HOBO Kyle

The White family had just sat down to supper when the beast exploded through the door. A deafening crack filled the house as the heavy wood split and splintered, echoed by the sound of thunder from the approaching storm.

The old farmhouse was as sound as the day it was built, having withstood nearly a century of ever increasing bad weather, but the skeletal timbers rattled as the beast charged at the horrified family.

Hugo, the eldest boy, was first to react. He scrambled from his chair into the adjoining room for a weapon. Bears were not very common in these parts, but it was not completely uncommon for them to wander onto the property, or even into the house looking for a meal. But the level of deliberate aggression displayed by this animal was on a level he had never seen or heard of.

The hunting rifles were secured in the gun cabinet and his Ruger was all the way upstairs. But, in the family room, above the mantle, is where they hung the Winchester M12. It was a large shotgun that made an intimidating clack when the Fore-end was pumped and a downright terrifying boom when fired. The Whites had this weapon easily available at all times in case of an emergency with uninvited guests, either animal or man.

Hugo could not hear the terrible sounds coming from the other room over the thrumming of his own pulse in his ears. He snatched the gun from the wall, the box of shells from a nearby side table drawer and with expert precision loaded six shots into the tube magazine.

He was gone for only 10 seconds, and when he passed the open doorway back into the kitchen, Hugo was ready to fire into the wall behind the critter or even into his flank to scare him off, but the tableau before him was unreal and enough to turn his stout bones to jelly. He knew in that instant that this intruder was no bear.

The beast had half of Mother White in each huge hand. She had been pulled apart like a filled pastry, her skin stretched and torn, hung in ragged bloody flaps. Strings of entrails, blood, and saliva dripped from the beast’s mouth as it chewed the viscera. Her eyes held the final look of pain and fear.

Hugo’s father’s head lay on the table amidst the bounty of food like a macabre centerpiece, a puddle of blood gathered under it as the vessel drained. The headless body slumped on the floor at the beast’s feet, a large kitchen knife clutched in the right hand.

Middle children and twins, Oscar and Elias crouched in the far corner of the room, covering their faces and furiously pushing their heels against the floor trying to scoot themselves into the wall to escape the chaos.

Ilva White, the youngest of the brood at 22, remained at her spot at the table. Frozen by fear and uncertainty, she could only blink and absorb the unbelievable events that had transpired in the last few seconds.

Hugo had the M12 leveled at the beast as he inched closer, unsure of his mother’s condition despite the obvious and not wanting to endanger her by missing the shot. The beast heaved long growling breaths as it continued to consume her remains.

The rain came on with a fury and sheets of water lashed the house with loud wooshes, filling the space between the beast’s breaths.

Ilva locked eyes with the beast and neither blinked. Neither took notice of Hugo. Neither made a noise above breathing.

The beast’s eyes began to glow, and the fur and wiry hairs all over its body stood up, oscillating as if under water. Its expression, though limited by the restrictions of an animalistic anatomy, was clearly one of joy.

The rhythmic chewing and breathing and waving fur was a deliberate hypnotic routine meant to ensnare Ilva, and she could not turn her attention away.

The trance was broken when Hugo, having mounted the table for the optimal angle, shoved the barrel of the shotgun into the beast’s mouth between bites and fired. Keeping the trigger pulled, he opened and closed the action repeatedly with hard determination, slam firing all 6 shots into the beast’s dark gullet.

Seemingly annoyed at the interruption but otherwise unfazed by the attack, the beast turned to face Hugo. The mineral smell of blood, the fetid stench of ruptured bowel, and the acrid bite of gunpowder poured from its mouth. Before he could register the inadequacy of his actions fully, Hugo felt the swipe of the beast’s claws as they cut through the shotgun and his arms with equal ease. The liberated pieces clattered and slapped to the table, blood oozing from every razor-like cut.

The beast grabbed Hugo with both massive hands, like a hearty sub sandwich, and thrust its head forward and down, jaws eagerly wide, and bit hard. The wet crunch of the bite registered on the beast’s face as a sick satisfaction, and when it pulled free from Hugo’s body, it had taken his head, neck, and most of the upper chest.

Still chewing, the beast turned its attention back to Ilva, but was drawn away again when the twins broke for the family room door in an attempt to flee. The beast flung the remains of Hugo aside, as well as the entire family table and covered the distance to the twins in a single lunge. It speared Elias with 3 claws through the back, pinning him to the wall, and it grabbed Oscar’s head like a ball before he could reach the threshold.

Both boys squeaked with surprise and pain, but had no further opportunity to protest as the beast clenched the fist holding Oscar, bursting his head into muck then immediately slamming that mired fist into the head of Elias, creating a dark red hole in the wall.

The beast shook the bits of Ilva’s family from his face and claws and turned once again to face her. The odd expression of joy returning to its face. It seemed to swagger as it made small steps back to Ilva, who despite everything, remained in her chair. The beast lowered itself to meet Ilva’s eyes and placed the very tip of one index claw against the underside of her jaw, pricking the skin like a pin.

The claw came away with a tiny drop of shiny blood. The beast scrutinized the tip of its claw for a long moment, sniffed it as if savoring a fine wine, and licked the claw clean with its bulbous, muscular tongue.

The beast jolted as if the claw had been attached to a live wire and its eyes glowed brighter than before. Ilva turned away from the glare and sudden heat emanating from the beast’s stare. The fur bristled over its body and shot upright and rigid, covering the beast with jagged spikes. Small static bursts arced between the points all across the beast’s body and the smell of ozone permeated everything.

Rain continued to pour into the house where the beast had destroyed the door. The almost constant thunder was the deafening heartbeat of the universe, and a war drum signaling an approaching battle. Lightning flashes illuminated the countless slivers of rain at random intervals, and in the dense darkness, a silhouette appeared, approaching the house.

Deep within the fervor of its blood trance, the beast could not sense the stranger’s presence as he crossed the battered threshold into the house. The beast squatted low into its haunches, drew in its chest and shoulders, and took a long breath in.

Ilva began to quake in her chair. The unreal nature of everything that she had seen and experienced in the past minute began to come into focus. The initial adrenaline was abating and the weight of emotion began to crush her. The tears in her eyes forced them closed. Her hands went white as she clutched her seat and her fingernails dug into the aged wood.

The beast stood between her and the stranger. She could not see how calm and knowing his expression was as he set down the large bindle he had slung over a long pole, and began to retrieve several items from within.

Ilva gasped for several seconds and when able to gather an appropriate breath, she let out a scream. It was a nearly inhuman noise. A prolonged shriek that could melt glass.

The beast joined in with its own yowl shortly after Ilva. The chorus was a horror of sounds. The beast’s head was thrown up, its mouth wide and reverberated with an awful guttural alarm. Ilva ran out of breath well before the beast and choked on the dryness in her throat, coughing and sobbing, tears and snot flooding her face.

The beast seemed to have inexhaustible breath and would have continued to howl indefinitely if not for the unsolved Rubik’s cube clacking against its upturned muzzle, interrupting the act.

Simultaneously the cube fell, the beast spun, and the howling stopped.

Silence filled the space for a beat as the beast took in the stranger. Ilva, her view still blocked by the bulk of the beast added confusion to her long list of blinding emotions.

The stranger, covered in a wet cloak, face obscured by a large hood, neither cowered or deferred to the beast’s posture, which was becoming more confrontational with each passing split second.

The beast’s calves balled up, ready to pounce. The clawed toes on each foot scraped and dug into the floorboards, gathering leverage for a strong attack. Its arms, hands, and neck flexed with power and purpose, the rope like muscles tightening just under the rough skin, and clearly visible through the fur covering.

The stranger threw back his hood to reveal a wet mop of dirty blond hair. Thick glasses framed steely grey eyes that burned with focus and intensity. Full pink lips were ringed with an unruly mustache and goatee, all dripping with rain.

The beast roared again, this time in rage.

The stranger raised his arm, leveled a stubby finger at the beast’s face and said:

“This is right before you were still alive”.