For seven days, Susan Durnell has been a prisoner in her own home. Her brother Scott is angry again, and when that happens, she is not allowed to leave. But it is not her brother holding her captive. It is something else, something that has been drawn to our world like a moth to a flame. It is the manifestation of Scott’s fury—a hungry beast whose appetite for anything living is never truly sated. This is not the first time Scott’s explosive temper has brought forth such creatures, but it may be the last. This time it wants to stay in our world, and if Scott and Susan cannot stop it now, they may not live to see the morning…
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It has been seven days and I still can’t leave this house. Scott is angry again, and when the fury takes him he doesn't allow me to leave. I could try (I have tried), but he always knows. He hardly ever leaves his room but he still knows. When the fury comes, he is not himself. I mean this literally, not figuratively. Scott is a good brother, don’t get me wrong. He gets angry like a lot of people do, but unlike other people, his anger becomes tangible.
Last Thursday, someone on the construction site got on his bad side. It was Bobby Prescott, the boss’s son. Bobby was forty-five, loved to drink beer (he had the belly to prove it) and was an asshole of the highest order. He was the kind of guy who would be a complete prick to your face (always finishing with “Just fucking with you, man”) and an even bigger one behind your back. It was one such incident that set this whole thing off. Scott wouldn’t tell me what Bobby said (or possibly did), but when the crew broke for lunch that day, it happened. Bobby decided to finish the kitchen tile of the house they were working on since there were only a few left, while everyone else headed to McKay’s for burgers and beer. When the crew returned (wondering why Bobby hadn’t met them at the restaurant but not really caring), they found him lying dead on the kitchen floor, one tile short of complete.
The first to find what remained of him was Daryl Means, who vomited on the new buckets of paint beside the kitchen’s entrance.
Bobby Prescott was torn to pieces. Both of his legs were ripped off and appeared to be partially eaten. They lay bloody and mangled on the ceramic tile near the open space where the stove would eventually sit. The meat on his thighs and calves were mostly gone, and the bones beneath were exposed. His left arm was lying on the brand-new counter. The muscles within were strewn out from the severed end like a dozen bloody tails. His head was barely recognizable as human. It had become a topography of crimson rivers and valleys. The lower half of his body had been slashed apart and rendered mostly hollow. The kitchen itself was splattered with blood. Bright red chunks of skin and tissue clung to the walls.
The police determined that Bobby had been attacked by an animal, though they could not say what animal could or would do that to a man, especially one inside a house in the middle of a Miami suburb. The truth is they will never determine what killed him. Whatever it was, it was nothing that exists on Earth. It was brought here by Scott. He did not call it forth deliberately, but on a conscious level he knew something would come, something would happen. Something always happened. Bobby infuriated Scott and when that occurs, his hatred takes shape. It becomes a beast. And Scott’s beasts are always hungry.
I asked him once where they came from. He told me he didn’t know, then paused and said, “From different levels.” When I asked him what he meant, he didn’t respond. He just raised the volume on the television, always turned to some old black and white movie or TV show. It is during these dark periods that Scott is someone else entirely. Not the older brother who took care of me after mom and dad died, who would do almost anything for his little sister. No, this was the Other Scott. The dark one.
When the fury manifests, his anger becomes amplified. It becomes something greater than him, something out of his control. He becomes a slave to it. It becomes a beast, a physical force given strength by his anger and hate.
It has kept me prisoner here for seven days, the longest it has remained active. Every time, it stays longer. Every time, it is stronger than the last.
I have mostly confined myself to my room. There is something in the foyer. I have not seen it, but I have heard it...