Desiderium – Monsters, The First Ch3

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My #WedPeeks post for this week is chapter 3 of my new novella, scheduled for release this coming October. Desiderium is a dark fantasy/horror and is for mature readers. There is violence, sex, and a lot of profanity in these pages – you have been warned!

 

~ THREE ~

Dark Alleys

It’s been three months since the dream. Oddly, things have returned to normal. Or at least mostly normal. I’ve kept my oath of going on the offensive, and several nights a week I sneak out after Sophie falls asleep and drive around in the dark, searching. This sure as hell would be easier if I knew what it was, or where I might find it. I just hope to hell I recognize it when I do.

I regularly go to Blake’s old house and lurk in the shadows in front, hiding from the view of the folks who live there now. I stay on the far side of the street in my car and sit there for hours, just watching. Waiting for something that might give me a hint as to where to go next.

At first I was uncomfortable with the lurking. I would sit low in the car so any late-night passersby wouldn’t be able to see me, and would duck even lower when a car drove by. I was paranoid someone would notice me being a creeper and report me. As time has gone by, though, I’m less uncomfortable with it. I don’t duck down anymore, haven’t for over a month now. People generally don’t believe bad things can happen to them, so when they see me, they don’t see a predator. They see a young man waiting to pick up his date, or a responsible driver pulled over to make a call or shoot off a text. I’ve discovered that being a stalker is actually alarmingly easy. And I like the dark—I like the privacy it affords, the isolation. No one stares at me in concern while wondering if I’m a cracked nut. I can hide in the dark, and I like that.

When I’m not parked in front of his house I drive around to the few places where I knew he had spent time during those last weeks before his death—mostly dark and dingy alleys scattered across the city. I have no idea what the fuck he did down here. Nothing but garbage and grime, most of the buildings empty, crumbling, and abandoned. I’ve wandered through several of them, running into prostitutes and junkies and passing by countless filthy corners in which to seek temporary chemical or sexual oblivion. I’ve found nothing helpful, but I have begun to feel an affinity with the people I pass by in these places. They are my people, lost and adrift, not anchored to the light of day like most, and riddled with self-loathing. They’re hiding, just as I am. I often wonder what accidental turn brought them to this desperate place in their lives. I tried to strike up conversations with some of them, but never get anywhere. I’ve asked them if they’ve ever found mummified bodies around the buildings, also with no luck. I guess even if they were to see one, they’d just believe it was part of a trip.

There was a nightclub, too. A seedy joint frequented mostly by hookers—and not the high-class sort, either, but the kind you’d have to be nursing a serious disregard for your personal wellbeing to want to dip your dick into. Some had sores clear as day, and most were clearly looking to feed their drug habit. A friendly place, but not in a friendly sort of way. And not the kind of place Blake would have hung out at. I sit at the bar and drink bottled beer—far too afraid to venture into the world of mixed drinks in this joint—and wonder what had caused Blake to fall so low. Why he had started hanging at places like this. I had an excuse—he’d pushed me here. But what had been the attraction for Blake?

I’ve yet to find anything in these late-night searches. Sophie is getting suspicious. She hasn’t said anything so far, but I’m sure she knows I’m leaving the house at night. She probably thinks it’s how I’m “working through” stuff—a part of the grieving process. It also probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve started seeing a therapist. But it’s only a matter of time until Sophie runs out of patience with me or decides she wants to know where the hell I am when I’m gone all night.

I don’t want to have that conversation. I like wandering around the city at night, and I like not having to see the way she looks at me sometimes these days. I know I’ve been avoiding her. I report back favorably on the therapy and then go hide somewhere until I can sneak out into the night. I’ll take it as long as she’ll give it. I’m not going to be the one to push this.

I go see the therapist twice a week. It’s a fucking waste of money. He wants to talk about my feelings. Ugh. Just—no. What kind of dude wants to sit around talking to another dude—especially one he doesn’t even know—about their feelings?

So, night after night, I slip out and search. The dream hasn’t returned, much to my relief. For weeks I couldn’t sleep at night for fear I’d wake up that…way again. But it seems to have been a one-night anomaly. But I’m not giving up just because the dream hasn’t returned. Its absence hasn’t softened my resolve.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I will not stop until I’ve found it and eliminated the threat. I don’t care at what cost.