I no longer determine time by clocks or available light. My new world is now completely oriented by the comings and goings of a single sinister man. I don’t know his real name. I’m not sure that knowing it would do me a bit of good, anyway. I’m not 100 percent certain the guy’s even human. But he’s definitely one of those Neopsychotics—persons whose insanity has taken them almost completely out of the human category. Let me assure you, this fella is as far from your Average Joe as it gets. Not to mention he’s also one of the nastiest serial killers you’ve likely never heard about.
He assures me he’s over one hundred years old, and that he lived through the original Wasting House Tragedy. (By the way, he doesn’t look a day over 35.) He doesn’t look like much of anything really, just an ordinary guy, maybe a tad on the thin side. Lean might be a better word for him, now that I think about it. He’s got a predatory look to him.
Now, while he looks innocuous enough, he completely switches gears when he’s on the hunt. On those occasions, he wears a ragged moth-eaten suit, something you’d expect to find hanging off the bones of a late-eighteenth century corpse. He also balances this shabby stovepipe hat on his head, which adds six inches or so to his height. He insists the entire outfit was made for him by a “wildly talented tailor of yore,” and it’s held together by “more than string and skill.” To counterbalance the ragamuffin look of his clothing, he perches these tiny octagonal black-tinted eyeglasses on the tip of his nose. Taken all together, he looks like something straight out of a goddamned nightmare, which is likely the vibe he’s shooting for, I’m sure.
Beyond all the oddities I already mentioned, he claims to have been called upon to play some sort of game. He generally refers to it as the Great Bloody Wolf Hunt, a slaughter-sport that pits serial killers against one another. I must admit, that is something I’d pay damn good money to watch, which is precisely where I come in. You see, Mr. Grey—that’s what he calls himself—can no longer waste his mind and hands on the “pedestrian, although wonderful, craft of writing,” as he must dedicate the sum of his dexterity and concentration to The Great Bloody Wolf Hunt. So, someone’s got to keep his journals up to date—lucky me.
I won’t bother giving you my name—Mr. Grey wouldn’t have it, anyway. Besides, I’m not much of anyone really, which I’m sure is part of the reason Mr. Grey nabbed me. There’s no wife or kids to worry about me, no close friends to get concerned and go poking around looking for me. I’m just a chubby guy who writes books that few people read. I’m not much of a novelist, but I’ve managed to get a few published, shitty though they are. Mostly, I write (bad) short fiction. And I certainly regret writing the short story “Songs to Scream By.” That’s the one that caught Mr. Grey’s eye. Shortly after abducting me, he explained I was the only writer he’d ever read who could “conjure the true failure of the spirit and its many and inevitable deaths.” I took it as a compliment. I suppose.
Anyway, Mr. Grey’s been having me record his thoughts and exploits in this big beautiful journal of his. Good Christ, the thing’s even got handmade vellum pages. As a writer, I’ve got to award him some points for that. Up to the time he stole me away, he’d been keeping his own notes, and I was curious to know where he kept the other journals. Our conversations are generally pretty free-flowing and personal, so I wasn’t too frightened to ask. He actually seemed glad I’d taken an interest in him, and offered to take me to see the books, when time and circumstance allowed, of course. It wasn’t long after when he whisked me off to a small farmhouse in the country, way back in the sticks. In the attic of the rickety old place, he showed me stacks and stacks of fancy journals—just like the one he gave me to use. Christ, there must have been thousands of them. After thumbing through a bunch while he cheerfully looked on, I began to seriously consider what he’d said about his age. And that wasn’t his only claim that began to wash with me.
Now, God knows how many of what sort of people he’s killed since I’ve known him, but I’m positive that at least some of them were in fact serial killers. One of the heads he brought home was a dead ringer (pun intended) of the killer called Quiet Quentin, a little person. Not long after that, he brought home the mostly intact corpse of Paul Stillwater, the Gobb’s Town Goblin. I’m absolutely convinced it was the Goblin, as the cops later found and identified the carcass we left behind. There are a few more noteworthy stiffs, but I’ll not get into those just yet. For now, I just want to assure you that some of his body count really did come from genuine, honest-to-goodness killers.
As for his motive for killing, I have no idea what the hell drives him. No idea, that is, save for the insane gibberish he’s let slip from time to time. He appears to believe that killing is his job—his duty, more like—handed down to him from way back, something like 150 years ago, by some anomalous force he’s yet to properly comprehend. He says he must kill and dismember so as to “empower the next tides of change,” and that he’s got to “fill the pot with broth, which others are responsible for stirring and cooking.” I don’t exactly know what all that means, but I’ve a feeling he’s talking about bringing about a second Great Darkness. I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, that the very idea of wanting to kick off another Darkness is flatly insane.
Well, I’d better close up shop for the night—I can him on the stairs outside. He’s likely dragging a body with him. That’s been his routine for the last few months, whenever he comes home this late. It’s likely the corpse of one of his Great Bloody Wolves.
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