Moker was a deformed serial killer. She was an expert in astral projection, and could even possess dead bodies, bringing them back to life. Fortunately, she was dead. But her sister survived, and she had my – our – son. My wife was going hysterical. “She’s killed him! The bitch has killed him!” she kept repeating. Together we thudded on Moker’s sister’s front door. The menace – the thing – lived in a shabby council flat. I kicked the door in, sending it flying off its hinges, and my wife, Bethany, charged in screaming our son’s name: “Brian! Brian! Brian!” The first thing to hit us was the smell. There was simply no explaining it. Fetid, rank, wrong...the second was the darkness. Then there was the dampness. You could literally hear the dripping. I’m sure the finer details of the apartment would have sickened me, but my angst and adrenaline didn’t give me time to pause and wonder (newspaper clippings of her older sibling’s murders, however, tacked all over the walls, did not go unnoticed). Fortunately, some light came in from the kitchen window. Moker’s sister was escaping out of it. Our Brian was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He was facing us, as if expecting us. There was duct tape over his mouth, suffocating his silent screams. His eyes were huge, massive, full of a terror I hope I never have to witness again. He was naked, and one of his legs was soaked in blood. In fact, part of the leg was missing. And when I registered the sizzling coming from the frying pan on the oven hob, I knew exactly where it was. The sick freak that was Moker’s sister had been about to eat him. Both my wife and I were struck dumb with shock for a moment. Then the moment passed and she tended to him. Knowing he was injured but safe and in the company of Mum, I clambered out the window after Moker’s sister and chased her through the surrounding woodland. Like her sister, she was deformed. Like her sister, she wore a cloak. And like her sister, she was clumbersome. I knew I would be on her within seconds. What I intended to do to her when I caught her...well, I didn’t know, though it would probably involve pummelling with fists and feet.
I rugby-tackled her from behind and ended up pinning her down on her back, me sat on top of her stomach. I raised my hand to clout the life out of her but stopped when she started to laugh at me. She was uglier than her sister. Much uglier. And believe you me, the original Moker had been no oil painting. Up close and personal, her countenance was not too dissimilar from the Predator’s. Her cackling was hissy and wet. She did something then which defied all logic and reason, and I know this is going to sound impossibly mad. Bear in mind, you are only reading and imagining this experience...I actually lived it. I’ll say it as simply as I can because there is no easy way. She bit all her fingers off, including the thumbs. Bit them off, chewed them into mulch, then vomited them up into what remained of the palms of her hands. She not only did this, but she did it quickly. She did it so fast that I barely saw her do it at all. It was like a DVD on fast forward. Her flesh was like candy. She stared back at me through the whole condensed speeded-up fiasco. And she was loving every second of it. The pulp in her fingerless palms moulded into the bloody stumps, only now it wasn’t flesh and blood, but a transparent misty substance, fusing into the form of her old digits but elongating and stretching far, far longer. It was then that I jumped up off Moker’s sister and maintained a healthy distance from the supernatural witch. I looked on in nothing short of amazement as fluid tendrils of steamy fingers glided their way back from where we had come. Moker had stopped laughing and was now sat up in stern concentration – she looked like she was playing an invisible piano. I dashed back to her rotten hovel and climbed back in through the kitchen window. Bethany was still untying Brian. When the smoky fingers came inside and started choking him, the three of us screamed as one. We clawed at the tendrils, and like smoke they momentarily disassembled, but they always reformed and began to resume their deathly clutch. Finally we both got him free and out of there, checking behind us as we went. We got in my car and drove towards the hospital. Moker’s energy could not chase us for miles – her power would wither over distance – but this realisation did not soothe my nerves.
My wife called the police. We reported abduction and grievous bodily harm. It was all we could do.
© Zombie Publications 2017