. Oh so right... and we'll thrive, my friends. All of us."

With a soft groan, he and his entourage exited the room. Closing the door behind them, a dark shadow was cast upon the monstrous pile, obscuring it once more. In his mind, his desired reality would come to pass. All that would be required of him was patience. The patience to allow The Hunter to proceed with his mission, to bring him what he desired. Until then, he could simply sit back and wait. Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. There was one thing he could do, if only to pass a little time. As the sun sank beneath the horizon and the world greeted the moon and stars, he found himself on a lonely suburban street. In front of him was a house, and the silhouette of two people inside. One larger feminine figure, and a smaller figure too. As both undoubtedly awaited their loved one's return, the man approached the front door and placed his hand upon the knob.

Although he would despise the unpleasant screaming that would ensue, at least in the end, he could reunite this family in his pile, all of them fixed, the hatred dispelled from their heart by his hand alone.