So back when Crank announced his Monster Mix event, I was heavily tempted to join, but realised I would not have the time to complete it, which was a shame because I wanted to maybe use it to further develop Sónia. That idea, however, sparked something in my mind as I pondered what kind of monster I'd have. And, over time, it developed into something. It developed into my first attempt at writing something unsettling.
I don't believe I quite succeeded, but it remains an attempt using an idea that I quite enjoyed developing, so I thought I should have it posted.
As such, by all means, I'd like to hear your thoughts on what worked and what didn't. I have my own suspicions and would like to have them confirmed or denied
Furthermore, if you have any questions regarding the lore of this beast, ask away. There's information I didn't get to put on the story because there would be no way the characters would have found out.
Google Docs version (Recommended. The formatting is more pleasant to look at)
Spoiler (Click to Show)
- And what’s that? - Asked the young and curious brunette. She was in no way tall, standing at about chin-height against the other speaker. She wore small round glasses, even if they spent most of their time near her or hanging somewhere in her clothing (currently on the table), and complimented her long dark brown haircut with a well defined bang at the front.
- The brains of the people who succumb to whatever this is are completely rotten.
- What? - She asked in disbelief as her eyes widened and one of her eyebrows slid up. The speaker continued his explanation with a grim tone.
- The outside looks as normal any other, but the moment you start cutting it open, a putrid smell of rotten flesh, stronger than even a week’s old corpse, just comes out and everything from the inside is simply falling apart.
- But… how does that even happen? How come the outside doesn’t look affected? That would imply the rot started from the inside? - It made no sense to her how a piece of living tissue actively being used simply rotted. Even more so the fact that it confined itself to just the inside of the brain.
- That, - The speaker started, shaking his head. - I’m afraid I do not know. It does not make sense to me either. Or to anyone for that matter. Almost every scientist just considers it complete bollocks.
- Almost?
- Well, the few who don’t are the ones who actually autopsied the bodies of the victims.
- Wouldn’t they just show it to anyone who didn’t believe in it? Didn’t they take pictures? - It seemed like an obvious step to take when dealing with something so bizarre.
- Pictures aren’t very good at showing such things yet. We would need them to… present colour, at least.
- I guess… - She reluctantly conceded
- At any rate, - The speaker rose from his chair with a grunt of effort - I take it this is a good enough matter to study for your thesis, Miss Goodwood?
- Oh, absolutely, Mister Winslow! - She claimed with a smile - But is there even any way I can investigate such a thing if so few people get to see it and even fewer believe it to have any scientific worth?
Mister Winslow grinned.
- Please follow me to my library. - He asked, stepping away. Miss Goodwood soon followed - I can’t claim that it will be enough for such an investigation, but it should get you started. - He explained while on the way. - It’s a book that details an account of someone succumbing to the disease.
- Wow, really? - She asked in surprise, skipping just next to him to see his face better. - How did you get a hold of that?
- I wrote it! - He claimed just as he opened the double dark wood doors that gave forth to a fairly big personal library.
It was just a single floor, but there were several bookshelves starting from the left wall and circling until halfway across the room, giving the centre of it a space for a couple of dark green single sofas and candles for reading in a small, circular table between them. However, the almost wall-wide window on the right provided enough lighting in the room to read at any time while the sun was out, and a pleasant view of a well-tended garden. Closer to the window, there was also a writing desk with a few papers and writing implements strewn about, but Mr. Winslow simply took a left and started scanning his bookshelves, letting his hand drag as he mumbled the names of what he saw.
Ms. Goodwood, on the other hand, stood next to the couch for a few seconds before asking if she could help, which a sudden shout of celebration interrupted. It seems the book had been found.
- Here you go, Miss. - He handed it over with a satisfied smile. It was a slim dark-green book. The bind was poorly made and held together with extra strands of thread; the cover itself looked worn and there were a few bits of different types of paper sticking out. The title seemed to have been scrawled into it by hand. “Brain Rot”. - This book - He explained - contains my rendition, in story form, of the experiences of my father before he died to that disease. I based it on the notes he kept while it was going on, which are also in that book, and what I saw myself of his developments.
- Your… father? - She asked, afraid she had overstepped herself into a topic she should have known about beforehand. He was quick to dismiss it as not-important. - Alright but… - She started, in doubt - this looks like the original version. Can I really have this for my research?
- I wrote it a couple of decades ago when I found my father had kept notes about what happened to him. The nature of it was merely for me to get closure and an understanding of what was going on while he was dying, as there was a lot I didn’t get at the time. I closed the matter when I finished the book, and I had no intention of ever touching it again. It was probably just going to gather dust in that shelf. At least this way it might be useful to someone else. And who knows, you might get people to finally accept this disease exists. By all means, take it.
She took a moment to look at it before replying, slightly bowing
- Thank you very much, Mr. Winslow, I will take good care of it.
- You seemed like you will, from the conversation we were having earlier. I wish you best of luck in your thesis. Feel free to come back at any time if you have further questions. I’d be happy to answer them over a cup of tea. - He still graciously offered. - I’ll show you to the door.
It was a quiet ride home as Ms. Goodwood kept sneaking peeks at the book and the notes within it; careful to not let them fall off of the pages they belonged to. The rate at which the writing became more and more frantic had her curious. So much so that, by the time she arrived, she merely dropped her jacket and handbag and sped her way to her study to work under the candle light.
- Father! Father! - A child excitedly called as he ran into the living room. He was no older than seven. Brown hair, nearly black eyes and pale skin. He brought a brown album in his hands that was almost too big for him to carry. - I found this in the attic and mother told me to show it to you.
- Oh? - The father chirped in curiosity as he finished folding his newspaper. - Ah! Yes. - He then proclaimed in pleased nostalgia as he took it from the child’s hands. - This is the photo album me and your mother have been keeping ever since we got married. - He scooched to the side slightly and tapped on the sofa. - Sit here next to me. We can look through it together.
With a bit of effort, both father and son squeezed themselves into the seat, and the album soon rested on top of their legs. Like he had said, it started with a marriage. Multiple pictures showcasing the guests, the bride, the groom, both of them, and everyone together. All smiling and laughing. And the father explained who they all were and what they were doing at that time. He even pointed out the people his son would know, like the uncle who brought him a toy the last time he was in Norway, or the aunt who keeps pinching his cheeks every time she sees him, but there was one person that kept appearing every other picture whom he could not recognise.
- Who’s that? - The child pointed at one of the guests. A man in a suit with a round face and very short hair. He had one arm around the father’s neck. They both shared a very large smile on their faces.
- Ah! That’s William. A friend of mine. We went to college together. - The father answered somewhat dismissively as he kept looking elsewhere in the picture. - But I don’t remember who this one was. - He said, his finger touching a section of the picture further behind in the scene.
- There’s... no one there, father - The child claimed. - I only see a bush.
- What do you mean? - He tapped the spot once more - He’s right there!
- That… kind of looks like a person, but it’s a bush. Do you need glasses, father?
- Hush, son. That’s rude to ask. Though perhaps I might…
To him, it appeared that he was looking at a tall white man with receding hairlines in his very black hair, accompanied by thick eyebrows. He bore an angered expression, but he did not seem to be gazing at the photographer nor at the duo posing for it, but rather at the father seeing the picture. Like he knew he was in view.
A glance at both the previous and the following pictures revealed that, indeed, he kept appearing.
Always alongside someone else, he was never alone, looking perpetually into the direction of the father, who kept racking his brain for anything that could remind him of someone like that, without success.
- What about here? - He asked, pointing to a different picture. - Do you see him, James?
- No. - The son claimed after a few seconds. - That just looks like a tree. Father? Can we stop?
He hummed to himself and pointed to a couple of pictures more to confirm it. Just like before, the son saw something else instead.
Worried, but keeping that detail from the child, he closed the album.
- Go put this back. - He asked, returning it. - We can look at it some more later. And go ask mother to check with the cook about dinner.
A minute later, he was left to his own thoughts.
The silence of the dining hall was only broken up by the light clinking of cutlery on the plates and the occasional gentle corrections the parents made to James’ table manners.
But what happened earlier still dwelled on the father’s mind.
- Sarah? - He asked, in between bites.
- Yes, Christopher? - Came the response, her tone curious, as if she knew he was acting strange. Sarah was a mildly tall woman, not too shorter than her husband. Her figure was notable, her face dignified, with brown eyes and black hair. She dressed elegantly at all times.
- Remember that photo we took at our wedding where William had his arm around my neck and we could barely keep up straight?
- You two had the stupidest smiles on your faces and I was about to slap you for drinking so much at our wedding. Yes, I remember. - She spoke with a clear disdain at the memory. - Why do you ask?
- Do you remember there being a third person behind us?
Sarah seemed confused at the question.
- No… Not that I remember. What did he look like?
- Thick, dark eyebrows. - He gestured. - Very dark hair, and he seemed to be looking very angry in all the pictures I saw him in.
- The only angry face I ever saw at the wedding was mother’s whenever she looked in your direction.
- Father kept confusing that person with trees and bushes. - Interjected the child.
- Honey, should we see about getting you some glasses? - The mother asked in worry.
- I assure you, my vision’s quite fine. I do not have any problems seeing anything. - Christopher seemed almost insulted by the suggestion. - I do not understand why James does not see him. It’s as clear as day that he’s there. I can show you the pictures, too.
- We’ll have a look after dinner, but if whomever you’re talking about is not there, please don’t be stubborn and schedule an appointment, alright?
With a sigh, he agreed to do so.
Ms. Goodwood took a moment to pause. There was a note accompanying the page.
“That was the first time I saw him. He was definitely there. Unmistakably human. There is no way around it. It cannot be confused with something else, so why? Why am I the one who sees him and no one else? And why is it that he started appearing in old photos?”
“A constant figure blending into old pictures. So it causes hallucinations?” She pondered “But this seems oddly specific for just a hallucination…”
She put the note back, flipped the page, and kept reading.
Christopher seemed fairly annoyed by all of it, even if he never was impolite to those around him.
In the early afternoon of the following day, he found himself going through the motions of the visual tests asked of him with a lack of enthusiasm that left no doubts as to how little choice he was left with on the matter.
- I’m afraid your husband might be right, Ms. Winslow. - The doctor concluded, ticking off a box on the paper on his desk. - His eyesight seems almost impeccable. There is no reason for him to wear glasses right now.
- But what about the figure he keeps seeing, then? - Sarah asked
- I’m afraid that I might not be the right kind of doctor to help you with that. - He advised. - A psychologist would probably be of better use. - He still suggested. - - In fact… - He looked around a couple of times before speeding to his desk to go and grab a steel nib pen and a small piece of paper, in which he hurriedly scribbled a couple of lines before delivering it to Ms. Winslow. - A friend of my wife’s a psychologist. Here’s her address and message telling her who’s sending you. She’ll give you a reasonable price for her sessions.
With a cordial nod and a smile, she thanked him and the family of three gave their farewells, going about their way until Christopher glanced at one of the posters hanging on the wall.
It was not that detailed, its purpose was merely to inform people of a few facts regarding eyesight, but there was a space there with a drawing of a doctor pointing to the text with a small slogan underneath it. What caught his attention, however, was what was next to the drawn doctor.
He was there.
He bore a similar work coat as the other but again, he was looking in his direction, his expression mirrored like before.
Angry, but composed.
Christopher stopped and asked, pointing at it. Dead serious:
- How many people are in this poster?
The doctor blinked a couple of times, stopping himself from sitting back at his desk, and answered after a noticeable “Uhm”, clearly confused:
- One… why?
Not before an audible sigh, he thanked him again and moved on, anticipating his wife’s question as they closed the door.
It swung shut with the heated sounds of the couple arguing as they arrived home.
- Forget it! - Christopher loudly demanded. - There is no way I am letting anyone suck out any of my blood or spin me in a chair just because I’m seeing a figure that no one else does! I… - He took a moment to prepare himself for what he wanted to say, straightening his posture after bringing his hands to his temples for a second. - I can live with it…
Sarah did not seem, in any way, convinced, placing herself in front of him and staring her husband in the eyes:
- It might just be a figure today, but if you leave it unchecked, it will get worse, - She frowned at him with worry. - and I might have to send you to an asylum… Please don’t make me do that to my very own loving husband…
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