DUST ON THE MOON

(Season 2, Episode 49)


Presented,
From the eerie self-turning pages of The Horrorwalker Travel Guide,
A tale told to a person visited by the always mysterious Horrorwalker...
A person who would rather remain anonymous at this time...
The tale of humans made monsters by the sun and the moon --
Monstrous creatures destined to eventually collide in feral war...
A tale of:
Dust On The Moon.

DUST ON THE MOON

You can just call me Igor. 

That’s all you need to know about my name.

I am a staggering 211 years old. 

My existence of undead darkness has been long and arduous. 

I started my life as a human in the old country of Bavaria. I have existed so long that I have forgotten much of my life before I was turned into what I am, but pieces of memories still fall through the cracks of my mind to remind me of what I once was.

One of the lingering memories that I have always retained is the events of the final hours before I was attacked by the random feral vampire on that All Hallows Eve night, so long ago. 

The atmosphere was cold and crisp on that dark October night. It was the first full moon night of the annual Werewolf Hunt Festival. As usual, the village only expected to capture one Werewolf that night. That successful hunt would be the undoing of one more monster that would not be able to terrorize our village, kill our women or children, or bite someone else to infect them with the full moon monster madness.

That particular event was my first Werewolf Hunt. Peter, my eldest son, had just turned 13 three days before, and as the rules of the hunt state… men with children are not allowed to hunt until their eldest sons are old enough to take over the household to protect their mothers and younger siblings, in case the father is killed during the Werewolf hunt.

The rules of our community are strict… and what they state is that a boy of 13 years of age must become a man  in the event of the death of his father… immediately, if he is killed during one of the hunts. 

Everyone involved in the hunt goes into the danger with the full knowledge that if he is bitten by the werewolf, then he will be immediately shot in the temple with a Silver Bullet of Absolution.

There is never hesitation when it comes to executing an infected human. Once bitten, the fever of lycanthropy immediately begins to affect the infected person’s mind causing him to swiftly become feral. Within minutes, the bitten is overcome by the overwhelming urge of feral self-preservation and only the swift escape into the wild gives the infected peace… until the infection completes its cycle of completion within the time of  two to three days. That process, in which the infection changes the insides of the person to ready him for his first full moon change appears to be very painful as it affects the mind, as well as the body, of the affected.

It is not a pretty sight, because of the pain involved with the process sometimes involves the infected ripping away at the flesh of his body.

I know this knowledge because my village dealt with Werewolves for thirty-two years before the elders finally decided that it was impossible to continue the futile attempts at rehabbing our brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters… those who survived the initial attacks… to try to save them when they were driven to destroy and kill under the glow of the full moon.

And, during the rest of the year, their aggression and feral biting was simply too dangerous to allow in the village. And so, Elder Markova created special silver bullets to only be used in the case of absolution. 

A silver bullet to the brain, special or not, is the way to make sure the Werewolf never returns. During those dark times, the nights were blacker than black and the days were as gloomy as the night. Thirty-seven of us had to die by silver bullet. Twenty-two died from the wounds inflicted by the Werewolves. 

Dark times, indeed.

I’ve still never seen a werewolf in 100 years. According to the monster lore, I’m suppose to be mortal enemies with Lycanthropes. I have survived this harsh existence of mine by fighting against the physical elements of the planet for my very “life” and traveling around the globe, moving from old world Poland to deep down cowboy-centric Tyler, Texas.
  

I have always thought that this mythological war that I’ve heard so much about, that is occurring between my kind and werewolves, is ridiculous nonsense…  absurd… alternate reality hokum.

I will not discount the existence of werewolves. I mean, really, I am forced to walk the night time earth in order to avoid the death rays of the sun. As absurd as my very own existence is, so then too… werewolves must exist.

But, they have to be my mortal enemy? I don‘t know about that!

Of course, if I ever meet a werewolf and he is as feral as his mythology paints him out to be… then there will obviously be a real… problem. And maybe I will gain first hand experience as to how the Vampire verses Werewolf storyline began.

I guess, if I can continue to avoid the undead death… I’ll find out one day. Now, to do what my kind must do… hunt for the blood that my human prey carries inside its body before the moonlight dips below the horizon and the sun rises to burn me to dust. That is kind of like the caveat for the relationship between the moon and the werewolf. We both are cursed by our relationship with the moon… and the sun. Where will it all end?

Maybe the end will come when this vampire and that werewolf finally meet. Maybe, one day…

IRO

HORROR COMES TO TEXAS -- RALPH PATTERSON'S ENCOUNTER

(Season 2, Episode 50)

RALPH PATTERSON

 Copperas Cove, TX

MY HORRORWALKER HORROR ENCOUNTER 

My name is Ralph Patterson. I live in Copperas Cove, Texas and I have seen the
Horrorwalker face to face. Although the Horrorwalker did not physically harm me in any way, it still scared the piss out of me and I still haven’t fully recovered from our encounter three years later.

I could tell you of the horror story it made me read that day, or I could tell you what it is like to meet this being from what has to be another world, or time... or physical plane of reality. I think I will...

My nerves are still all shot to hell and every time I close my eyes at night I see it standing there imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. I can even still hear its sandpaper voice whenever I have the sounds of my life turned off and I am trying to relax. That voice is like nothing I have ever heard before – imagine gravel scraping over glass and metal. Or, something like that.

What’s crazy about meeting the Horrorwalker is the way it chooses to appear before you. I was standing in front of my refrigerator… actually reaching for the handle to the freezer compartment. In my right hand was a large glass mug filled with orange juice mix that I had just added tap water to. I was going to get some ice to put in my mug. Then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever… it just appeared there... standing there, towering over me right in front of me, inches away from the pitcher... looming over me as it stood between me and the refrigerator.

I gasped, then time and space seemed to vanish as my mind adjusted to this sudden horror intrusion of surreal madness. A second later, or was it an hour later, I was … aware… that I had actually dropped the heavy mug. It landed on my right foot, smashing into a hundred wet pieces. I looked down to see orange juice and blood pooling around my feet. I stood there looking at my foot, waiting for the pain that never came… because… I was distracted… because… the Horrorwalker presented its huge scary book to me!

I actually had to take a couple of steps back to give myself enough room to take the book in my hands. No... that isn’t right... I was compelled to take a couple of steps back.

The Horrorwalker then, somehow, forced me to read a horror tale from that massive tome. It forced me to take into my mind the too nasty horrid substance of the strange tale titled, ‘THE BUG IN THE TREE!’ My skin still crawls when I think about the content of the story. Who would ever imagine that what Bryan P. Smith thought was a loud obnoxious Cicada had the potential to be something else entirely -- a fist sized, blood sucking monster from hell? You may read my recollection of that relentlessly ugly Horrorwaker tale somewhere inside the Horrorwalker World’s sites.

Its strange, you know… in retrospective reflective moments of thought about my encounter with the Horrorwalker… one fact about my encounter stands out the most. I am still amazed by the strange fact that there was no odor emanating from the Horrorwalker. The billowy light negating ebony black clothing it wore, if in fact what I saw actually was clothing, looked like it should have trapped a lot of body heat. There was a strange redness mixed in with the blackness that billowed around it. I expected, maybe, the smell of sulfur… or something. And that scythe-like thing it held is an awesome sight. The menacing-looking, huge black blade looked like it was razor sharp. The stone-like material of the handle had strange markings all up and down its six foot length. If only I could even begin to imagine what all of that menace meant.

I do know, from my own after the fact Horrorwalker research, that different people may see the Horrorwalker in different ways. I still wonder about what I actually saw that night.

And the book... that tome... of what I assume are the countless Horrorwalker observations of the horror it has witnessed throughout time and space and distance -- my lord, how the pages seemed to turn themselves as I finished them. That fact was was baffling... like the book was actually alive. It was all too weird, too surrealistic and too sublime.

And then suddenly, as soon as I was finished reading through my crazy tale, the Horrorwalker took back the tome and it was... gone! I mean it was gone, like, vanishing right before my eyes. And then it was all over. All I had left from the experience was the vivid as a photo memory from the story, the scary words the Horrorwalker whispered to me before it vanished, this weird triangle-like marking that is permanently etched into the center of my right palm that must have formed while I held the book and a body full of wrecked nerves. Oh, yea… let’s not forget my crushed foot. It healed just nicely... in six weeks, but my mind, and my nerves, is still not right.

As I’ve already said, from what I have read about the experiences of other people contacted by the Horrorwalker, everyone seems to react differently to their encounter with this creature of falling down dreams, frightful horror stories and nightmare memories. Everyone appears to see, and feel, something a little different from other people when they stand before it. Some people are filled with dread, some filled with fear, others are just confused. I think I am in the confused category. I hope I can eventually shake this feeling of physical discombobulation, but it’s hard. You want to know how hard? Well, just you better hope that the Horrorwalker doesn't decide to just pop-up into your life one day, frightening the shit out of you, forcing you to read, quite possibly, a completely unwanted by you tale of horror dread… thus scaring the reality out of you and changing the core of your being forever.

Can it be that this marking in my hand has something to do with the way I feel? And, this line from the words the Horrorwalker whispered to me before departing... “...To be a sentinel of the nightmares of mankind?”

I don’t know about all these Horror tales, Horrorwalker Travel Guides, Countdowns To Horror, horror outside your door -- it really is a Horrorwalker World out there. Sometimes I just wonder... “Is blissful ignorance of the horrors surrounding us better than this scary horror creature popping in and dropping this arcane knowledge on us... reminding us of the fact the humans are, in effect, just blood bags for the horror to feed upon? Just a thought...

Goodbye... for now!

REP

ON COLD GROUND

(Season 2, Episode 51)

Horrorwalker Horror From: The States Of Horror

ON COLD GROUND

(Washington, DC -- In The Darkness)

“Here I am... miserably sitting on this hard cold ground. And I don’t like it at all!

“I am bleeding from the knife wounds on my arms and back. I can see that I’ve left a trail of my blood from the train terminal to this this hiding spot. Damn it! He’ll probably follow the trail and find me. If only I could have stopped the flow of my blood.”

In almost delirious fashion, Jeff Patterson silently reflected on the words he had just uttered under the cloak of the darkness... listening to his own hushed whisperings. He threw his head back, opened his mouth in a silent mock scream and made his eyes roll up into their sockets -- revealing only the white of his eyeballs -- as a reaction to his debilitating pain. He held this weird pose for a few moments before shaking himself back to what is now passing as normalcy.

“Normalcy,” he whispered, speaking just under his breath. He almost choked on that word. His tongue was beginning to become swollen in his mouth.

In his mind, he might as well be screaming out loud as he thought these words. ‘How in the hell can I contemplate normal reality at this moment, when the bizarre has slapped me down to the cold ground. Here I am, sitting on this patch of cold grass. I’m cold, and hungry and probably slowly dying right here from blood loss. And... I’m waiting in fear in this moment because there is some crazy lunatic out there trying to kill me.’

A faint sound -- like the sound of a battleship cannon -- assaulted him from just over there on the left. No, it was not a cannon... it was the sound of footsteps. The thoughts racing through his slowly fading mind now was switching to the off position.

Quiet, now. He thought. Not a sound. Think small. Be a mouse. Be a mouse that turns into a tiger when stepped on. A tiger with teeth. Teeth! Or, a big stick... like the one in my hand right now.

“Come on around here, you bastard” Jeff whispered, before slowly standing upright. “I have got something for your ass!”

No one ominously walked around the corner.

No one walked down the cold sidewalk.

No one at all.

“My imagination is really fucking with my rationality.”

He examined the lacerations on his arms. The bleeding had stopped by now, but the lack of a flow of blood did not diminish the fact that the slashes were deep and long. He was troubled by the definite loss of feeling in his left arm and hand. He had trouble flexing his fingers, but he still could. So, he figured, the damage to his arm could not be THAT bad, could it?

He brushed at the dirt and grime covering his business suit. “Goddamn it,” he swore in another strained whisper. “I just paid three hundred dollars for this suit. Damn!”

The cold, but moist, black dirt from the initial attack had worked its way into the right pocket of his jacket... to stain his white shirt in spots from the collar down to his belt level. “And my shoes! Bloody hell! If I get out of this mess alive, just how in the hell am I going to attend the board meeting looking like a homeless person. Do I dare go in like this?”

He turned his attention back toward the train car. “I don’t know why in the hell I ran this way when that psychopath attacked me. Now I have to make my way back. And he could be hiding anywhere between here and the terminal.

There were twenty-three people inside the train car with me. The psycho would have to be a crazy monster to rush into the passenger car with all those people.

He took a deep breath, held his injured arm close to his shivering body and broke out in a dead run for the terminal. It seemed like an eternity passed as he ran toward the building, but he made it there safely.

No one attacked him this time as he jerked open the heavy glass door... much to his surprise.

The oblivious travelers, the oblivious terminal workers and the oblivious atmosphere inside the building made Jeff doubt the past few painful minutes. Then he looked down at the blood drops on the ground by his feet.

He was cleaned up by the staff. He was questioned and asked to make a written report. Five hours later, it was time for him to return back home to Richmond by way of another train. It was not possible to attend the meeting in New York City in this condition.

Another time...

***

The next train to Richmond had Jeff on it. He sat in the window seat for an observer’s eye view of the passing landscape. His briefcase was pressed close to his chest by a set of still nervous hands.

He closed his eyes to look, again, into the well lit face of his attacker. Oh, he had seen the face of his attacker... just like he had seen him twice while he was being tended to by law enforcement. He worked at the terminal... and Jeff know that his attacker knew he was identified by him.

“Can he get my address?” Jeff began to mull over some questions. “Will he come after me? Will he come after me before I gather some of my personal weapons to return for a little revenge? These are open ended questions that can’t be answered until I get home. I don’t even think I’ll even have time to let my stitches heal.”

“Let’s go!” He whispered to himself. “Next trip back, I’m creating the terror!”

JEP

A LITTLE SLEEP BEFORE THE FULL MOON RISES

THE HORROR COUNTDOWN BEGINS ANEW!

(Season 2, Episode 52)

The self-imposed vacation away from the Horrorwalker horror trail is now officially over. I am back to tell the world more Horrorwalker horror tales. Even though I spent the last month sequestered away inside my own little private place of creative regeneration, I was still aware of the horrors out there creeping just outside your doors.

Beatrix Anne Margolis contacted me from her home in Southern France during my time of vacation. She sent to me a short manuscript of a mixture of her encounter with the Horrorwalker back in 2011 and the present day horror in her family life. Her short tale even gave me a little shiver as I read it because when the Horrorwalker chooses to warn people of the horror affecting their love ones, those tales are especially soul crushing. What can a ex-spouse do, from another country, to prevent her former American husband from his midnights of seemingly endless slaughter of animals, and humans, when he is afflicted but the curse of the...?

Beatrix titled her horrorwalker tale: A LITTLE SLEEP BEFORE THE FULL MOON RISES.

She says, these words have haunted her ever since she first encountered the Horrorwalker when it appeared in her garage as she was going to work that morning. It forced her to read the horrible story in the Horrorwalker tome. After it was finished with her, she never expected or imagined, at that time, that the Horrorwalker was presenting her a window into the future of her own life.

And, oh yes... she is pissed-off at the Horrorwalker. But, what can you do to tell off a creature that comes to you when it pleases, where it pleases and how it pleases... and it is impossible to anticipate when it will next appear?

So, with her express permission, I present Beatrix Anne Margolis’ Horrorwalker tale -- her cathartic warning to the world about her bizarre sacrifice for her family. Now that her son is living with her in France, and her American experience is still active, she has decided that she has to, at least, warn the world of this danger.

RLJ

A LITTLE SLEEP BEFORE THE FULL MOON RISES

(Leesburg, Virginia)

To give a name to my tale of horror and woe, I will tell you that my first name is Alpert. And then I will ask you this question,  ‘Do you want to know what true horror is?’ I'll tell you, right now.

My son attends one of the two universities participating in the James Madison University versus West Virginia University football game tomorrow… 4:00 Saturday afternoon at Fed Ex field in the Washington, DC area. Because of that fact, I am overly emotionally invested in this contest.

Oh my god, my mind is so full of anticipation that it will not allow my body to relax enough so that I can fall asleep today. It is now 3:31 PM and I am so wired that I am starting to hallucinate because I am old and gray and need sleep… but wide awake with a craving for MORE football.

I admit that I am a football addict! I will watch ANY football game in its entirety from high school level to the NFL. I want to be like the Matrix… have an information cable attached directly into the back of my brain with a one way feed of constant football games and nutrients to keep me alive.

That might sound like a living nightmare to many… but to me, if I could plug in at 10:00 AM Saturday morning and unplug at 2:00 AM Monday morning… I would be in heaven. And then, I plug back in at 5:00 PM Thursday afternoon and unplug at 20:00 AM Friday morning.

Give me football, or give me more football!

OK… well, enough of the ranting and raving of the sleep depraved mind. As I look around my room, I have just focused on my Bone: One Volume Edition graphic novel! I suppose I could read a few chapters that book again for the eighth time to help me move toward a little nap. Yea… Bone and this goofy sports radio on afternoon CBS sports radio in the background.

Tonight is another full moon night. If I don’t get at least a few hours of sleep before the transformation happens tonight, the creature I become is always more agitated than it normally is… and might kill a human. Therefore, I must prepare myself for lengthy full moon night. And because of the fact that I never know where I will eventually end up when I revert back to my human state, I need to rest so that I can, perhaps, have a little control to end up near my home.

I promised my son that I will attend the game. Please God, let me make it to the game. I have spent my son’s lifetime trying to juxtapose his life with my life of feral monstrosity. The only way I had been able to keep my lycanthropy curse from him and his mother for all these years -- until 2012, that is -- is by being this oft times absent dick of a father. But, I cannot tell him what I am. The result of that knowledge would make them a target of the moon beast residing inside me, just like my former wife was made into a target... forcing her to have to move back to her home country for protection and distance from me and my arcane curse.

How did I convince her to leave our son here for his senior year of college? I still don’t know... other than the fact that she does realize the creature will not go after him as lone as it is not threatened by his knowledge of its existence. I know, it is a very fucked-up mess of a family crisis.

OK… there is a dark and feral Werewolf  persona crouched over in that corner of the room. There is a sullen bastard of a Vampire shadow standing in the shadow of the other corner over there. There is a sharp to the nose brimstone scented, cat sized Imp crouched on my right shoulder looking at the page of my book. And, finally… there is me, awaiting the sunset destiny of another horrid dark night on planet earth.

What a minute… I’m getting that sleepy drapery over my eyes right now! I have got the alarm clock set to ring at 6:30 PM. That will give me plenty of time to drive way out into the feral woods of Loudoun County… away from prying human eyes.

OK, I’m about to turn off this computer before I say good afternoon to the proxy readers of this journal. And here is a hearty go, go, go to the university football team attended by my son!

Good afternoon from me, and these creature personas, hanging out in my room. And may god bless my damned soul as I run through the Virginia forest tonight. May I only catch, and eviscerate, a deer tonight!

And will I have the energy, and the forced time times the distance away from my car, to make it to the stadium to see my son tomorrow? Only the Werewolf inside my DNA can answer that question… and it is not talking!

BAM