The Dark Somnium - "Things Darker Than Man"

Episode Date: August 28, 2023

This Creepypasta scary story is a submission from out subreddit The Dark Gathering, check out the original post and let the author know what you think!"Things Darker Than Man" https://www.reddit.com/r/TheDarkGathering/comments/ml8yw3/things_darker_than_man_part_1/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

It was 3 a.m. on July 17th, 2004, when I found myself outside the site of the seventh murder in four weeks. My partner, Jim McAllister and I, had been the first responders to this particular incident. The first two to survey the carnage before the forensics team and cleanup crew made it to the scene. We had followed a twisted breadcrum trail of broken glass, debris, and blood up to the master bedroom, where we found the mutilated body of the occupant, torn in half, half and adorned with tattered linen and ruby-tinged goose feathers. Her name was Sally McMahon. She was a 74-year-old woman, who, according to her neighbors, lived alone and seldom had any visitors.

There was no reason for anyone to have so much as let their dog run amuck through her garden, let alone kill her, yet here we were. We had ruled out the idea of it being an animal attack after the first victim's post-mortem, A local farmer who we had found torn to pieces in his ransack kitchen. Initially, we'd put it down to being a bear or even a particularly aggressive wolf, but that was before a spooked-sounding forensic pathologist from the local hospital called in to Sheriff Alverson's office to gravely relay to us that the bite marks found on the farmer's body were thoroughly baffling.

Allegedly, the corpse was covered with human teeth marks, and, more alarmingly, teeth marks that were deemed unrecognizable. We'd all hoped that the following incidents, when they happened, wouldn't turn out the same way. That they were animal attacks, or that the post-mortem would yield different results. Of course, even by the seventh murder, some officers who were on the scene were still throwing around the idea that these were all just the work of one very aggravated bear. I'd been standing outside the house, taking long, frequent drags on a cigarette, and listening

to the chatter of the other officers, as the first. faulty street light above me played a fierce tug of war with the night. The detective assigned to the case, Donald Evans, emerged from the doorway and began to walk towards me, his face ashen, even in the multed orange glow. Officer Lamansky? Um, call me, Mikhail. I said, extending my hand out to shake his. You're Detective Evans, right?

Yeah, that's me. It's my understanding that you were one of the first responders. That's right. I said, my words muffled by the smoke. that exited my mouth in a ghostly wisp. I get that these incidents are uncommon around these parts, to say the least. But I need you to tell me if you or Officer McAllister notice any details that stood out from the other crime scenes.

I forced my mind to delve back into the last hour and a half. Jim and I had entered the house at around 3.10 a.m., firstly noticing an upturned cabinet and broken glass strewn at the bottom of the staircase. Upon reaching the landing, we found yet more ravaged. furniture and broken glass, and, more than that, a thick crimson trail of blood that led into the master bedroom. My mind drew a blank. It was gruesome, but nothing that really stands out from the other.

The handprints. There were handprints on the ceiling, I said. What? Evans nearly choked. There were bloody handprints on the walls and on the floor, but there were some on the ceiling, too. You... You're sure they're. were handprints.

Evans stammered. Sure as I am that we're having this conversation right now. Bloody handprints, pronounced too. Wasn't like the perp threw the victim up there or anything. You can go and check for yourself. I outed it. Shit. Evans jogged back to the house and disappeared up the stairs.

I looked over at Jim, who had been sitting on the hood of a car and staring into space ever since the forensic team had got there. The case was weighing on. on him. I could tell. With each passing incident, he grew quieter. His mind was on something, though. The handprints on the ceiling had thoroughly frightened and confused the hell out of me. All the murders up until this point had been grisly, but none had really possessed any anomalous details, aside from the lack of fingerprints and the bizarre teeth marks, both of which we were all used to by now. I was about to attempt to make conversation with Jim when Evans rushed back

out of the house. He looked even more somber than he had before, almost sickly. He were right about the handprints. We're going to take samples and see if we could identify the perpetrator from that. He was almost choked up. Right. I didn't have much hope for that. No attempts at DNA fingerprinting or blood sampling had progressed the case at all in the last three weeks. The forensic team are saying, or saying the corpse is covered in bite marks. Human? Probably. We'll have to wait for the post-mortem. Could still turn out different. We don't know yet.

We knew all too well. Evan spoke with the same vain expectation that the other local officers did, and it was becoming apparent that there was no way to downplay this at something less serious than it was. There was a person out there doing this, someone who was savagely butchering people, seemingly without reason. These were serial killings. Yet the words. serial killer had yet to be used by our sheriff or even detective Evans. You and McAllister can head home. Evan said, defeat lurking behind his gruff, authoritative tone. It's been a long night and the forensics team will be here for a while. I wished Evans good luck in the hunt for any further evidence and motioned to Jim to get in the car.

I looked back at the house as I turned the vehicle at the end of the street, knowing that soon the dawn would pull the obsidian shroud from the street and the townspeople would waken to yet, more unanswered questions. A week later, my exhausted brain was jump-started one slow morning by a phone call whilst I was at my desk. I didn't recognize the number. Mikhail Lamanski, who am I speaking to? Hi, Mr. Lamanski. This is Alice Corman from the Jefferson Herald. I was wondering if you had any additional information on the ongoing investigation into the string of murders in Torkton? Her words were a shot of adrenaline that went straight to my head.

I... Or perhaps any clarems. Verifying comments on today's story that could make it to a later publication. How the hell do you know about this? How'd you get this number? I bark sternly. Three days ago, we received detailed information about a series of killings in Torkton. Do you read the newspaper at all, sir?

As if on cue, the most recent copy of the Jefferson Herald was slammed down in front of me by the exasperated Sheriff Alverson. The bold headline perched arrogantly atop the cheap, fragile paper. Terror in Torkton. the Sawny Bean murders. I looked up at Alverson Scal and then spoke into the phone. Um, excuse me for a minute. I ended the call immediately and set the phone down.

I perused the article with growing disgust, already put off by the tasteless reference to the Scottish cannibal in the headline. The article read, In the early hours of July 17th, Jefferson County Police were called to the scene of a suspected home invasion, only to be met by a grisly discovery, the mutilated, cannibalized body of Sally McMahon, 74. This is said to be the seventh in a string of similar horrific incidents that the authorities have been keeping quiet, as not to frighten the citizens of Torcton.

Looking further down the page, I saw my last name appear, as well as Jim's. I looked up at Sheriff Alverson in shock. What the hell is all this? I exclaimed. Alverson's steely gaze persisted. I was hoping you'd know, he said dryly. My mind raced. I never told the press shit.

I know that this is the kind of stuff they love to seek their teeth into, especially around here when nothing happens, and... A thought popped into my head. Jim. He had left his gun and badge on Alverson's desk the day after the seventh killing, and no one had been able to contact him since then. I couldn't think of anyone else who would have tipped off the press about this whole ordeal because no one else at the scene, no matter how Harrowed, had been quite out of their minds as Jim was.

It seemed like the ever-irate sheriff had read my mind. You think it was McAllister? Looks that way. The only other person who would have been liable to let any information escape the scene was the lady who called it in, and we made a point not to give her all the details after finding out about the bite marks. We spared those details from past witnesses, too. Well, no one in this fucking precinct has heard from him since last week's incident, and no one has been able to contact him. Is he married, Lemansky?

The sheriff asked. No. The kid's girlfriend? He lives alone, sheriff. I said, my voice descending into an unimpressed monotone. Yeah, Jim had just up and left. His personality had been melting away ever since that case was opened. It wasn't like him at all, but Alverson was, and always had been,

an uptight, neglectful son of a bitch. In the eight years that I'd worked here, he'd never once made a real effort to get to know me, or any of the other officers for that matter, despite the fact that he had very little else to do. Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder because he was laid off from a big shot position in Seattle or something, but it's not like his dismissive, cold self

would ever tell me that story. I knew what was about to come out of his mouth. Well, Lemanski, you know the dipship better than anyone else here, So it falls on you to pull him out of wherever he's holed up and talk to him. With all due respect, Sheriff, I said, almost gagging on my words. What would I even say to him? The papers have already printed. Alverson cut me off. You tell him whatever you got to tell him.

Have him head down to the Jefferson Herald and tell him that forensics screwed up, that it was an animal attack. I can't have these bastards making us look like we aren't handling this, so they're going to pull that goddamn story right now. This is a quiet town, and I don't want the fucking Hoover Boys down here. Cannibalism, Jesus Christ. Alverson was perhaps the only human being in the world who still used the term Hoover Boys to describe the FBI after 1969. There was a joke about his ever so confidently spoken, outdated lingo amidst the officers, unbeknownst to him.

I shot up from my desk unwilling to tolerate the unanswered what-ifs of the situation. Sheriff, what if they don't pull the headline? What happens then? What if they don't retract their statements? In his, Alverson, ever angry, stared at me with an expression that suggested that he was about to blow his top again. He shook his head as his mind attempted to come up with some kind of solution. Right, we interview every single man—no, every single person above the age of 16 in Torcton. We get officers out here going door to door, demanding mandatory questioning for every man, woman, boy, and girl above 16.

They can tell anyone who refuse that they will be immediately put down as a suspect. I can't. I cannot have the local people think we aren't handling this. It was all to do with how we appeared, not what we were actually doing. Sure, it mattered that the people of Torcton felt like we were confident and assured in the way we dealt with things, but the fact of the matter was, we weren't handling it at all. We were taking blind swings at an invisible assailant who had us all scared shitless. Sheriff, I began. Go find McAllister.

He grumbled. I pondered, arguing for a second, and then decided that there was no way I was winning this fight. All right. I'd tried contacting Jim earlier in the week to no avail, so I knew that my only real option was to head to his place. That is, if he hadn't packed all of his belongings together and jumped on the next plane to the East Coast. As Alverson sauntered back to his office, I hurriedly tidied the small mess of papers on my desk and headed out to the lot, opting to take my own car instead of one of the precincts vehicles. I felt a weight upon my shoulder, as though the thick, humid air was pressing down on me.

Jim's sudden absence was simply another rung on this ladder of stress. I was already thinking non-stop about what I had seen, and when I'd once again find myself staring at another grisly picture just like it, the rain clouds began to spit as I drove through the downtown area, their dark gray forms harbingers of an oncoming thunderstorm. Jim lived in an apartment complex about four miles away from the station, fairly close to the edge of town, and far enough away from the center for very few cares to be given about any renovations that it may have needed.

I had only ever been there once to drop Jim off when his car was in for repairs, but it wasn't hard to find. The rain hammered down aggressively on the exterior of my car, the relentless metallic banging making me feel as though I was trapped inside a tin can at a shooting range. I pulled into the parking lot and grabbed an annerack that had slipped from the seat to the foothold in the back of the car, thinking of what exactly I should say to Jim. That was, of course, if he hadn't locked himself in his bathroom, and, well, you know. This wasn't an idea that I was particularly fond of entertaining.

I exited my car and walked briskly to the door of the apartment, dialing his room number into the panel by the door and hitting call. as the rain lapped hungrily at my shoes. Jim, it's Mikhail. If you're up there, open up. I'm not here to drag you back to Alverson, just here to talk. Nothing came through the receiver. Looking across the lot, I saw Jim's car parked in the looming shadow of a pine tree.

I tried calling again, but this time trying to sound noticeably irritated. I know you're in there, man. It's been a shitty week for everyone who's on the case, but I've got to talk to you. Besides, it's coming down out here, and I'm cold as hell. Well, open the damn door. The receiver cracked suddenly, and a hoarse voice spilled from the speaker. Mikhail? Jesus, I...

Yeah, uh, come on out. I pulled the door open and wasted no time in bothering myself with the elevator. I dashed up the stairs to the second floor and marched down the corridor to his room. The door was open slightly, the deadbolt resting on the frame. I had barely even wrapped on the door twice before Jim pulled it open. His eyes wide and a revolver in his right hand. For Christ's sake! I flinched and almost fell backward at the side of the weapon's moss staring me in the face.

Jim lowered it and spoke through deep breaths and an apparent lump in his throat. I had to make sure it was you, Mike. You heard me on the... Whatever. I said, perplexed by Jim's evidently rampant paranoia, but unwilling to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already was. It's me, man. It's me.

What the hell is this all about? I asked, gesturing at the weapon. You better come in. I followed Jim into his dimly lit apartment. I had expected it to be far messier than it actually was. There were no takeout boxes littering the floor or sloppily stacked up on top of one another, and no offensive smells emanated from the kitchen. Jim had clearly been drinking, however.

On his coffee table sat a quarterful bottle of cognac, next to a cheap-looking whiskey glass. How long he was? been working on that? I said with a spiritless chuckle. A couple days, I guess. Strong stuff. You want any? His words sprayed like a tree in the breeze. I'm good. Jim, I'm going to be frank with you. I came here from the station. I saw a newspaper and Alverson needs you to get in touch with the Jefferson Herald and tell them to pull that headline.

Fuck, Alverson. Those words were not spoken by the liquid voice in his blood. They were assured, steady and serious. Fuck Alverson and fuck his callous bullshit. He's handled this about as well as a blind shrew in a knife fight. I wouldn't even dream of bringing what I found out to him because he'd had me in a jail before I even got the whole story out. Believe you me, Mike, I found some stuff out. I found some goddamn stuff out.

What did you find out? I asked, bewildered. You're going to think I'm just a drunk asshole. snapped at the sight of too many spilled internal organs. But you're my closest damn friend to you. And I trust you're going to listen to me. I'm listening, I said. Firstly, yeah, I did give the herald that information.

And there's no way in hell I'm having to pull the story. No one is safe here. And they need to know what's going on so they can take as many precautions as they can. The killer had no connections to any of the victims. Anyone could be the next casualty. Hold on. You think you know who the killer is? He gave me a sternly sincere look.

My blood ran cold as disbelief flooded my veins. Jim was completely serious. Somewhere inside my head, logic and fantasy were locked in a fierce duel, and fantasy was winning. Jim, I said through nervous breaths, Do you know who the killer is? If you do, how the hell did you find out? I'm not a detective, Mike. Shit, I'm barely a police officer.

But I think I might actually have some idea. Go on. Jim poured himself another shallow glass of cognac. I used to frequent a bar downtown. The foxhole. You know it. There was a retired old park ranger who would always be there on Friday nights. And he had a catalog of stories from his time.

And we'd all sit around and listen to him. One night, I want to say about six months ago, He told a story that he said was his last call before he retired. It happened last year. Went like this. A hiking party of about six people got stranded in the deep woods of Mount Pilchuk State Park. Wanded off the trail by accident, I guess. Two of the six people came back.

Two. A woman named Estelle Palmer and a man named Ruben Grundy. Grundy was in a hell of a state when the rangers' first. found him, allegedly said that he had no idea where the other four people had gone, that they had wandered off into the night. Here's where it gets even weirder. Palmer said that the night before they had been found, there were still three of them. Another man, I think.

Palmer had been in and out of sleep and swore that she saw Grundy follow the other guy into the woods when he was going to piss or something. The man never came back, but Grundy did ten minutes later. She said he looked different, thinner, taller, and insisted that he'd had blood all around his mouth. She'd felt this overwhelming fear and just pretended like she was asleep. Of course, her story was written off as delirious rambling. Jim cleared his throat and took another swig. Something about the story just gave me a genuine feeling of dread that none of this guy's other stories are quite done.

Then the old bastard puts the cherry on top. A week later, the U.S. Forest Service finds remains in the woods with what were presumed to be human teeth marks on him. But they were so pulverized they can't place exactly who they were. Grendy and Palmer are both interviewed again, but nothing comes up it. Palmer even tells the same story and says that she knows what she saw, but they write it off again. I told the old man before closing time that night that he'd scared the hell out of me, but that I didn't believe him. And he just looked at me with this deadpan expression and said,

Look it up, son. So I did. And what do you know? It happened. Multiple different news sources covered the story. It fucking happened. It was barely covered on TV. Right.

I started. But Pilcock State Park is huge. The surrounding area is... Ruben Grundy lives in Torcton, Mike. He owns a ranch. He fumbled around with a mess of documents on the coffee table. Estelle Palmer used to live in Torcton, too. Literally a quarter mile down the road from Grundy.

She'd lived there a whole life by the looks of things. Are those police records? I asked. Jim gave me an irritated side eye and continued. Point is, after she came back from that expedition, she moved four towns away, packed up and left in about a week, sold the farmhouse she lived into someone who'd been on her ass about buying it for years. Her childhood home, from what I read.

Whether or not Reuben Grundy was responsible for those people disappearing, she saw something happened in those woods that had made it so she couldn't even stand to be near him. Logic struggled onwards in its ongoing battle inside my brain. It strained and strained, but superstitions played with, was far too sharp. Maybe she was just a whack job, I said. You know what townie folk are like? Live in the same place all their lives and...

Clean bill of mental health. Jim exclaimed, waving a crumpled medical record in my face, and clearly taken from a local clinic. No history of schizophrenia, depression, BPD, or even so much as a panic attack. No prescribed medications. It's entirely possible that we could put what she saw down to hunger, the hydration or on the off chance, maybe even the delayed effects of a hallucinogenic trip.

But the matter of the fact is, this woman up and left in a matter of days after that incident. It's not like Torcton's right next door to Mount Pilchick either. Jim dropped the medical record on the floor and Shakley pulled up another document. He was excited or terrified or both. So look here. Her new address is in May Creek. Jim, Jim, you're chasing. I'm noticing a roller coaster of a story here.

If we take this to Alverson, he's just going to give us a whole spiel about how we're idiots and then take it upon himself to rehire me just so we can fire me. We take it to Evans, and he's going to think we're on a wild goose chase because he's a guy who deals with career criminals in Seattle and the odd home invasion. He's probably been with the force for what, two, three years? Face it, Mike. Our higher-ups are stuck scratching their heads, and we might actually have a lead. I know it sounds crazy.

I know it's a long shot. and it's dumb luck that I heard that story. But we may have an actual suspect. In the moment, Jim's obsessive joining of the dots had rendered me dumbfounded, unable to think straight. So you're saying... The killer is Ruben Grundy. Jim blurted out. Maybe I'm just another drunk asshole who wishes he was a big shot detective.

And maybe I'm completely wrong. But if even there's a chance that I'm right, we have to do something. Jim had a point, even in the midst of his fanatical behavior. Aalverson didn't care, and Evans, despite leading the charge, was being eaten up by his own fear. I saw it screaming behind his eyes the night of Sally McMahon's murder. All right. What's the plan? We visit Estelle Palmer and May Creek and we ask her about Grundy.

Jim said through shaking breaths. What he was like, if he seemed different during or after the hiking trip, all that jazz. If we can convince her to help us beyond just talking to us, and maybe we actually have a chance. at communicating it to Evans. Either that, or she chases us out of her house with a double barrel for even asking. I said dryly. Ever the pessimist. I laughed.

Get some fresh clothes on, sober up, and let's get our asses to May Creek. Jim and I arrived at Estelle Palmer's residence in May Creek an hour later, having backtracked along numerous roads due to the exhausted GPS in my car. We parked across from Palmer's house, number five, Fairbank Street. The place was not at all what I had anticipated. I had expected to pull up next to an overgrown lawn, frimming with tall weeds, and a crudely arranged patio that led up to a dingy porch with a grimy screen door. Perhaps there would have been a sign hampered on the wall, made of plywood, and scrawled

on it in red paint that would have the words, trespassers will be shot. It was nothing like that. If anything, it was not unlike any of the other idealic-looking houses in May Creek. The lawn was a healthy burst of green. Each blade of grass seemingly trimmed down to exactly the same size, and just by the curb lay a toy truck that must have belonged to a child. Jim swept his hair out of his eyes and opened the car door. Well, here goes. We either get our answers here or we get a door slammed in our faces.

We approached the front door, peering through the living room window and catching sight of a woman sitting in a reclining chair, watching a young boy of no more than three years of age playing on the floor. She looked up as Jim ringed the doorbell and stood up next to the living room, motioning to the toddler to stay where he was. Estelle Palmer swung the door open, a sense of immediate irritation glinting in her eyes. She was about 38 years of age, with long, dirty, blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Noticing her annoyance, I began to speak. Mrs. Palmer. Miss, I'm not married.

Estelle said. Right, Miss Palmer. Jim took over. My name is Jim McAllister, and this is Mikhail Amanski. We don't mean to upset you, but we're... Cops? She snapped. Jim was visibly surprised.

I figured. Where are you from, Sultan? Don't tell me you're from Seattle. At Torcton, I said. Her glare narrowed even further. It's our understanding that you used to live there. Yes. What's it to you?

She seemed even more defensive now. We came to inquire about... Jim struggled over unnecessary eloquence, even though he fully expected to receive the cold shoulder. Miss Palmer's irritation reached its peak, and she began to shut the door. It's about Ruben Grundy. Jim finally managed. She stopped and peered through the crack between the frame and the door. Her annoyance had dissipated, and worry flooded her eyes.

You can come in. She finally said. ushering us inside. The interior of the house was as picturesque as the exterior, the staircase adorned with paintings of famous North American mountains, the kitchen clean and well-organized. Estelle led us into the living room, where the boy, who I presume to be her son, looked up at us with that wide-eyed, curious expression that is so common in young children. Baby, go play in your room, okay? Estelle said to the boy. He looked down at the plastic dinosaur he was playing with, then back at his mother, before picking up the toy and sauntering down

to the end of the hallway. Before Jim and I could get a word out about how sweet her child was, her worrisome expression returned. I haven't seen Rubin in over a year. When I moved here, he used to call myself five times a week before I changed numbers. Didn't tell him I was moving here. Of course I didn't. What the hell's he done?

It's not what he's done, I said. It's what we think he might have done. Miss Palmer. Please. It's just Estelle. She said softly, seemingly far less vexed by our presence than she had been minutes before. Estelle, the situation is this. My friend and I have reason to believe that Ruben Grundy may be linked to a series of violent serial killings in Torcton.

However, it's little more than a hunch and the police investigation has been a complete mess from the outset. So we need your help. It's my understanding that you knew Rubin for most of your life. Estelle sat down in the reclining chair, motioning for us to sit down on the couch. My whole life, yeah. His old man, Scott, owned this ranch down the road from my old house, and he inherited the whole place when Scott passed. We were in the same grade at school. He was always a smart, worldly guy.

He knew a whole lot about nature and cared a lot for the animals he reared on the ranch. ranch. Could name every damn plant in the woods. She chuckled as she reminisced. Throughout your childhood, did he ever seem off to you at any point? No. Never. Not once did I have him pinned as the outcast or the weirdo kid. Everyone in high school loved Ruben. I have to ask about the hiking trip.

Four people disappeared. You and Ruben were the only ones who came back. You moved away a week after. What the hell happened? Estelle's voice quaked as she spoke, fear mingling with the worry in her eyes. Ruben. She trailed off, straining against the painful memories to force the words out.

Rubin changed on that trip. We were a week into it, and there was clearly something strange going on with him. Usually he'd be musing about conifer trees and mountain lions, but he barely spoke. And when he did, the way he talked. was fragmented and hoarse, like he'd forgotten his own native language. He seemed irritated when we tried to talk to him. He didn't talk about much, but when he did, when he did, he said.

Her words crumpled to the floor again. I leaned forward. What did he say, Estelle? He said he was hungry. An electric current surged down my spine. The silence rang in my ears like the whining aftermath of an explosion. I'd hear him at night. He'd sit out by the fire longer than anyone and mutter to himself,

saying things like, God, I'm so fucking hungry, in this voice that I'd never heard come out of him before. When it became obvious that we were lost, that's when people started disappearing. First Becca, then Miguel, then Ruth, and then Nick the night before we were found when Nick disappeared I saw Ruben follow him

into the forest I didn't hear anything but Ruben came back later without him he looked different sickly pale skinny taller somehow and I swear to God he was covered in blood

I looked over at Jim who was staring intently at her. Maybe I was delirious. Maybe I was. He looked the same as ever the next day, when the park rangers found us. I just couldn't shake this feeling that I was still in danger, though. He talked and that cracked, hoarse way still. The police paid it no mind, wrote it off as the effects of dehydration, and wrote my story off as a mirage.

I moved as soon as I could when I got home. Stayed with my mom in Olympia for a short while before I found a place here in May Creek. Like I said, maybe I was crazy. I'm not saying Ruben Grundy definitely killed those people. But I am certain that something in those woods got inside of him and made itself a home. And I don't think it ever left. Jim's intense concentration turned to slight confusion. What do you mean something?

Estelle gave a half smile as though she was embarrassed. I'm not one to believe in folk tales, Mr. McAllister. Never have been, even when my old man tried to scare me to death with them when I wasn't much older than my son. But Rubin was always the same up until that trip, and he changed so suddenly. Call it what you want. A spirit, a sick. The call of nature, whatever. Something took a hold of Rubin, took him away.

I'm not saying that if you investigate him, you'll definitely find the answers you're looking for. But you might want to try. Noticing that Estelle was on the verge of tears, I grabbed Jim's arm and said, Thank you so much for your help. We should probably get going and leave you in peace. Estelle, Jim said tentatively. I don't suppose we could convince you to come with us. No. She interjected.

I can't see Ruben ever again, not after what I saw in those woods. He doesn't know where I live, but I still lock every door and window at night. Still watch the footage from the security camera every morning. Sometimes I think if I met him again, it would lay some ghosts to rest, but something tells me those ghosts are real damned stubborn. I can't put myself in danger. I'm the only thing that Robert has. She motioned down the hall towards her son's bedroom.

Jim looked as though he were about to persist in his argument, but he simmered down quickly. Thank you for your time, Estelle, sincerely. Jim said as he stood up and walked to the door. We're going to go give Ruben a visit. We will find out who's doing this. I promise. Thank you. Good luck.

She silently walked us down the driveway to the car, a solemn look in her eyes. Perhaps she was reliving all those memories, or perhaps she thought she had just sent us further into something we would regret being a part of. I looked over at the house one last time as I started the car. Through the living room window, I can make out a blurred picture of Estelle cradling her son in a tender embrace. We drove. I pulled the car up to Torcton Police Station at 6.15 p.m., having convinced a particularly irate

Jim to stop off there first. I told him to wait in the car while I briefly went to talk to Alverson. Apparently, he'd at the very least done a good job of rounding up the local populace for questioning, as I had to sift through a chattering crowd of townsfolk who were gathered outside and inside the station. I ran to Alverson's office, wrapping sharply on the door. Who the hell is that? Came a gritty, aggravated reply. I opened the door, and my gaze met Sheriff Alverson's cock-eyed stare.

Where the hell have you been, Lamanski? Have you interviewed a man named Ruben Grundy? I asked, ignoring him. Who? Alverson said. Ruben Grundy, rancher from North End of Torcton. The fuck should I know? Alverson said, taking an aggressive swig of his coffee.

Officer Burnett has a checklist. Go ask her. Now, where in God's name of you been? You get McAllister to pull that article? I slammed his door and ran to the front desk, where I found Officer Burnett busying herself with an Excel spreadsheet. I nearly collided with the desk. startling her.

Eve, I said, letting out a long breath. Have you interviewed a man named Ruben Grundy yet? Visibly confused by my urgency, she pulled up the records and perused them for about ten seconds. Uh, looks like we had him in a couple hours ago. We cleared him. He's not down as a suspect. Christ, where's Detective Evans? Monroe.

She said absent-mindedly. Something came up from another case and he left a few hours. How long did you have Grundy in the interview room for? My words were ablaze with insistence. Five minutes. In and out. Barnett replied, You've got to be kidding me. They didn't even ask him about the hiking trip.

Thanks. I dashed out of the station, feeling the mystified eyes of the townspeople boring into me. Jim was waiting in anticipation, craning his neck around as I ran toward the car. I threw the door open and clamored inside. They cleared the bastard two hours ago. Evans is in Monroe, and we're heading to Grundy's place.

Let's go. His tone was crawling with nerves. He had clearly expected it to come to this, but now the reality of it was sinking in. Fear brewed underneath my adrenaline rush. The sun began to exhaustedly sink below the distant mountains as we sped through Torcton, painting a crimson outline on the remaining clouds. The stench of dread began to creep in through the cracked passenger-side window with every inch that the sun receded. I began to wish it would take longer to get to Grundy's ranch.

anything to stave off the terrible gut feeling. So Evans went to Monroe? What for? Jim asked, obviously desperate to break the silence. Barnett said it was another case. Whether or not that's a lie, I don't know, and I don't care. He's shit-scared, and he's not here, which makes him useless. I replied.

What about Alveson? He wasn't even doing so much as ushering the interviewees in. Just asked me about whether or not the Herald had been convinced to pull the front page. We're on our own, Jim. As I said that, the row of buildings on North Avenue disappeared, and Grundy's ranch came into view, sitting less than a quarter of a mile down the road from where we were. I could see a modest-looking, well-kept one-story house that sat at the head of a sprawling two, perhaps three acres of land that I assumed all belonged to Grundy, as all throughout

the grassland were grazing cattle, and out behind the house stood a barn, towering proudly over the tiny abode in all of its rustic glory. Doing our utmost to compose ourselves, Jim and I parked at the end of the gravel driveway, preparing for what would hopefully be our final visit of the day. We walked up to the front of the house, the trepidation hanging like a meat hook on the otherwise calming summer breeze. I knocked on the screen door and squinted through the glass. From the end of the hallway emerged a man standing about six foot four.

He made a slow jog towards the screen door and pulled it open. and enthusiastically. He was as tan as one might expect a rancher to be, dressed in tattered jeans in a polo shirt, and looked to be in his late 30s. He had thinning brown hair that stuck out in tuffs from underneath a ill-fitting baseball cap and a subtly Auburn colored beard. He gave me a smile, his eyes glinting a little. Can I help you, boys? He said, his voice a chipper, gravelly song. I was thrown off for a second. I had expected a weathered, malnourish-looking man covering his face with a wide-brimmed hat. I had expected an inhuman rasp. I had expected him to tell us to leave him alone. Jim jumped in.

My name's off. Uh, Detective Cal Mariano. And this is Detective Dave Crowley. We're here regarding the town-wide questioning of the residents of Torcton? Grundy chuckled nervously. His brow wrinkling. Oh, right. There must have been some mistake. The police already interviewed me a few hours ago. We understand, sir. We're very sorry to trouble you. I said, joining Jim and playing the role of Detective Crowley. See, it's a big operation, and the Torcton Police Department in a swamp, as you might imagine. Unfortunately, they missed a couple of vital questions when interviewing a few people, and they've sent us around to get extra details. Oh, right, of course. Grundy said, his expressioning softening a little.

By all means, come inside. Jim and I stepped into the hallway as Grundy closed the door. Inside the temperature was cool, yet an unpleasant smell sat in the air. I heard the door locked behind us. Had the door been locked before? I couldn't remember. I hope you boys forgive me for the smell. Got a rat infestation at the moment, and the bastards keep dying in the walls and underneath

the floorboards. I try to keep the stench away as best I can until I can dig him out. Hey, rat on, man, I said, humoring his conversation. I had a problem with rats myself about a month ago. Grundy led us to his kitchen, which seemed to be the biggest and most impressive room in his otherwise small house, with a large granite countertop spanning its entire length and a state-of-the-art cooker sitting in the middle. On the counter was a hefty pile of raw meat. Christ!

I remarked. "'That all from your cattle?' "'Yes, sir,' Grundy exclaimed with pride. "'All locally sourced to this very ranch. "'The butcher shops downtown love this stuff.' "'I'll bet,' I said. "'Now, Mr. Grundy, you mind if Detective Mariano and I ask you some questions? "'It shouldn't take long.'

"'Sure, have a seat,' Grundy said, gesturing to the kitchen table. "'He leaned against the counter, turning his attention to the pile of meat. "'He still hadn't asked to see our badge, I'm listening, boys, fire away. Torcton Station clocks your interview at about five minutes, correct? Yep, real quick, in and out. The think they wrote me off because, well, I don't have a record, and I mean, look at this place. I'm busy all the time, ain't got kids to help me around the ranch.

Grundy replied, Of course, as far as criminal charges go, your record's completely clean, Mr. Grundy. Mm-hmm. Grundy picked up the meat cleaver and began hacking at the stake. The instrument came down with a resounding sound, separating a piece of the animal's flesh from the rest of the flank. I suppose we're here to ask about the hiking trip you took in April of 2003, with a party of five others, I said. Grundy exhaled loudly as though he were sighing. However, he didn't turn around or stop what he was doing.

The cleaver came down again, louder this time. Oh, of course. I was a little surprised myself that they didn't ask. Well, let's start with the general question. I began. What happened? What's your story? Huh. I got lost on the sixth day of a trip. We intended it to be a long trip anyhow, but we ended up having a hell of a time finding the foot of Mount Pilchuk and found ourselves lost in the woods with no idea which direction we were supposed to go. Becca disappeared on the first night that we got lost. He paused, falling into a reminiscent chasm for just a moment. And did you know Becca well? Knowner since high school, we were going to get married this year.

There was a pain in his voice. I was starting to wonder if we had the right guy. I'm sorry, that must have been different. I was cut off by the startling sound of the cleaver making contact with the cutting board, slicing cleanly through another piece of meat, much louder than before. Yeah, I try not to think about it. It got hazy after that.

Real hazy. There was this pain. It sounded like he was struggling through his sentences now. Pain? I asked. Started in my head. It clouded my vision. How long did the pain go on for?

The electric current I had felt in Estelle's living room sprung to life again. It was like a blade this time. grazing my spine with serrated teeth. I thought I had become accustomed to the stink of the dead rodents, but I knew what that smelled like. This was something different, something that carried a far more bitter scent. I hope you boys forgive me for the smell.

Two days spread to my hands and feet. I felt numb after that, and then I guess I felt good. Grundy said, his voice assuming a strange grating quality. He brought the cleaver down again, the abrasive thud accompanied by the wet sound of tearing meat. Grundy turned around to look at us. He seemed paler than he ever had before. His posture slightly crooked. But glint in his eyes was gone. What do you remember about the disappearance

of Nick Lee the night before you were rescued? I inquired. He paused, setting the cleaver down. Had I blacked out? His cheeks now seemed sunken. His eyes were even darker. His fingers were freakishly long and thin, and eerie silence waltzed with the tension that had clouded the kitchen. It was just animals at first. His voice was a sickly rasp. What? When I came back from the trip, it was just animals, coyotes, mountain lions, prairie dogs, none of my own cattle. What the hell are you talking about?

My mouth was dry. The stinging scent of decomposition couldn't be ignored. It was just animals until the feeling came back. There was something in those woods, boys. Something that called to me. Something that wouldn't let me die. Something that told me. His eyes were cold black pits.

His teeth were unnaturally long, forming yellow daggers in his mouth and forcing his face into a mocking grin. Jim stood up, backing away. Told you what, Mr. Grundy? Something that told me to eat. Grundy finally said. Despite his unnatural tone, his voice was somehow cold. Matter of fact. I killed the people on that hiking trail.

I knew all of them, and I killed them and ate their flesh. Grundy said. Why? Jim could hardly speak. I tried eating animals and raw meat until that feeling came back. He began circling the table. That's when I began breaking into houses. People I didn't know.

People I did know. Some I liked. Others I didn't care for. I tore them all apart. I stood up and stumbled away next to Jim. As Ruben Grundy stalked toward us, his sharp canines protruding. Why are you telling us this? Because...

His icy tone slowly began to thaw. They can do what they like to me now. They can fry me. They can commit me as another criminally insane nut because they think they can control me like every other guy that went out and killed young girls because mommy was too rough on them. It helps them sleep at night to know that those sick bastards

are all just human beings that they can control one way or another. But this rage inside me, this power... A thick rope of drool fell from his mouth and pooled on the floor. There are things darker than man in this world, boys.

In the soil, in the mountain. In the trees, in some dark corner of a big city, it might make you feel safe to believe that other people are the cruelest things this life has to offer, but I'm afraid that just isn't true. Grundy's mouth was unnaturally wide, the bed of spikes inside no longer resembling anything remotely human. A small glimmer sat in the center of his black eyes, like a tiny, brilliant star in a black hole. Hunger. Jim and I dove in opposite directions as Grundy lunged at both of us,

an animalistic howl erupting from his throat. I heard a chair collide with the counter as I scrambled to my feet, coming face to face with the creature that had been, or still was, Ruben Grundy. Any disbelief I had cannot be justified. The nightmarish picture was here in front of me, and it was very, very real. Just as his maw opened again and a another monstrous groan emitted from within him, a gunshot rang out, and Grundy doubled over in pain, screeching with the ferocity of a thousand banshees. Jim stood behind him, his pistol drawn. Grundy twitched violently, the motion producing a sickening crunch, as though one of his bones had broken. Without a moment's hesitation, Grundy jumped from the floor to the ceiling and took off

down the hallway to what I assumed to be the staircase to the basement, skittering like an insect. His harrowing howl echoed through the house like another angry gust of wind. Drawing my own weapon, Jim and I gave chase. The door to the basement hung wide open, and any vaguely pleasant smells in the house were now being eaten alive by the very clear aura of death. This wasn't the smell of a rat problem, that was for sure. For about ten seconds, the house resounded with clattering and screaming coming from the basement, and as soon as it had begun, it suddenly ceased.

Dead silence. I exchanged a terrified glance with Jim. I wish I was still drunk. Jim grumbled shakily. We cautiously crept down the stairs to the basement, the light dwindling more and more with each step. My hands were gripping the pistol so hard that my knuckles had turned white, and an oasis of sweat had sprung from my palms. Jim fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a flashlight, turning it on and allowing

the beam to illuminate the pitch blackness. The beam pierced the voids. that sat in the doorway, creating a tunnel of light that led our eyes to a sight that confirmed what I had feared the moment that smell hit me. The floor of the basement was piled with remains of all kinds, animal, human, arms, legs, intestines. Some had clearly been dragged down there no more than a few days ago, and some were weeks, maybe even months old, left on the ground to decay and denied a real burial.

A shuffling sound from off to the left grabbed our attention, and Grundy stepped back into view, his metamorphosis having advanced even further. He stood well over seven feet tall now, his ribcage protruding as though his skin were vacuum-packed around it. His face was now ghoulishly inhuman. His eyes like hollow pits and his teeth like battle-scarred tusks. Ruben Grundy perched like a gargoy on top his morbid spoils, a king of the dead in his hall of treasures. He spoke, a baritone growl sitting underneath his strangled voice.

Sorry, the refrigerator down here is broken. A sick smile spread across his face, and it was enough to tip Jim and I over the edge. We just started shooting, and we kept on shooting until both of our weapons had completely run out of bullets. When our eyes were no longer obscured by the obnoxious muzzle flashes, the flashlight fell on what was seemingly the lifeless, corpse of the beast that Ruben Grundy had turned into. We were both shocked, having expected him to attempt to flee the basement, or at least jump out of the way. The twisted monster now lay still among his quarries. The entire Torqueton Police Department arrived half an hour later, and the

deeply panicked, white-faced detective Evans arrived another hour and a half after that. The whole cleanup operation took the better part of an entire week, but that first night was a harrowing ordeal, even for those who didn't have to scrape up the remains or lay eyes on the creature that was responsible. If it had been any other case, I would have relished the look of horror on Sheriff Alverson's face when he knew quite how badly he had handled everything, and the realization that he would have to deal with, those Hoover Boys, when a black SUV pulled up outside the crime scene. The expression on his face was one shared by everyone who had to wrap their heads around

the fact that the near eight-foot-tall monster that was dragged out of that basement had been, at one point, Ruben Grundy. I was glad that the case had been closed, but I felt very little in the way of catharsis. Jim and I had come face to face with the unknown, and the unknown had filled our heads with something unforgettable. There are things darker than man out there, things we can't control the way we can control the Dahmer's and John Wayne Gaseys of the world. We may have put an end to Ruben Grundy's otherwise never-ending hunger, but whatever was inside of him is still tearing its way through the forest and the mountains, searching for another viable host to infect with the burning rage it carries with it.

I am not so sure that we can always fight what we don't understand.