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The stark, clammy, animated wraith known as Johnny Jump Up laid in the inky shadows. No one came into these unused tunnels. Mole people knew better. Prey animals have a sixth sense about such things. But the ghoul needed help. His body was torn and slimy bits and pieces protruded from the scrotal gash. Would he heal? Of course. Yet even loathsome beings like he feel pain.
Food... He needed food. Hot, warm flesh to make him whole. Human food... living food... Sometimes a rat catcher came through. They had to. Mole folk stuck together. Outsiders (except for the occasional vampire... they had a 'thing' with the vampires) stayed outsiders. Rat catchers weren't part of that. They formed a separate caste. They wandered alone and they slept alone, wrapped in their greasy sheets and blankets. Know what they used for spears? Broom sticks. They used broom sticks. Everything was primitive. The end laboriously shaped via countless strikes with a chipped, hard stone. Neanderthals worked like that. Some said that's what they were (the rat catchers, I mean) , lost scraps of an ancient culture, hiding among a more or less contemporary, 'enlightened' breed, like us. It's not that they enjoyed hunting such threatening environs. They had no choice. Food was food. No one gave them any coins. No one bought them sacks filled with burgers from the dollar menu. They weren't your normal homeless. I don't think they even thought of themselves that way. Some people knew about the vampires. They had 'familiars.' They had contacts. Some knew about the Mole People too. The cops did. They had too. A small group even knew about the ghouls. But no one, save an occasional vampire, plus a few technical necromancers from Doctor Franklin's people ever saw them. Well, the ghoul did. I forgot to tell you that...
And he laid there, drinking in the darkness and biding his time. He heard the stubby scrounger scuffing along. He heard him jab the stick into a crevice. Sometimes there'd be a squeal... a small, little high pitched sound . Then the 'man' would cough and mutter, pick it up and stow it somewhere among the folds and tucks of his filthy attire. After a bit, he drew closer. The ghoul painfully rolled over, slow and deliberate, like a lizard.... still and quiet on the damp, sharp gravel. Then he silently inched along on his belly, like a slug toward a plump, green shoot. A dead looking (had you been able to see it) bony arm reached out from a tight, black sleeve. He flexed his claw-like fingers and waited.
Meat was coming. He couldn't eat the rats, even had they not avoided him. But this was different. This was food. This was his salvation, or at least the beginning of it.
So he grinned... And he watched... And he dreamed...
How he savored the ripping of the flesh.... the 'silver skin' encasing every muscle... the bitter, pungent tang of the viscera.... the mushroomy softness of the brain.
A few nights... A few meals... A few faces (cheek meat was so sweet) and he'd be whole....
You can't kill a ghoul..... You just can't.....
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thank you. for more mouthfuls of our world, click on THIS .... your COMMENTS & LINKS would make a most gracious gift...
Food... He needed food. Hot, warm flesh to make him whole. Human food... living food... Sometimes a rat catcher came through. They had to. Mole folk stuck together. Outsiders (except for the occasional vampire... they had a 'thing' with the vampires) stayed outsiders. Rat catchers weren't part of that. They formed a separate caste. They wandered alone and they slept alone, wrapped in their greasy sheets and blankets. Know what they used for spears? Broom sticks. They used broom sticks. Everything was primitive. The end laboriously shaped via countless strikes with a chipped, hard stone. Neanderthals worked like that. Some said that's what they were (the rat catchers, I mean) , lost scraps of an ancient culture, hiding among a more or less contemporary, 'enlightened' breed, like us. It's not that they enjoyed hunting such threatening environs. They had no choice. Food was food. No one gave them any coins. No one bought them sacks filled with burgers from the dollar menu. They weren't your normal homeless. I don't think they even thought of themselves that way. Some people knew about the vampires. They had 'familiars.' They had contacts. Some knew about the Mole People too. The cops did. They had too. A small group even knew about the ghouls. But no one, save an occasional vampire, plus a few technical necromancers from Doctor Franklin's people ever saw them. Well, the ghoul did. I forgot to tell you that...
And he laid there, drinking in the darkness and biding his time. He heard the stubby scrounger scuffing along. He heard him jab the stick into a crevice. Sometimes there'd be a squeal... a small, little high pitched sound . Then the 'man' would cough and mutter, pick it up and stow it somewhere among the folds and tucks of his filthy attire. After a bit, he drew closer. The ghoul painfully rolled over, slow and deliberate, like a lizard.... still and quiet on the damp, sharp gravel. Then he silently inched along on his belly, like a slug toward a plump, green shoot. A dead looking (had you been able to see it) bony arm reached out from a tight, black sleeve. He flexed his claw-like fingers and waited.
Meat was coming. He couldn't eat the rats, even had they not avoided him. But this was different. This was food. This was his salvation, or at least the beginning of it.
So he grinned... And he watched... And he dreamed...
How he savored the ripping of the flesh.... the 'silver skin' encasing every muscle... the bitter, pungent tang of the viscera.... the mushroomy softness of the brain.
A few nights... A few meals... A few faces (cheek meat was so sweet) and he'd be whole....
You can't kill a ghoul..... You just can't.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you. for more mouthfuls of our world, click on THIS .... your COMMENTS & LINKS would make a most gracious gift...
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