A Visit to the Shrink

“I see here that you’re a recovering sex addict and alcoholic.”

“Yes”

“You’re twenty-two years old.”

“I don’t see how that is relevant.” the boy fidgets.

“Well, it is quite unusual for an adult white male of Irish descent to be a recovering sex addict and alcoholic, and to have self admitted himself for both.”

“I’m not normal.”

I give him an apathetic grin.

“Well give me an example.”

“I have these thoughts…. I mean all the time…and…and… I can’t turn em off… I mean it’s always sex, even now always sex and…and… all the female nurses, the positions…. I came here because I thought you can help me?”

“I didn’t mean to take light of your…condition… Can you tell me, what are you in these daydreams?”

“I often bend them over an-”

“No” I interrupt, “Not what you do, but what are you.”

His eyes glaze over as he tries to remember. I try to give him a healthy push in the right direction, though too healthy and he’ll foam at the mouth gibbering about the end of space-time.

“I…I don’t know…”

“So you’re not you.”

He pauses, almost in a self-induced blue screen, before slowly restoring his easy bake brain to proper sentence forming ability.

“No…”

And that’s all I need to know before I lock the door and disable the cameras. He panics, but he doesn’t make it to the door before his skull hits the green and white tiles.

“Sorry.”

Matt Crossneck was the lone survivor of an unsolved murder/disappearance 6 years ago when he lured away Stacy Daniels, age 15, from a friends pool party one autumn weekend. The police found plenty of blood but no body. A dazed and confused Matt Crossneck, covered head to toe in lacerations and bruises, was the only witnesses and shortly suspect, but no one wanted to believe a drunken 16-year-old with not so much as a learner’s permit can dispose of a body as quickly and efficiently as a thirty something 6’2 overweight white male.

That was six years ago. And considering I’ve spent the entire day pouring over this towns more violent headlines, this is the closest thing I have to a lead. And I nearly missed it because the age groups don’t match. Unless my supernatural grizzle bear has a girlfriend, I’m guessing whatever ate my mark last night probably establishing a pattern. Eighteen years to this date, a group of college kids were eviscerated at a house party. Would go down as a typical Friday the 13th unsolved except for the fact that besides the blood and gore, very little of their actual bodies were found. And while this is Missouri, the local cops at least did their job as well they could, considering how many police records I’ve read in how many languages, I would know. Nevertheless, whoever wrote the scene had no fucking clue what happened. Besides maybe the victims being chewed up by a lawn mower. Drag ass to twelve whole years later and this young man is the solve survivor to what I take is the same kind of nasty event, just on a smaller scale and a much younger age group.

The case gets mighty curious from here. And my desire to hunt it is starting to burn out of sheer curiosity than compulsion.

The age thing stumps me good. Understand that daemons are creatures of habit, because what tethers it to this plane of existence is mighty thin and the slightest hint you don’t belong here registers a kick in the ass by the universes firmware. Like a good virus you want to inmate natural occurrences in our world. Or you simply want a defining set of rules and procedures that govern your behavior. At least for a bottom feeder daemon that withered its way into our world through whatever crack chance the multi-verse gave it, them’s the options. And because them’s the breaks, you end up having to care about little things, like what you eat….

Now I’m not a monster hunter. Though I’m highly qualified to do so. I’m more of a case worker. Because monsters don’t exist. Really they don’t. But that’s the lie we tell people to ensure that they don’t really exist. I want the little sheep to believe that just over that fence there isn’t a pack of hunger wolves. Frightens the sheep and excites the wolves, lose lose situation in my book. So while I rather not run around protecting all the sheep, and lord knows I can’t, I’m very much compelled to do so. Not because I personally want to, but because a geas is a bitch of a thing to have. The type of soul binding destiny trap that ensures that like my daddy before me and his daddy before him, I’ll be a farmer just like them. The kind with the shotgun pointed at the fence, snarling at whatever comes through.

So yeah I “could” have saved them. The boy anyway. Funny I call him a boy when I probably not that much older than he is physically. But doing so, wouldn’t give me a case. And I work cases. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, and by extension the geas that runs my life. So while I’m really not a therapist, and not exactly one to care much another mans sexual deviancy, or the lack there of, I figure I do Mr.Crossneck a favor and get rid of his hang up for him. A little on the house I guess, so I press my fingers against his temples to make the mucous green circles around his irises disappear. When I arranged the meet, I noticed he had them, which is how I knew the cases were related off the bat. Terror is like disease passed on by the most harmless of actions, lying dormant for years while silently eating its host alive from the inside. When he wakes up he will remember nothing and his grey hairs will stop growing at an alarming rate. However when ladies look into his eyes, they won’t be mesmerized by tiny sliver of demonic magic desperately  trying to pass its evil on to the next host, which means he’ll get laid less often but he’ll thank me when he can finally settle down with a girl that likes him for him. Or he’ll be alone forever, he is a special kind of loser this one.

In any case I’m done here, so  I “persuade” a nearby orderly to call for a janitor and consider the lack jawed patient lying in his own pool of blood as merely an office accident a few stitches can work out, before driving to my cheap motel for some RR and Colombian roast.

Returning to my cheap motel, the case greets me as the papers rustle when I slam the door. I yawn, none of those will help me now, so I shove them aside and unpack the testing equipment. Microscope, blood slides, PH testers, intoxication metrics, and various instruments for detecting genetic abnormalities and hormone levels. Sighing, I have to wonder why I insisted on doing this myself instead of giving it to the league of shadows or trusting in the governments counter occult agencies for once. I’ve already prepared a 2000 page training manual that should be relevant for the next four decades (in 6 languages no less)… No, I should know better than that– my predecessor would.

So I prepare a blood slide for Matt’s blood sample. I was sure to take it before I exorcised his inner demons, but I kept my fingers cross that what I’ll find would match the sample I took from the woman I have gagged in my bathroom.

She kicks and screams just when I look inside the microscope, both are muffled noises to me and defiantly mute points to the outside world, but nevertheless rather annoying.

“Jessica.”

Her name doesn’t calm her.

“Jessica, do understand that this is the safest place you can be.” for other people, “And I have a lot of work to do. The quicker it’s done, the faster you can go back to your banal life of frappes and gossip girls.”

I’d figure all the pillows I layered the walls and floor with to mask the sound of her constant banging would be appreciated. It’s easier when the female gets eaten, no one care about a young male who hasn’t been seen in two weeks. But let little miss sunshine not call her mom in twelve hours and there will be a squad cars on every third block. Only the multiple wards I have in place keeps this sleazy part of town out the police radar. For now anyway.

“Fucking necromancers.”

I take a good look in the mirror before heading off to complete my work. A blood sample would be all I need if I’m right. I keep my fingers cross.

There are two problems with this case. One manifestations are creatures of habit. Pure and simple. They are picky eaters and generally prefer under aged meat. Monsters, apparitions, ghost, aliens, adults may see them, but children believe in them. If a real life gray skin alien were to show up on your front porch any rational adult would think Halloween came early. Or some comic book convention has found its way to their town, or a movie was in mid shoot, or anything to discredit the possibility of the supernatural. That’s the magic of adulthood, we wish our reality to make sense and it does. However children, especially the ones who haven’t hit puberty, aren’t very picky about how many arms and legs actually belong on a ten foot tall spaghetti monster.

Which becomes a problem when some asshole brings the spaghetti monster to our side of reality, because children don’t care about the laws of physics or understand why cockroaches can’t be 20 feet long. Habitually slaughtering scores of children is what most low-class abominations do when tethered to our plane of existence. Which leads to the second problem, the difference between Medusa and the Minotaur. Medusa was her own lady with a big grudge on men, hunted by an established MO, and did it by the several dozen. The Minotaur however was the pet daemon of a mad sorcerer king who found a relatively cheap way to kill people by gruesome wild animal. Why is this so important? Because one involved a necromancer who can summon these things over and over again, and one was a freak accident involving a particularly pissed off lady saying the worst kind of prayer, when the stars have aligned.

The lesser horror doesn’t match the MO. Hunts young adults, but doesn’t bath in their blood or even preys on the same age group. He’s obviously nesting here but hasn’t established a meaningful pattern. Six years ago it attacks Matt and Stacy at a pool party, kills Stacy, leaves Matt relatively unharmed, though he clearly was part of the menu. twelve years before that it slaughters 16 young adults, all between the ages of 20 to 26, but stops.

The blood work is conclusive, no match.

“Figures.”

But my theory matches. Something was unintentionally summoned 18 years ago, either by a bunch of goth kids who had nothing better to do, or by a really intelligent young man or woman(as unlikely as it may be never rule out the women) for the sole purpose of handling a certain group of people.  The problem is few bottom feeders are interested in anything older than 12, so most likely whatever came through wasn’t particular easy to handle. Especially considering whoever was behind this probably didn’t think their dabbling into necromancy 101 would actually work. Whether or not they actually knew their lesser horror actually existed, I can’t tell, but the second part of the plan involved spiking someone’s drink with a particular set herbs and spices. Not something to get drunk off of, but a discrete way to train their pet daemon on a particular group of people. For this to work with the minimal amount of collateral damage, they’d need a house party our necromancers of honor weren’t invited to (naturally). What follows next, any B-rated horror slasher film can tell you, but the main point is that 18 years later Jessica, and probably Kevin as well, has trace amounts of something voodoo in their system. The type of soul binded pocus that stays in your system for years. My honest guess, after the deed was done 18 years ago, the sorcerers involved probably put two and two together and realized what they have done. And didn’t feed the beast for 12 years….

And yes this will be edited

                                                                 

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3 Comments

Filed under The Boy King

3 responses to “A Visit to the Shrink

  1. Glad to see you’re going to edit this–you have some interesting things going on here but have to sort them out a bit. Look forward to reading this again. And many thanks for following my blog.

  2. really good. It Ki. Hit me up later

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