The Perfect Predator

Dear Readers,

Here we are in the month when Persephone vanishes and the world grows cold and dark. Chills anyone? I hope so because it’s time for #Team Halloween. As usual, I’ll tell you where this short story started. It was a conversation with a friend who hates this month. She doesn’t like the darkness, and she hates the theme of death. So I thought, what would happen if suddenly something switched and she came to embrace this holiday. So here’s the result…

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October. A month filled with myths like zombies that refuse to die.

The dead walk the earth.

Satan comes to reclaim souls.

Ghouls lurk around each corner.

Gah! What clap-trap.

From October 1st to that dreaded last day, I hate going into the office because inevitably, Jerry the chripy Med Tech, will say, “So Doc, you’re not coming to the Halloween party again this year?”

And I will say, “Not this year” before walking away mumbling, “and not any other one either.” I know everyone here calls me names behind my back—killjoy, spoilsport. I do not care. On the 31st, I will turn off my lights, put extra-large “NO TRESPASSING" signs along the fence, and enjoy a quiet evening. In the morning, sanity will return, and I’ll have twelve months before I must endure this so-called holiday again.

That night, I’m surprised to find a package stuffed into my mailbox. Too early for Christmas. Not my birthday. I check the name and address. Perhaps the mail was delivered here by mistake. But no. It has my name, street number, zip…all correct. There’s no return, so I carry it inside and set it on the hall table.

Such a long day with two of my least agreeable patients back to back—a hypochondriac and one who never follows her prescribed treatment. I pour myself a Scotch and toss it back before kicking off my shoes and stretching out on the couch.

“Ah.” I close my eyes, but open them wide when a faint rustling sound comes from the other room. I bolt to sitting, listening. I must have imagined hearing something, but my heart rate is elevated. I rise, go into the hall, and wait for that sound again. Nothing.

A grown man with a medical degree cannot be intimidated by imagined sounds. I laugh, but it’s raspy, and I think about another Scotch or maybe I should gargle to clear my throat. It’s a bit scratchy. I go for the Scotch, and as I swallow the last sip, a late afternoon autumnal shaft of light filters through the windows and falls across the sack.

Open me. Open me.

Image by Jim Cooper from Pixabay

This has to be the Scotch meddling with my mind, but I’m calm now, so, setting down my glass, I reach into the sack. What I pull out is a hollow-eyed mask. Its head is covered in thick black fur, sharp incisors are tipped with fake blood.

A hellhound.

A messenger of the devil.

I stuff the thing back into the sack. Another myth that I lump into the category of the walking dead, Satan, or ghouls. One more Scotch won’t hurt, and an early evening is exactly what I need.

The next morning, my throat’s raw, but I don’t have a fever. I’ll cover my hospital rounds and cancel all afternoon appointments. The following day, I’ve lost my voice and my nose burns from so many sharp smells. Nasal spray only aggravates the condition. I toss the fresh basil plant in the kitchen, and put all the aftershave into plastic bags. In a last effort for relief, I stuff my nostrils with cotton. Unbearable.

Day three, and when I walk to the mailbox to check my mail, I must clamp my hands over my ears to soften the sound of crisp leaves underfoot. Back inside, the refrigerator sounds like a jet warming up for takeoff.

The beastly mask lies on the hall table, waiting.

Try me. Try me.

Its wheedling sound promises me relief from all these strange maladies if I obey. Cautiously, I pull on the mask and, through the holes cut for me to see through, I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror. I wince at the red eyes glaring back at me. It takes me a moment to recover and to realize that this mask has also kept the promise I imagined. I swallow, and there’s no pain. I sniff, and while I’m assaulted by odors I’ve never smelled before, the burning has stopped, the roar of the refrigerator has been reduced to a hum.

I soon determine that if I don the mask when I return in the evening and wear it until morning, I can function as always, except that all of my senses remain on high alert. And, I must shave twice a day. I see my barber each afternoon for a trim, and I have to cut my nails just as often.

October ticks away one day after the next until…the last day of the month arrives. And when the sun sets, it leaves an orange Hunter Moon to light the way. The ancient Celtic festival of Samhain has arrived, and unlike all those other years, I find that my dislike for this holiday has ebbed, allowing a fascination to sweep in like a dark tide.

I don’t put up no trespassing signs. I don’t turn off the lights. I even find a plastic Jack-O-Lantern and set it by the gate. Then I wait.

It’s not long before I sniff the air and inhale the scent of something vulnerable...and close. A distinctive smell slides through the gap under my door, and like a hound, nose full of prey, I inhale that last bit of information before deciding how to—

The pounding of my iron door knocker freezes me in inaction. The hairs on my arms prickle, and my ears go on alert. Despite how much I try not to, I shiver in anticipation. On the other side, something waits unaware.

I reach for the knob and wrench open the door.

I know exactly where to lunge.

The last moments. The blood. The smell. Intoxicating. And next year, my skills will be much keener. Of that, I’m very sure.

I’m soon to be the perfect predator.

The End

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I have a Halloween treat. If you’d like a copy of my short story, Tanza, here it is! I’ve been told it makes for a great campfire story or one to read around the hearth on a dark night.

Tsantsa Yacomp

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