Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20160618163439

Detective Jason McLaughlin was heading southwest of Cobh towards Rennies. The Irish countryside, which Jason was traversing, was surprisingly warm. Despite the gleaming grass, scorching sun, and wavering water, Jason was angry. Not because there had been a murder, but because he was in withdrawal.

Jason had to undertake therapy. Otherwise he would lose his job. His drug abuse problems started in 2013, when the stress caused by a particularly hard case made Jason try some Xanax. Soon, he became addicted.

Quitting was hard: Jason could not imagine life without his stress remedy. He would burst into a frenzy when he was deprived of his favourite stimulant, tearing wallpaper from the walls, and destroying any furniture he came into contact with.

As Jason turned east from Nahaval, the scenery became melancholy. The sun waned, and the cloak of darkness that came with the evening cast a gloomy vibe over the rustling grass, moors, and valleys. After a while, those sights were replaced by depressing, dilapidated cottages engulfed in ivy, and moss.

The music on the radio complemented the mood. Small orange lights of farmers’ cigars glowed in the dark. As Jason opened the window, fresh night air filled the car. A low choir of howling dogs was heard in the distance.

After about three hundred kilometres of a, mostly, straight course, Jason turned his BMW south and headed straight for the village of Avery Springs. It started raining as Jason entered a thick forest. It resembled a jungle, in truth. The stone road had a spider web of cracks running through it. There were occasional manors amid the heavily cluttered forest dating back, no doubt, to the early centuries when the Normans invaded the Land of Saints and Scholars. The Manors were in a horrible state of abandonment: the walls were coated with briars, the windows were broken, and the roofs were collapsed. These ancient houses, no doubt, held a eldritch history of abuse, murder, and ritualistic sacrifice.

As he reached a opening, Jason was filled with awe at the sight of the beautiful vista, yet repelled by about five dozen sparse houses placed at regular intervals.

The vista caught his attention first; a huge lake, surrounded by colossal yew, oak, elm, and willow trees, a village,(a normal one at first glance) a towering cliff overlooking the scene beneath, and a few tulips, roses, and poppies growing on all over the place.

The village was a horror inducing sight though. About three dozen houses were barn-like, derelict structures with collapsed gambrel roofs, and covered in moss. There were some animals staring blankly at the outside world. Jason's first thought about them was that they resembled Holocaust victims.

They looked starved, and spectral in the shadow of their barns; their bones distinct under a thin layer of hide, their reflective eyes giving passers-by's a ghastly stare. The rest of the houses were better maintained.

Jason lit a cigarette, “At least I am allowed to smoke.” He gasped.

Jason drove past the horrible houses, trying to divert his attention to the beautiful cliff overlooking the village. It helped. Or at least until he saw a sign reading “Avery Springs Cemetery” on a cross on top of the cliff.

“There is no happy place in this shithole.” He said.

He checked his email: “Meet at the east of O' Mahoney’s road, when arrived at Avery Springs. -RD.” RD stood for Richard Donovan, the chief of police at Jason's police station. Before the email, he got a call saying there was a murder committed in a town called Avery Springs, a town not marked on any map.

This interested Jason. He thought it was a great way to take his mind off drugs, in turn putting a stop to his frenzied episodes. Following the directions, Jason arrived at a desolate, cordoned-off area. Red and blue lights were flashing, sirens were roaring, and the flashes of cameras were blinding. The zone was isolated from the town, but a group of onlookers were watching.

Jason got out of his car, and carried himself, with military bearing, towards the area of commotion. He ducked under the tape, ignoring the inquires of a distressed officer as to his identity, walked over to a semi-circle of officers looking down at a body.

There was a hill and at the foot of it was a mangled corpse; the intestine was hanging out from a gory aperture in the victims stomach. the victim was middle-aged, a buzz cut, and a sporty clothes.

“Jason, how good to see, my friend,” said his former assistant, who was mistaking in calling Jason a friend, as he had none. “This is a particularly bloody one, no evidence as far as we can tell.”

“Well than that's as far as your IQ level, isn't it?” Jason said.

“Umm... Well, we did search pretty-“

“Stupidly, if that's a word.” Jason interrupted. “I, for one, already know that the victim was a tourist, who worked as a soldier.”

“But how?” Kyle, his partner, asked in disbelief.

“Simple,” Jason straightened his collar. “Despite his intestine hanging out of his stomach, I noticed that he was pretty well built, but, of course, that is only a supporting factor. The fact the he has buzz cut could be another coincidence. I also noticed his hands are tanned, but I can see the tan-line just above the wrist. His hands are very brown, meaning he gets a lot of sun, yet he wears long sleeves.

“Also, he is currently wearing a t-shirt, so I guessed that he has to wear a long sleeved jacket because of work, but he works on the outside. Since his trousers are shredded, I saw the state of his knees, his elbows are in the same wrecked state, so he does a lot of crawling, and last, but not least look at his back, straight, taut: he does not slouch, he has very good posture, his back is not flabby.”

“Holy shit! Not bad.” Said Jameston.

“How did you get the tourist part, though.”

“That was a educated guess; I saw the clothes, sporty, not formal, a camera,(obvious evidence) and I saw your guys examining a wallet with a lot of American dollars in it. Simple really.” Said Jason.

Jason, without delay, ascended the hill, and dropped to his knees. He did this for a while. He searched everywhere, and anywhere in the area, very attentively. When he placed himself before the other officers, he was grimy and dirty from the crawling.

“Does anyone here smoke cigars, not cigarettes mind you?” he asked. “No? Very well then,” he continued. “The killer is an old man. Wealthy too. He smokes Dunhill cigars. Oh, and he wasn't always wealthy, he used to work a low salary job, probably a fisherman.”

“Oh you're just making this up!” accused Donavan.

“O My God!” sighed Jason. “Ash! Bloody cigar ash. I found cigar ash on the hill. It could not be a coincidence, it has to be the killers. I can recognize cigar ash, by the way. I know he, perhaps she, came from a poor background because very little rich people smoked cigars in the last thirty years. People smoke cigarettes now days. So, this person is old, because even poor people don't smoke cigars in the 21st century, but they might have some sixty years ago, especially in small villages.

“Small villages, bad income, cigars, and steady hands judging by the way the victim's stomach had been cut open all suggest that the killer might have been a fisherman. And I know he's rich because that cigar brand is expensive now days.”

“You surprise me,” Said Donavan. “There is a inn here, “Red Robin Hood”. Get yourself a room, and we'll continue the search here. You go interview some locals.”

Jason grunted and followed his orders. He hated being commanded to do things. Jason took out his interviewing equipment from his pockets. It was not a cosh; It was a few mints and perfume. The perfume was for himself, the mints were not.

Upon entering the inn, Jason dry heaved. There was a disgusting stench of rot, and filth; the wallpaper was peeling off the walls, rust spread across the counter and iron-fittings on the wooden pillars. The residence were dirty, had droopy eye-lids, and hooked noses. Among the sea of suspiciously staring peasants, there was one casual looking character in a corner.

Among the waves of grimy residents, he looked picturesque. Jason walked over to the counter and ordered a Jack Daniels from the hunchback barman who smelled of disease.

“Can I sit down?” Jason asked the man in the corner. The man nodded.

“Care to join me in a drink?”

“If I wouldn't be imposing on you.” Was the reply.

Jason took a seat and poured them both a pint. The man was obviously well spoken, had an Oxford accent, spoke with authority, and sounded well educated. The suit was also tailored and he had an expensive silk shirt, and polished shoes.

“Oh, and for you, my good man, a mint. Actually never mind one mint, here's three.” Jason said.

This weird procedure was what Jason called “The Science of Persuasion”. By giving the man a mint, and making it seem personal, while complementing him, established a trust and liking, even if the second party was unaware.

“Forgive me for my folly: I never inquired about your name, that was rather impolite of me. My name is Jake Connors.” Said Jason, deciding to keep his real identity a secret.

Jason knew these kind of people, you had to make communicate with them using a exaggerated form of English, or else they would consider you a lesser human being.

“No worries, friends. The foul atmosphere of this inhumane cesspool is enough to make a man forget his own name,” Laughed the man. “As to my name, it is Keaton Rileston.”

“Greeting, Mr. Rileston.” Jason said.

“Same, Mr. Connors.”

“Care to have a cigarette? I personally prefer cigars, but I am all out. Do you know a place in the town where I can get some?” Jason asked.

“I accept. Thank you. As to a store that has cigars in stock, The Maller should have some. Harold is the only one who smokes cigars in the town.” Said Keaton.

“Harold who?”

“Harold Delaney, a old man living in the mansion perched atop the cliff. He is undoubtedly rich, but whenever he shows himself to the general public, which seldom happens, his attire consists of tattered rags, and bare feet.”

“Indeed, curious, but he could have inherited the mansion, and lost all his money via, let's say, gambling.” Jason said.

“No, he is rich: never afraid to show his thick pouch, no wallet by the way. And he is a decent folk, bought me a few drink once. Despite his usual tranquillity, there was one event that shocked the townsfolk.”

“Please do tell me about it.” Inquired Jason, showing no interest. With these people, Jason knew, you could not appear to be interested, or show signs that their information was of any value to you. You have to make it sound like your only trying to get on their good side by pretending to be interested in what they have to say.

“So it was Halloween night, a bunch of village kids strolled up the cliff with a bag of eggs. They hid behind a deadfall, and bombarded Harold's mansion with eggs. No beside the, now traumatized, kids saw it, but the results were chaotic the next morning. The windows were cracked, the yolks stuck to the walls, and the shells littered the garden. After the assault ceased, Harold emerged looking furious.

“The kids laughed at him, and flipped him off, as they call it now days. Steam was bursting from Harold's nostrils, his muscles grew taut, and he launched himself at the kids. Never could I, or any other sane person, imagined the unrelenting speed, and vigour this eight, or so year old man showed.

“A couple of people noticed the chase. The old man was quickly gaining on the athletic kids. When he caught up to them, he hurled them onto the ground with immense strength no other man of his age possessed. He then delivered a series of devastating kicks to the kids. It took ten people to restrain him, foam was spurting out of his mouth. Blood was spurting out of the mouths of the kids in huge waves of crimson gore, too.

“No legal action was taken, considering this time, that is no surprise. The kids ended up with eleven broken ribs between them, and one experienced severe internal bleeding.”

“Most dreadful!” Exclaimed Jason, who was ecstatic on the inside.

He then finished his drink and bid the man, Keaton, farewell. Jason wasted no time in ascending the hill, and searching for the mansion. The cemetery looked grim in the shadow of the night, and Jason noticed a thick, opaque mist settling in from the north. The trek through the briars, thorny bushes, and mud was exhausting, but when he saw the mansion, Jason sighed in relief.

It was huge, and in a good state of repair. Jason stumbled to the oak door and knocked. A sharp green eye appeared amid a dark void as the door opened at a acute angle.

“Yes?” Barked a hoarse voice from inside.

“Joseph Moriarty;” Jason used another pseudonym. “I'm here to ask you about the village. I am an amateur journalist. I took interest in this town because of it's solitary location and dark history. Since you live isolated from most of the village, I though your opinion might not be biased.”

The door opened fully. A man of about sixty appeared. Despite his age, he looked vigorous, and was well built. He considered Jason for a second.

“Dirty scum inquiring ‘bout what’s not their business like a fucking orphan, little arrogant cunt!” Said Harold.

A vein pulsed in Jason's neck. He tried to remain calm and locate the source of the sudden outburst, but before he could:

“I beg your pardon, sir,” cried Harold. “I don't know what took happened there. Please come in and sit down.”

The inside was demolished. Jason's mind recalled his trashed apartment, in turn recalling the drugs which it longed for. The house was dark, illuminated only by a few wavering candles, there were scratch marks on the walls, the floor boards creaked, and there was a horrible miasma hanging in the air. Jason breathed heavily. An old grandfather clocked rang out. Jason's ears became sensitive from the withdrawal.

Bugs were scurrying along the edges of the walls. Jason's hands clenched into fists. The kitchen he was led into was in the same condition. Harold waved him into an uncomfortable chair. Jason dug his fingernails into the rough wooden table.

Jason's mind was in a flurry of thoughts about Xanax. He was so busy fighting the thoughts, he did not notice that Harold disappeared to make some tea. When he returned, he filled both their mugs. Jason took a hearty swig, trying to distract himself from drugs. The tea was horrible, but at least drinkable.

“So, your name, if I'm not mistaken, is Harold Delan...” Jason paused, scanning his host's huge, and diabolical smile. Something was wrong. He could taste it now, the succinylcholine chloride-based tranquillizer.

Jason's legs faltered. He got up and scrambled for his gun inside his jacket. As Jason made contact with the metal butt of the gun, a strong grip made contact with his arm. His hand was thrust aside, and he was pinned to the wall with the strength of a stampede. Jason's vision blurred and he swooned.

He woke in a cold, damp room, gasping for air. When he calmed down, Jason processed the situation: he was in a dark room with cobblestone walls. The walls were smeared with fresh and dried blood, and there were chains hanging from the ceiling.

Jason looked around in the dim light supplied by a grate in the roof, and saw a metal bar door. He limped towards it, and shook it to no avail. After his attempts to escape proved in vain, Jason sat in the corner. Then, suddenly, and shadow appeared in the circle of light below the grate. It was descending.

Jason rose and grabbed a lose stone from the ground. Sticking to the wall, Jason inched towards the door, stone tightly grasped in hand. When Jason got as close as he could to the door, he saw a vague shape of Harold.

Suddenly, a hand sprang from the other side and grasped Jason, slamming him into the metal bars.

“Sneaky, sneaky,” laughed a familiar voice. “I would recommend dropping the piece of gravel from your hand, you wont hurt a frog with that thing.” Jason complied.

“Yes, before you ask detective, I killed that tourist, and no, I'm not a psychopath, just a misunderstood person.” That's what every single fucking psychopath says, though Jason, deciding it's best to not say that out loud.

“I think you'll need to hear this to understand, dear fellow: you and I are not unlike each other. I am what you traditionally call a lycanthrope, or werewolf.” Said Harold.

Okay, this motherfucker is a schizophrenic degenerate; he think he is some mythical fucking fairy creature, and kills in the belief that he must satisfy his hunger, though Jason.

“You probably think I'm delusional,” continued Harold. “I'm not. I can prove it to you. But we only have two minutes, because the full-moon is nigh. I usually eat food that stumbles into my house. But, Jason, there is something special about you.

“You have a gift that is considered a curse. But that is not what makes us so similar. The thing that makes us so similar is our unquenchable anger, the rage that builds up inside of us, and is contained in there. That uncontrollable fury is what makes us special.

“The reason I insulted you, and observed as you wage an inside battle with yourself, is that I sensed the anger caused by the commonplace idiots in this world. That is why I offer you the gift of lycanthropy, refuse you shall substitute that pretty lady I was going to have for launch, accept and share incomprehensible power.

“Seeing as we’ve one more minute, I'll explain more about my kin, and myself. I walked the shores of this planet for six centuries, moving from place to place. I, through my adventures, inherited a lot of wealth, allowing me to move into huge, isolated manors and prey on local villagers.

“My kin prefer the life of a vagabond, occasionally stopping in one place for half a century, if the prey is good. We, contrary to idiot belief, maintain control while in godly form. It's just that a huge burst of adrenaline pulses through our veins. Hello, that's all I have time for.”

Jason's head hurt badly. The lunatic stepped into the circle of light.

Nothing happened. Silence, he just stood there with grin. Suddenly, Harold convulsed, and dropped to his knees. Jason thought he was gradually increasing in size, but was just an optical illusion, right? Harold started drooling, his lips burst open, and jagged teeth pushed out the normal ones.

His skin darkened, and took on leathery look. The hair on Harold's skin straightened and multiplied. His eyes turned into menacing, scarlet pupils.

Soon, a beast out of a nightmare stood before Jason. It was about nine feet tall, had some patches of black leather skin amid a sea of black, repulsive fur, it's teeth were huge and sharp. It reared on it's hind legs and sprang towards Jason.

Mustering all the all his willpower, Jason jumped out of the way. His mind was still racing. The beats howled a horrible wale. Then, scraping it's threating claws on the walls, it charged at Jason, roaring.

Jason backed up into a corner screaming frantically; all courage had left him. The best thrust it's mouth towards Jason's face. It was inches away. The thing's breath smelled of rot and death.

“Do you accept?” A deep voice boomed.

“I accept, acetp, yesssss!” Jason was unable to form a coherent sentence.

The beast sank it's horrible teeth into Jason. The foul thing had deceived him, of course, thought Jason.

When he woke up, Jason was in dismay. Was it real? He thought. Just then he realized he was extremely hungry. When he saw a tray of food: a loaf of bread, and can of water, he jumped at it. Not caring whether it poisoned or not because death was better than that hunger.

Despite his hunger, Jason could barely finish the meal. It was disgusting beyond words. After he finished he realised what he really wanted: blood. The though just came there, it required no thinking, nor did it seem wrong or out of place.

Jason was now a creature of myth and legend, and his captor fed him human food because he wanted to train him. Depriving him of “real food" would make Jason crave blood even more, thus ensuring he would kill without second thought. 