*Gore Warning*
Main Street, Wilkesboro.
Sheets of rain, a stark contrast to the forecasted light drizzle, pummeled the sidewalks, obscuring most, if not all, visibility. The weatherman had predicted a week of occasional sunshine, but the reality was heavy, overcast, and thick, grey skies.
The sun had not breached the cloud cover in days.
A thick layer of grey had obscured the blue summer sky ever since the week began, with the rain beginning to fall shortly after that. Increasing in intensity with every passing hour until it fell with a velocity that seemed unnatural at times.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl through the main street and all across most of the North Carolina foothills as the unexpected deluge slowly moved through the state. Major highways were lined with damaged or abandoned vehicles, most hydroplaning against the thick, ceaseless flow of water that washed over the pavement, causing inconvenience and distress to travelers just trying to celebrate the holiday.
Highway 421 heading to and away from Wilkesboro had seen lighted signs erected every few miles warning, not suggesting, that drivers decrease their momentum while weather conditions persist.
Lower-lying areas had seen catastrophic flooding in the storm's path as rivers overflowed and breached their banks. Pastures flooded, and livestock and the farmers that owned them's livelihoods were lost. Many houses and trailers were washed away in the flooding, with one family having reported their infant, still nestled in their crib, having been swept away along with their double-wide. The family simply was unable to get into the child's bedroom in time to save them and their chinchilla, a tragic testament to the scale of the disaster.
No matter the number of weather-related deaths, however, accidents, or property damage caused by the mysterious storm, they would all be relegated to mere footnotes in what would be the paperback-length police report filed by the Wilkesboro Police Department that week...
1:42am, Tuesday
No one would hear the screams for help. If anyone did, they would have passed it off as a side effect of their insomnia or the creak of the house as its timbers swelled with moisture as the storm outside continued its slow northwesterly track through the state.
Down the street from the Heritage Museum, just beyond Dooley's Bar & Pub, in front of the vacant building where a grocer used to exist in the early 1990s, a man in soaked, ragged clothing screamed at the top of his lungs against the onslaught of torrential rainfall and gusty winds.
Unseen in the darkness, except for when passing beneath the flickering stop light or street lamps, was the jagged, torn stump of what used to be his arm. Shreds of torn flesh, muscle, and the sharp, splintered remains of his humerus jutted out beneath the shredded scraps of a long-sleeved shirt that was well past its usefulness.
The man, probably no older than fifty years of age, clutched at his arm, putting as much pressure on it as possible in order to stop the bleeding. He stumbled and fell, slipping off the sidewalk and onto the street in front of the Wilkesboro Heritage Museum.
As he fell, his right foot slid into the nearby sewer drain, trapping him in his panic to regain his footing. His vision and dexterity were worsening due to blood loss.
The world spun around him as sheet after sheet of stinging rain pelted his skin like small pellets, A feeling he'd experienced once while thumbing his way up the eastern seaboard during hurricane season the previous year; Hail the size of gravel had fallen upon him as he made his way along the long stretch of open highway. It's been an insufferable walk, but compared to the likes of this, he'd take it any day of the week.
While he frantically tried to work his trapped leg from the sewer drain, that which he initially fled from crept closer and closer. Even in the rain, against the darkness and contrast between the failing street lamps, the visage of the hunter was clear.
The sight of the beast as it slowly made its way up the side of the pub instantly renewed his focus. His most basic of animal instincts instructing him to flee, lest he be killed, now screamed louder than the wind and falling rain.
From out of the darkness, two bright red, glowing orbs appeared, blinking in and out of existence as the creature blinked to wipe away the rain that flooded its vision.
Finally, he freed his leg and regained his footing as he cut across the street underneath a green light, the seafoam glow it cast down helping him none in the steady torrent.
He slammed against the glass in front of a nearby building, his bleeding, torn stub of an arm cracking against the window and sending a bolt of searing white pain throughout his body. The canopy above kept the rain out of his face just long enough for him to see his next destination, panic-stricken as it was.
He stumbled up a small flight of stairs beneath a large arch with the words "Wilkes Communications Pavillion" sprawled across the front, barely illuminated by two small spotlights. He'd found himself atop a stage, dripping water and blood across the smooth floor. He clutched at the stump and tightened his grip, hoping to stave off enough blood loss for him to get to safety.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: Standing beside the stop light at the intersection: A giant, hulking creature covered in wirey brown fur. Standing easily well over ten feet tall, with the giant head of a deranged, mangled canid dangling at the end of a long, snake-like neck. The creature's body reminded him of a gorilla, the way it walked with its shoulders hunched over and its knuckles turned upright,
"A werewolf. It's a bloody werewolf!" He said to himself, though not in the slightest bit convinced that's what it was. The creature standing beneath the failing light source was no wolf despite what first appearances said: Its head was twice the size of any dog he'd ever encountered. Its lips divided so far up its skull that he expected the top half of its head to pull back like a Pez dispenser!
All along its jaw were jagged, gnarled teeth that grew in all the wrong ways. No horror author in the world could have been so deranged as to create such a monster, yet here one stood before him.
And it was digesting the other half of his arm as it locked its crimson eyes on the man that had, only realizing it due to the warm sensation running down his leg, released the contents of his bladder.
The man, in his weakened, blood-loss, and overall malnourished state, mustered up the last of his energy and jumped from the stage. He collided with the stone ground below and was met with a sharp snap and another wave of intense pain.
His instincts told him to ignore it, and despite the limp, he now suffered a similar, stabbing pain on his right leg; he moved his body as fast as he could across the rain-soaked grass that made up the pavilion grounds.
* * *
He watched the injured creature leap from the platform, crashing to the ground below with a snap that only he heard through the rain, along with a burst of odor that he only recognized as one thing: Blood.
It was He who had initially injured the human he now stalked—waiting by the roadside, behind a lone bush, like a cobra waiting to ambush its prey. The beast had not originally intended to make a hunt out of this, but his initial attack had merely left the human injured when it was meant to decapitate.
But it liked the hunt just the same. The darkness, in conjunction with the biblical amount of rainfall, meant he could easily stalk his prey even through populated areas, not that He much minded hiding his grotesque form nowadays.
A shred of velvet fell from the beast's massive crown, A gnarled, skeletal set of antlers that resembled more that of a mass of bones than any set of antlers. They were in a constant state of velvet, giving them a gory appearance with the shedding of red, flesh-like material.
He stomped down the open alley, his head following the injured human as it made its way past a statue toward an old cabin-like structure.
The creature's hands, which were the only parts of its body not covered in fur, were instead covered in a thin pitch, black skin that ended at the wrist. Each finger ended with a massive five-inch retractable claw, which He had used countless times to dispatch his prey.
He was The Wulphelk, The One Who Lies Beyond the Blink.
He has stalked the forests and dark roads of this planet for centuries and had served as the sole being responsible for most, if not all, of the planet's local legends. Bigfoot, the Yeti, the Chupacrabra. The source of the study of Cryptozoology itself, even.
It was He who had been seen in those occurrences that led to the legends, and it was He whose presence had appeared differently each time that resulted in such varying reports.
Any living creature in this universe could not perceive the Wulphelk's true form, and any such attempt to do so would lead one to madness. Instead, his form works autonomously with the conscience of those unfortunate enough to lay eyes on him. Some had seen him as an ape, others a giant black moth, both of which had become so infamous enough in this country that they had erected various statues of those particular likenesses.
The way He presented Himself on this night was as close as he felt comfortable getting to his true form, and it felt good.
* * *
The man crashed through the door of the cabin, mustering up what had remained of his energy. Looking around, it had become immediately apparent, despite the fogged vision spinning, that this was some sort of museum.
A brief wave of comfort washed over him at the thought of there maybe being a silent alarm. Maybe he'd survive the night after all if he could just find a hiding place. Maybe.
Too many Maybes.
He slammed the door back shut, then limped into the main sitting area. Falling face first onto the well-kept carpet below, he quickly felt his energy drain out of him.
Releasing the grip on the fleshy stump that was his arm, blood began to flood out of him once again. This time, it wasn't the only source of exit, as the splintered break on his leg now began to bleed profusely, staining the floor with ichor.
Whatever hope he had that the police would show up and save him had washed away as fast as the rain outside washed away old pieces of paper. The door to the cabin slowly crept open, a large bony hand covered in a tight, scaley black skin gently pushing it open from the outside.
All he could do was look on as one hand reached inward and gripped the door frame, breaking the molding around it, stabilizing the massive form outside for what was to come.
Then, the giant wolf-like head lowered itself down into view, connected to the broad-shouldered torso by a long, thick snake-like neck hidden just out of sight. The creature's red eyes lost some of its glow, revealing the black pupils at their core. The man did all he could to tear his vision away from the monster's eyes but found it nearly impossible.
* * *
The Wulphelk had come upon His prey at last, injured and crumpled on the floor and awaiting death. He liked to toy with the humans he hunted as he found their intelligence and ability to comprehend what was going to happen to them would make their flesh taste all the better.
It was for that reason that He avoided direct eye contact with human prey, For if they gaze too long into his eyes, they risk seeing his true self hidden beyond the incomprehensible world from which he came.
After that, they're barely more than a catatonic, twitchy husk. Eternally stuck screaming within their own body, never finding peace until death comes knocking.
For that, he had been titled 'The One Who Lies Beyond the Blink' by Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker of the North; The Wendigo, as some people have named Master.
* * *
The vagabond, now missing an arm and suffering a compound fracture on his leg, had lost all will to fight. He watched as the creature blinked its eyes in curiously long intervals, Reaching its large, wiry-fur-covered arm into the building, filling the small space with an unusually clean-smelling lavender-like scent.
He found it did little to calm his nerves as the enormous black hand loomed just over his belly. The index finger unfolded from the fist and pointed downward. If he'd been in any other state of mind, the sight of the long, yellow, serrated claw growing out of the creature's finger would have probably been a sight to behold.
The monster pressed its horrifyingly long weapon into the area just below his ribcage, pressing inward slowly and puncturing the skin of his belly.
And finally, he screamed.
* * *
The scream of the human had filled Him with the sense of satisfaction He got only when He hunted humans. Sure, rabbits and pigs would squeal in His grip before He bit their heads off, but the scream of a human was intoxicating! The idea that they knew their time was at its painful end, that his gruesome image would be the last thing they'd see, was sickeningly satisfying to him.
With very little extra force, He stabbed His claw straight through the man's body, hitting the wooden floor beneath him with a thud. The man screamed and gurgled as he spat up fresh blood and gore.
Pulling his arm back, sliding his claw through the human's body the entire way. The lower portion of the human body began to divide, internal organs and pelvic bones giving little in the way of resistance against the creature's razor-sharp claw as the monster sheared the man into a crude fillet.
The Wulphelk manipulated its bloody crown until they all lay flat against His neck. Then, with all the grace and elegance of a snake slithering through an open field, the monster crouched down and snaked his head into the building until he hovered just over the dying man's face.
* * *
The pain was beyond anything the man had ever thought possible. The feel of the pull, as quick as it was, as the monster's claw cut a clean line straight down the lower half of his body. He'd even felt the contents, what little there had been, of his stomach sloshing out and hitting the newly cleaved other half of his belly.
He was in shock, the pain becoming so much of a burden on his body that his brain was prepping to shut him down just to get away from it.
It was the sight of the giant canid head that snaked through the doorway on the end of a disgustingly long neck that pulled him back from that brink and forced him to deal with the pain and the unearthly feeling of his innards - now newly sliced into two pieces - fall out of his body and meet each other on the floor below.
The monster grinned, its cheeks pulling all the way back to the base of its skull in the most horrifying smile he would ever see. Then, when nothing else could surprise him, the monster opened its jaw and quickly bit down upon the man's face, forcing the frontal dome of his skull and the fractured remains of his jaw to meet in a bloody, pulpy mess in which, somewhere, his eyeballs had both popped and adding extra gore to what had once been a human face.
* * *
It would be well into the afternoon of the next day before anyone discovered the break-in and drying blood on the floor of the old Robert Cleaveland log home.
When questioned, the chief of the Wilkesboro Police Department - which stood just one block away from the scene of the incident - would state that the alarm had short-circuited at some point, likely due to the storm. However, no official explanation would ever see the light of day, and if it did, it was drowned out by everything else that was going to happen in town that summer...
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