"Needing a Monster"
(Contemporary Fantasy)

One day I read a news story about a preteen girl who had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered. I was overcome by feelings over this. How terrible does someone have to be to do that to a child? How horrible must such an ordeal have been for her? And how absolutely without justice is it when a young girl must endure such torture with no way to fight back?

This story is not pleasant. Don't read the excerpt if you think you'll send me hate email. I only wish more people like the antagonist in this story came to the same justice as the protagonist. Mostly, I wish no more little children would ever have to suffer at the hands of these madmen.

It has been rejected by several magazines, most of which liked it but were just too nervous about the subject matter. I can't blame them. It took a UK magazine, Twisted Tongue (in which I'd appeared with "For Mary" and "Fruition to the Core") to run it. The Brits are far less likely to be offended, I think. Good for them!
 

"Needing a Monster"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick

“You know, I’m gonna kill you,” the greasy man said with a yellow-toothed leer, his breath in her face smelling of old garbage. “Not right now, sweet little honey, but later. When I’m through with you.”

Her small body trembled as if she were shivering, but the basement was sweltering. She felt hot sweat under her armpits and coldness in her feet. She tried not to cry, but couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down her swollen cheeks; the ropes cut into her wrists and ankles like the steel grips of some vicious monster.

“You hear me?” he said with a happy hiss.

She nodded as vigorously as she could manage. She’d learned since last night that she had to answer and agree with him, or he’d hurt her more.

“I’m gonna get some rags for later,” he said, drooling a little. He turned and shuffled through the dimly lit basement, one leg slightly twisted and almost dragging behind him. When he’d creaked onto the first wooden stair, he turned back and said, “We’re gonna have fun, girlie.”

She watched him go, thump-thudding up the stairs and out of sight. She sniffled, choked back a sob, winced at the pain of the ropes. She was tied upright, ropes spreading all four limbs wide and taut. Her feet hovered inches off the ground. Her arms hurt the way they did in gym class when she’d perform on the rings for too long—only much worse. It was like the prisoner she’d seen hanging in a dungeon in an old movie, waiting to be killed. She’d always thought school was terrible, but now it seemed like an amusement park compared to this place.

Even gym class would be better. Mr. Lawrence, her fourth-grade gym teacher, had always been so mean. “He’s such a monster,” she’d tell her friends, and they’d all agree. Drawings of stylized creatures with tentacles and too many eyes were routinely passed around to represent his inhuman demeanor. But now, she knew that while Mr. Lawrence was not a nice man, he was no monster.

But this man who had her tied up in the dirty, stinking basement: He was a monster.

#

When she was five, there had been a monster. It lived in her closet and never came out except at night, when it was dark and she was alone. She vividly remembered the creaking sound of the closet door; in the dimness of the streetlight outside her window, she could see it swing open. She’d pull the covers over her head and curl into a trembling little ball, terrified of the horrible creature slavering in the darkness — yet somehow she was always afraid to scream. She’d lie there, helpless, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane that was desperately trying to hang on to its tree.

She could hear the light shuffling of the monster’s big feet as it shambled across the thick rug, its raspy breath growing ever louder as it came for her. Her heart would pound her ribs and the blood would rush in her ears as it made its way around the end of the bed. She always thought if she held her breath and willed her body not to shake so hard, the monster wouldn’t hurt her. After all, she was safely hidden under the covers; maybe it just wouldn’t know she was there.

Usually, she was right. It would stand there, breathing, just on the other side of her blankets, probably trying to figure out what the lump on the bed was; eventually, though, it would tire of its visit and shuffle back across the room to its dark home. The click of the door when it finally latched was freedom from her terror, and she would drift off into sleep and forget the monster until the next time.

Except for the night the monster decided to investigate the lump on the bed. It had stood there, breathing roughly while she protected herself with the blankets, and just when she thought it was about to give up and shuffle off, the rasping breaths grew louder. A new kind of terror washed over her body, and suddenly she felt its hot, damp breath through the covers. It smelled like rotting fish on a hot day.

But it wouldn’t stay. It would go away like it always did. It had to. She’d been so sure of it.

But then its heavy, furry hand settled on her arm and slithered its way up, crawling across her shoulder and towards her head, wrapping meaty fingers around the edge of the covers, preparing to yank them away from her as her heart beat crazily—

#

The smelly man yanked her head up by the hair, surprising her, and she returned to the terrors of the present. His face was inches away, his sunken eyes gleaming in the weak light. He grinned, rolling her head around, surveying her from all angles.

“Jeez, ain’t you sweet,” he whispered into her face, and his breath was like rotting fish. “How old are you, sweet baby?”

Never talk to strangers, she thought as her mind spun. That’s what her parents had always told her. And she hadn’t; she’d just taken a shortcut through the City Forest like she’d done a thousand times. Lots of kids did; it was much faster to take the woods trails than to stick to the streets and hike all the way around. But after a woman was attacked there a few years back while jogging the trails, none of the kids ever went that way alone — not even in broad daylight. She never should have done it but she’d been after school working on her science-fair project and she wanted to get home in time for Spongebob Squarepants. Suzy and Belinda had stayed after school for their book club, so she was on her own. Bad stuff only happened to other people anyway, and never to innocent little girls—

The pain was sudden and intense, and her field of vision shifted so rapidly she thought her head had been blown off. He’d slapped her, and hard. She let out a cry and the tears began to roll...

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  

Things are about to get a lot worse for her. But suffice it to say, the bad guy will get his just desserts...

To read the whole story, order Twisted Tongues #10.
 

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