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Display a printable version The Monster Inside
Everyone has a monster inside them. I've lived with mine as long as I can remember. As a young boy, it would come upon me with no warning. I'd try to explain to my family, tell them the real me had gone away, that the stranger had taken over. He was the one who did the terrible things they blamed me for. Not me. As I grew older, learned more about my dual nature, I tried to fight it. But my consciousness, my ability to control my own body, would all disappear, and I would be lost once more. Lost inside the beast. *** The year was nineteen hundred and six and I was eight. I was wrestling with my brothers in our small yard, as boys are wont to do. The next thing I knew, Jacob and Charles were holding me down, while Katrina tried to comfort young Peter. I couldn't convince them it hadn't been me who'd bitten the mouthful of flesh from Peter's leg. Not when his blood still ran fresh from my mouth. I tried to explain, but they didn't understand. Voices in my head? Blackouts? What could my family, so trapped by tradition and the 'old ways,' know about modern diagnoses? I didn't learn the truth of my condition until I was much older. By then it was too late. I left home, became a drifter. Each night, the dirty sheets of yet another cheap boarding house wrapped around me, I prayed he would stay away. Sometimes he would disappear for so long, I would begin to feel hope again. But he always returned. That's how I ended up here. *** I woke in darkness, rough cobblestones under me; my hands wet and gritty. Nearby, two overturned trash bins spilled their rancid contents across an alleyway. Voices approached from around the corner. Serious. Searching. The memories of what he had done poured over me in crimson waves. I had to get away. I dug my fingers into the crumbling mortar of a brick wall, and quickly climbed up. From the top, it was only a drop of twenty feet to the next alley, where I crouched in the dark. "Witness said the screams came from down here," the first voice said. Male, official sounding. I imagined them holding their lanterns high, chasing away the shadows of trash bins and broken wooden crates. Their other hands would have guns in them, shaking perhaps, but ready to fire. "Only one way out of here. I'll check this side while you...Jesus and Mary! Frank, over here!" Tears flowed down my cheeks. I knew what they'd found. The sounds of vomiting were followed by frantic shouts for help and the shrill call of police whistles. Her blood covered me. Even in the dark I could not hide from what the other had forced me to do. Each bestial atrocity replayed itself in my mind, as she joined the multitude of other innocents brutalized throughout the years. By me, but not me. Reinforcements arrived. I forced myself to run away before my sobs of self-pity and remorse gave me away. I ran until I could run no more, desperately wishing I could escape the demon lurking within me. When my legs and lungs gave out, I'd left the yellow glow of the city's gas lamps far behind, and stood at the edge of a forest. I dragged my exhausted body through the woods until I located a stream. There I washed the girl's blood from my body and clothes, until the signs of my latest shame blended into the years of murderous stains already embedded in the fabrics. I knelt down to drink from the cold, metallic water. The last sliver of the setting moon showed me a dim reflection of my human face, so familiar yet so frightening because of what it hid. The monster within. The next morning I trudged back into Shelton, a relatively large community north of Manhattan. It was time to pack my meager belongings and move on. Before dusk. On the main streets, the paperboys were already hawking the morning edition. "Read all about it! 'The Beast' strikes again!'" Again? I parted company with two hard-earned nickels. Under a crude drawing of a creature part man and part lizard, the article detailed my crime. The criminologists had matched my bloody fingerprints to a murder in Otterskill last month. There was a manhunt out for the 'The Beast.' I made my way to Dayley's Boarding House, where I'd been renting a room by the week. Even in the worst section of the city, I didn't blend in well. My fellow occupants were all permanent residents. Down on their luck, yes. Transients? No. Everything about me shouted drifter. How long would it take one of these wretched old men to tip someone to the presence of a stranger, in return for a dollar or a hot meal? I pulled my battered, road-worn suitcase from beneath the cot. Somewhere downstairs, a radio played Sweet Georgia Brown. According to my railway schedule, the first train out of town was three hours from now. An emotional malaise crept over me. I decided to take a short nap, figuring I'd be safer in my room than in a public place. Maybe he still had some control over me. Maybe it was a mental fugue brought on by my despair. Perhaps it was just Fate. I woke up as the last orange-tinted rays of the sun ran across the windowpane. I felt the first stirrings inside me, and knew I'd somehow slept the entire day away. And tonight was the first night of the full moon. I had perhaps a quarter hour to hide myself away. I did the only thing I could think of. I ran down to the basement, taking the dirty, seldom-used stairs three at a time. Once there, I shut the door behind me and hid at the far end of the musty room. That was when Fate interfered once more. A janitor chose that moment to open the door. I imagine the sounds of my transmutation attracted his attention. Damn Fate and her secret agendas! By the time my full awareness returned, it was too late. His screams had attracted too much attention, drawn a crowd. I thought about running, but there were too many of the, Instead, I remained still. I knew the only way to ensure my survival would be to think rationally and act docile. The next few hours were among the worst in my consistently unpleasant life. The police arrived, guns drawn. I held up my hands in surrender, hoping they'd correctly interpret my gesture. I feared the collective low intellect of the officers would result in them filling me with lead. Finally, one burly sergeant stepped forward, a long pole in his hand. "Step back, everyone. Someone wants this one alive." It took all my will to let him approach. I'd recognized his weapon right away. An electric prod, used to move cattle along. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain. I awoke to the stench of my own vomit and piss. Heavy leather straps bound me to a metal bed frame. A thin, worn mattress did little to dull the broken springs poking my back. A cracked and water-stained ceiling looked down on me. From what I could see, the walls and floor were in no better shape. I was human again. That meant I'd been unconscious at least eight hours. No electric shock could have done that. Two orderlies entered, one holding a heavy night stick, the other a large needle filled with yellow fluid. My suspicions were confirmed. I'd been drugged. "Those won't be necessary." My voice was cracked and shaky, but clear. "I'm no danger, not now. Please let me speak with a doctor." I used a quiet tone and kept my eyes down. I'd heard tales of the sadistic orderlies who worked in mental asylums. I had no desire to experience their brand of medical assistance. I doubt they cared a whit about me, but a distinguished-looking man in an expensive suit followed them in and ordered them to step back. "Gustavos Donescu?" he asked. "Most people call me Gustav," I said. "Please, what time is it?" The white-haired man removed a shiny pocket watch on a gold chain. "Almost noon." "Listen to me. The moon sets in less than seven hours. When I change, make sure I am alone. I'll be able to break these bindings, but by the time I do, I should have regained control over the wolf. If I'm drugged when I change, I don't know what will happen." "So it's true? You can..." he paused, either unsure of what to say or afraid to voice it. "Yes. I'm a werewolf, what my gypsy ancestors call the changeling." I sighed. Like the wolf, I would do whatever was necessary to survive. "Whoever you are, I'll tell you everything, but I'm no good to you dead." The man pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "Very well. Let us begin with introductions. I am Doctor Robert Van Cleef, Sanitarium Director. Do you understand what that means?" "Doctor, I'm a werewolf, not a simpleton. You're in charge of a nut house, a place for the insane. That's all right; this may be where I've belonged all along." "Why, Mister Donescu? For killing that man at Dayley's?" "I didn't mean for that to happen. I was hiding so I wouldn't hurt anyone." I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. The transformation takes a lot of energy, usually replenished by hunting. Meat, fresh and bloody, fuels the wolf. I hadn't eaten from the janitor's body, and I was weak. "The wolf form has all the intelligence and memories of the human," I continued. "The reverse is also true. That's why no one's ever captured a werewolf in recent times." "In recent times?" Van Cleef asked. "Lycanthropes have been discovered before?" "How else would you have the legend? Decades ago, werewolves were simpleminded animals because their human halves were uneducated peasants. Today we live in cities, attend schools, and hold jobs." "How do you hide all the killings?" I laughed. It was a short, bitter exhalation. "What killings? During the full moon, we take ourselves away from human populations. The wolf hunts deer or rabbit, and returns home when the moon sets." Another bilious-tasting laugh forced itself from the pit of my stomach. There was no humor in it, only my acceptance of Fate and her close companion, Irony. "Doc, what you have before you is the first werewolf to commit murder in over one hundred years." A hint of disbelief crept into Van Cleef's face. "Then how do you explain what happened yesterday?" I shook my head, as much as the bindings allowed. "Bad luck. There is a brief period after the change where the wolf's instincts are in control. During those few minutes, I'm truly the beast of legend." Warm tears trickled down my face. "He walked in just as I changed. Five minutes before or after, and I could have simply knocked him unconscious and made my escape." "So, Mister Donescu, are you trying to tell me this is the first time you've committed murder?" I looked at him. Something about his voice. He knew! I glanced at my hands. Dark smudges stained my fingertips. They'd found fingerprints at the murder scene. They knew my name, which meant they'd been to my room at Dayley's. A person picks up odds and ends in his travels. Railway stubs, matchbooks, a ticket from a ball game. How easy had it been to match my random souvenirs to other cities, other murders? Time for the truth, all of it. Fear and relief warred inside me. I listened closely, but he remained silent. "No, I guess it's not. But it wasn't me who killed those people. Not me, and not the wolf. It was him." "Him?" I told him everything. The blackouts, the things he forced me to do. How the only time he couldn't appear was during the full moon. "The wolf-me is stronger than the human me, thank God. It keeps him away. You can't imagine the atrocities he would commit if he could control the wolf." Van Cleef's gaze never left me as I confessed to the murder of more than one hundred seventy persons over the past ten years. I looked into his brown eyes and hated what I saw. Not fear, not compassion, not sorrow for those innocent victims. Only cold, clinical pleasure. I'd delivered him the greatest mass murderer in history, who also happened to be a werewolf. Thanks to me, his name would soon sit beside Jung, Freud, and Pavlov. Van Cleef closed his note book and called for the attendants. After he made his exit, my two burly guards proceeded to thrash me with their batons. Then came the sting of the needle in my arm. And finally, blessed, dreamless sleep. *** I awoke to a sour taste filling my mouth and a pattern of aches and pains tattooed across my body. I lay naked and unbound on a cold metal table. Overhead, six men in white coats, including Van Cleef, stood behind a long window. I was in an operating theater. I felt a moment of intense panic, believing they planned on vivisecting me. Then the first warm currents of energy flowed through my body. They had something else in mind. Movement overhead caught my attention. Someone was glancing at a timepiece. The show was about to begin. As I regained awareness, I gave silent thanks to whoever had chosen this particular room. The bed was nothing more than a tangled mess of twisted metal. Dents and scratches marred the door and walls. I looked up at my audience. Half a dozen hands scribbled words into notebooks. The coppery tang of fresh, raw meat distracted me. I bounded across the room just as the small panel in the wall closed. I sniffed deeply, trying to determine if they'd poisoned the meat. It smelled clean. Deer, freshly killed. My empty stomach won out over caution, and I tore into the venison. Two pounds, maybe three. Not nearly enough to satisfy me, especially since I hadn't eaten in almost two days. Then there was nothing else to do but show them I wasn't a raving lunatic. At least not in wolf form. I sat down on the floor, my legs crossed in 'Indian' fashion. I didn't have to wait very long. The door opened, and the smell of fear rolled off their volunteer in waves. My instincts slavered at the thought of hunting him down, but intelligence ruled. Two guards, armed with hunting rifles, waited in the doorway to make sure I didn't make a meal of the unlucky young man quivering in his shoes and pissing himself. Raising my arm slowly so as not to alarm the guards, I waved in my best approximation of a friendly gesture. I tried to look non-threatening, a difficult task for a seven foot werewolf. When I received no response, I held out my paws and pantomimed writing. It took several tries before someone understood me and brought a pad and pencil to the medical student, who slid them across the floor to me. My wolf-hand isn't designed for writing, so I had to hold the pencil in my fist like a child. My scribbles were crude, but legible. My name is Gustav. I will not hurt you. I pushed the pad back across the floor. The student took it and ran from the room. For the next six hours they left me alone. *** They kept me in the operating theater for four days. At least they fed me. When they were sure my cycle was over, two orderlies bound me in a straight jacket and returned me to my cell. Van Cleef accompanied them and saw to it I wasn't beaten. Van Cleef became my constant companion. I answered all his questions regarding my condition, but lied about anything having to do with my relatives. I wasn't going to put them in danger. I imagine the police tried to locate my parents, but they'd have no luck. As soon as my name appeared in the papers, they would have moved away, taken new identities. Thanks to him, I'd never see my family again. On occasion the good doctor brought me the newspaper, so I could keep up with the world outside. I soon learned to skip the front pages and go directly to the sports. Too many headlines about the 'maniac killer.' No one on the outside knew about the wolf, but no one knew about him, either. Each month they moved me to the surgical room for observation. I went along with all their tests. I understood, perhaps better than they, that it kept me alive. After four months, Van Cleef transferred me to the general patient ward. "There's no need for you to be in solitary confinement, except during your change," he explained. "No, you can't! That's what he's waiting for!" Van Cleef shook his head. "Gustav. We've talked about this. There is no other. The constant strain of hiding your condition led you to create him. Now that you have revealed the truth, there is no need for him." I begged, but it did no good. He waited three days before revealing himself. I was in the commons area with the other inmates while our cells received their weekly hosing. He surged up from deep inside me, a gas bubble of evil rising to the surface of my consciousness, and forced me down into the blackness, the place where I am blind and deaf. I regained my sense of self hours later. Bound in a straight jacket and locked in solitary again. Within moments, the memories, the visions, came rushing forward. He'd killed two patients, one with my bare hands, breaking his neck, the other with a pencil stub. He pushed it deep into her eye, stopping only when my fingers hit brain matter. By the time an orderly found the bloody mess and screamed for help, it was far too late for either victim. I was eating the woman's flesh when the guards arrived. The beating I received would have left an ordinary human crippled for life. But the next change healed me. *** They keep me in permanent solitary, except when I'm in wolf form. That's when Van Cleef comes to see me. It's yet another cruel twist of irony that he only feels safe around me when I'm not human. Not long after the murders, he told me what I'd shouted as the guards pulled me away from the bodies. He believes it confirms his diagnosis. I say it proves him wrong. But we both know I'll never be free of him. My every waking hour is haunted by his words. "The wolf won't do it, so I have to!" END
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From the Diary of Gustavos Donescu
JG Faherty has had a varied background that includes working as a laboratory manager, accident scene photographer, zoo keeper, research scientist, and resume writer. His dark fiction has appeared in numerous publications, anthologies, and e-zines, and he has won several fiction, flash fiction, and poetry contests. In 2007 he'll have stories in Cemetery Dance, the CWW 'Raw Meat' anthology, and From the Asylum Book and Press's 'Loving the Undead' anthology. He also currently serves as Fiction Editor of Doorways magazine, and contributes regular columns and interviews to both Doorways and the Horror Writers Association newsletter. Visit him at