How to Make a Monster

Cast forth from the luminous lunar horns far above, a wan moonbeam caresses the gnarled bark of an immense live oak, tracing the whorls and channels of the ancient tree's bark with ephemeral fingers. The tree is so large that nothing but shade-loving shrubs, fungi, and grasses grow beneath its great boughs, their dense foliage cutting out all sunlight during most of the year. Even now, in mid-October, its great branches are almost fully sheathed in glossy leaves, though ripe acorns lie scattered in the thousands in the clearing beneath the tree.
Tens of thousands more rustle in the night breeze above, waiting their turn to fall. This, intermingled with the hiss and crackle of the leaves, is almost enough to disguise the hollow clicking of the unholy harvest hanging below the acorns. Animal skulls bare ivory fangs and bright antlers amongst intricate arrangements of human skeletal remains, hung by thin strands from the verdant boughs as if in tribute, or sacrifice.1

As the moonlight penetrates this funerary hanging garden, it falls upon an eddy of fog suspended in the branches, high above the ground, far detached from the wispy clouds high above in the sky. Penetrated by the moonlight, the mist roils into itself, clinging strangely to the trunk despite the light wind tugging at its tendrils. Unseen by any but the sky's silver eye, the ephemeral substance twists itself up, spiraling into greater cohesion. Density reaches critical mass, and suddenly with ghostly grace, a body forms, limbs stretching forth to the front and back as the neck and tail twist out and up, self-forming.
A cloud throws its arms around the moon, then, jealously withholding its light from the scene.
By the time the winds have pulled the veiling cirrus away, a creature perches in the tree, light but solid, as if it had always been there.2

Stretching tattered, translucent vanes which seem to melt back into mist at the edges, the part-manifest being tests the strength of the wind, its wraithly wingtips fluttering tautly with anticipation of flight. For an instant, the creature hangs gargoyle-esque from the branch in perfect stillness as if encased in glass. Then it bursts free, shattering the moment with the first downsweep of its corpse-shroud wings to leap clear of the branch.
With uncommon agility for a thing its size, it twists its long, thin body as it skates beneath the tree's canopy in order to dart nimbly through the gaps in the branches. Flapping thrice to gain altitude, it fans those dead-bat's wings to catch the wind (successfully, despite their seeming ruin,) gliding up and away from its "birthplace".3

The great old live oak sighs, leaning gently with the wind. In the click and rattle of bones, the wind and the tree share anticipation in their laughter, unheard by animal ears.4

---5

Rushing along above the ground, it takes nearly all the energy it has just to hold its half-substantial Self to a chosen shape. It glides ahead of the wind, moving as quickly as it can manage without discorporating, driven by a desperate sense of growing unrealness gnawing at its awareness.
It has been so long. Too long. It has as much Gnosis as it ever did, but its gnostic essence (gnosis, lower-case g, for short) is so low after its long bodiless sleep that it wasn't strong enough to make even a temporary matter-shell for itself.
It knows it cannot sleep any longer, or it will lose grip on itself altogether and dissolve. It also knows that it cannot wait -- in its weakened state, it has only one choice, one chance for survival, and the all too narrow window of opportunity began when the crescent moon rose over the horizon. The flier must find suitable prey before the crescent moon sinks below the horizon, before the end of this night which the hairless apes call "Halloween".
Even they know, or once knew, that this is when the walls between the flying one's world and the hairless ape's world are thinnest, weakest, most vulnerable. This is its chance to live again. It knows it will likely not survive another four seasons of sleep. Already, it is losing critical coherence, feeling gnosis bleed from the edges of its Self. Failure is not an option.
So now it falls through the sky, looping down over the edge of the forest in broad sweeps, scanning the ground below. It ignores the glowing windows of the village below, ignores the many small apes in their strange coverings out on the streets en masse as they usually are not, vulnerable as they usually are not -- a cub's body won't do for its purposes, anyhow. It aims instead for another house set back in the woods a mile or so from town. No ape-cubs are knocking on that door. 6

To the seeker's single all-purpose Sense, this lone house shines-screams-reeks-feels so intensely that it literally blinds the flying one to all other input. Circling above the house, it basks in the radiance.
Twisting tendrils of crimson tinged with a metallic scent-taste spiral outward from the domicile, intermingling with a heavy ozone scent and a feeling of cleanness, as if it had just rained. A quasi-real impression of thorns bristling against the skin, underlain by a hanging chill, is caused by the violent Yang energies as they clash and roil with the thick flow of mortuary Yin suffusing the small house.
The whole area feels saturated with potential chaos and violence. Perfect.
All but vibrating with delicious anticipation, the hungry ghost allows its shape to melt into amorphous shadows, pouring itself down the chimney to mingle with the smoke pouring up and outward. 7

--- 8

A long, growling sigh tore itself out of Donovan's raw throat as he paced restlessly before the roaring fireplace, glowering at his thoughts. October was usually his favorite month, but so far this year was turning out to be the worst of his life, and this month was no exception.
The year's insults and injuries to Donovan Enterich had begun with the collapse of the company at which he had worked for twelve years, segued into his fiance's miscarriage, and, of course, given the country's economic circumstances, he hadn't been able to find a new job, either.
He supposed it only made sense that, following his being forced to file for bankruptcy after his careful stock market investments and 401k suddenly became worthless, he had woken up alone in bed one morning except for a Dear John letter reading only, "I've met someone real."9

Shortly after Donovan's psychologist began talking about paranoia in every session, he had sold his apartment and moved to the country. So-called Paradise City held nothing for him anymore.10

But that, too, turned out to be yet another bad idea. Donovan had hoped to be able to live off what savings he had left after purchasing the tiny house -- it was practically a cabin -- spending his time in relaxing activities like fishing and hiking, with the occasional trip into the village to buy supplies and for human contact. The solitude was supposed to be peaceful, soothing.
As it turned out, the solitude only gave him plenty of time to brood. He couldn't concentrate well enough to read or paint, as his therapist had suggested. Little things kept going wrong, things that once would never have bothered him, but which now clustered and huddled together in the back of his mind, assuming collective proportions far larger and more sinister than they would merit considered individually. The more Donovan thought about it, he seemed to notice patterns in strange places, to perceive meaning hidden in plain sight where before he had seen only the mundane.
He had tried to explain his suspicions to his therapist, and was rewarded with another insult -- a referral to a psychiatrist. Donovan seethed, gritting his teeth at the memory. How dare that egghead try to drug him up? There was no doubt in Donovan's mind that the therapist had just wanted to make him forget what he'd seen.
A tiny part of his mind questioned why the therapist would do that, but it was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming, automatic conclusion that the therapist knew something about these secret messages, and didn't want Donovan to.11

It had been two months since Donovan refused to see his therapist again and threw away the referral. The crescent moon, peering in the window of the small house, saw the short, stocky man as he kicked the side of his couch in vexation. He ran one strong hand through his dark hair, becoming aware as he did so that he needed a trim. Even this, obscurely, made him angry.
It had become a constant presence, the anger, almost physical in its intensity. Over time, its nature had changed, becoming less targeted even as it grew more insistent, a desperate need to do something, anything to release the pressure inside.
Donovan could not relax, could not even sit down anymore. He paced like a caged tiger, fingers curling into fists. Anxiety and pain stifled transmuted into a raw, undirected, but powerful need that built slowly until, now, it throbbed constantly in the back of his mind, tinging the edges of every thought with blood and shadows.
The most frustrating thing of all was that he didn't know what he needed, or how to do it. Half-formed ideas danced in his dreams, filling him with desire, but upon waking, he could never remember what he had done in his sleep that had been so relieving.12

The dark-haired man sucked in his breath, gripping his head tightly in both hands. The mental pressure seemed to take on physical mass, pulsing under his skin. He felt as if he must find release soon or explode.
Behind him, the fire whooshed as if hit by a gust of wind, guttering and gasping. Donovan gritted his teeth, letting his breath out in a long, low sigh. He told himself, rather desperately, to calm down, that a nervous breakdown would just make things worse.
He closed his eyes, preparing to take a deep, calming breath. Because his eyes were closed, he did not see the sinuous shadow that flowed out of the fireplace as he flared his nostrils, and did not notice when the shadow poured itself into his lungs along with the air as he took that deep breath.13

It was impossible for Donovan not to notice the shadow filling him up from the inside, however, expanding into the hollow, empty places, first body, then soul. He shuddered violently, falling backward onto the couch, curling into a fetal position instinctively to protect himself.
His body landed on the couch, but Donovan kept falling, falling into a place of smoke and shadows...14

---15

The soul that once knew itself as Donovan Enterich feels itself engulfed by burnt incense fumes and dancing darkness, tumbling and whirling as if spun by storm winds. It howls, struggling, grasping desperately at itself, but the shadows press ever closer around, preventing escape. The ghostly fangs of the soul's attacker tear with ruthless need, disrupting its cohesion. The soul tries to strike back, but it is already coming apart.
It cries out, once, then sunders into incorporeal wisps of fog and snow which immediately melt into smoke and shadow, exactly like the rest.
Victorious, the hungry ghost absorbs the destroyed spirit's gnosis into its own self before spreading itself throughout the body which once was Donovan's, saturating cells, soaking into neurons, claiming this flesh for its own.16

---17

Chain Breaker opens his new eyes.
He trembles with joy.
It has been so long since he has felt he creak and strain of muscles, the solid architecture of bone, that he had long since forgotten how it felt to have a body. He pushes himself into a sitting position, luxuriating in the smooth slide of muscle and tendon over bone, in the sensation of being lifted and repositioned. Even these tiny feelings seem novel and exciting, and Chain Breaker nearly succumbs to the impulse to sit and play with his new body.
Thunder cracks and rolls with startling intensity within his newfound belly, however, forcing him to pay attention to the matter at hand. If he wants to keep this body, he must keep it fed... But where can he find food? Chain Breaker does not know where he is. But Donovan did, and Chain Breaker is Donovan, now...18

---19

Flying Jay turned his head, hearing someone call his name. He ran one thin, strong arm across his forehead, wiping sweat away. The young Native stood backlit by the pale moonlight beside his field, one hand outstretched toward the maturing plants, squinting to see who was looking for him. Upon seeing Donovan, his suspicious expression relaxed. The white 33-year-old was helping Flying Jay with this year's growing in exchange for some of the harvest, and so had just as much reason to be here as Flying Jay himself. The grow needed to be protected from the awareness of strangers until harvest time -- they didn't want unfriendly others getting wind of their cannabis patch. With a friendly smile, Flying Jay waved to his partner in victimless crime, beckoning him closer. 20

"How, City Boy," Jay smirked sarcastically. "Come to help -- " the young Native broke off mid-sentence, staring at his friend. The white man was standing in an odd way, almost slouching, yet with a strange tension, and his fingers kept curling and uncurling. The moonlight glinted off his wide-open, staring eyes.21

"What's wrong, man?" Donovan smiled, his expression pure amicability, but the strange, feral posture remained. He took another step, narrowing the distance between them. The dark-haired man's nostrils flared as he drew in the night air. 22

"You never call me by my full name," Flying Jay responded slowly. Old stories, half-remembered, began to run through the young Native's head.23

Donovan shrugged, frowning at Flying Jay as if confused. "So what?"24

"I never told Donovan my full name," the Native replied, looking at the dark-haired white man from under his eyebrows. All friendliness was gone from his face and posture, replaced with a mask of blank tension and readiness, but a thread of panic tugged at the young man's voice. "Why him? Why me? Why here? You belong in the north!" Flying Jay took a shaky step backward.25

"I belong where I am," the body which had once been Donovan's growled, though its face still wore a smile. "I go where there are souls who need to be freed," the hungry ghost in human flesh continued, stepping closer to Flying Jay. "I am where I must be."26

"The People won't tolerate a wendigo on their land," Flying Jay told the thing, trying to sound calm, brave and in control.27

The hungry ghost laughed, showing the predatory dentition which by now had fully replaced once-human teeth. "The land appreciates their concern," he smiled, "but does not reciprocate." Even as he spoke, Flying Jay could see flashes of the Wendigo's form overlaying the human shape -- Donovan's ever-flexing fingers now sheathing and releasing claws like a puma's, a wolf-like muzzle filled with wolfish fangs and tusks like a boar's, its stag's ears and antlers visibly sharper than any deer's, the thick pelt and braided mane, the serpentine tail with its scorpionesque sting...28

Sick with fear, Flying Jay bolted without warning, dodging the spirit beast's first swiping attack with agility born of terror. He threw everything he had into running, knowing that his only hope of survival was to reach the reservation. Ducking his head, Flying Jay threw himself to the side abruptly, flashing through foliage that had looked solid but which was actually little more than an emerald screen before leaping into the shallow stream which lay just beyond. He ran as fast as he could through the water for a few hundred yards, then stepped up onto the same bank which he had entered from for a moment. He intended to go back the way he came, to continue with the effort of shaking his pursuit, but before he could return to the water, something large and heavy lunged from the brush on the other side of the stream, clearing the water entirely in the single leap. 29

Flying Jay juked backwards awkwardly, but the flashing claws still raked his front, one set after the other. The young man shrieked in pain, falling back uncontrollably, his hands flying to his chest automatically, feeling past the shredded cloth of his shirt only to sink into his own hot blood as it flowed from the newly-made slashes. The instant after he landed on his ass, a shadow fell across him.30

Flying Jay reluctantly lifted his gaze to the eyes of the hunter, breath coming in ragged panting gasps. He didn't want to, but his will was no longer his own.31

---32

Chain Breaker stares down into the human's eyes, seeing only the opalescent glow of the man's aura. The sensation of so much gnosis so close at hand is almost too much for the starving spirit to resist. With a low hiss of greed, his hands flash out, grasping the other man by the shoulders, squeezing; growling, he forces himself to let go, to wait. Chain Breaker reaches down to his waist, pulling free the length of rope which had served Donovan as a belt. Before Flying Jay can blink or object, the rope is looped over his head and around his neck and tied, with the other end in "Donovan's" hand, like a leash.33

"I am Chain Breaker now," the beast in human skin growls, "and you are now mine. Walk."34

Flying Jay stands and walks, like a dog on a leash, behind Chain Breaker, helpless to resist. With every sharp tug on the rope "leash," the loop tightens, and if Jay were to try to run away, it would become a noose, choking his life away. Tears flow, but he knows better than to make a sound.35

They walk together for three miles or so, deep into the forest. Finally, after climbing a steep hill, they break out of the dense foliage into a clearing. The open area has been created by a huge old oak tree, casting all beneath it into shade too deep for other trees to survive. Only grasses, fungi, and thorn-bushes grow beneath the mighty oak.36

Chain Breaker forces Flying Jay to his knees amongst the gnarled roots, beside the great trunk. The crescent moon, high in the sky now, throws its pearlescent light through the leaves, providing just enough light to see by. 37

Transferring control of the rope leash to his right hand, Chain Breaker's left hand draws a small Bowie knife from his pocket, sheathed in tooled leather and unsheathes it. The ceramic blade gleams dully in the light. 38

"I have never used this kind of talon before," Chain Breaker informs his prey. "You will tell me what it feels like."39

With that, he kneels in front of Flying Jay, pushing the man backward with his right hand (still holding the rope) against the trunk of the tree. The left hand immediately comes down, slicing the human's clothes away to expose a lean, toned physique.40

Chain Breaker pauses to admire the fine canvas before proceeding. Starting between the collarbones, he inserts the blade and drags it all the way down to the groin, stopping just above the genitals. This central cut is immediately flanked with short, quick diagonals on each side, with a carefully rendered spiral over each pectoral muscle. A third is carefully cut into the man's forehead. Chain Breaker methodically pins his prey between two roots, immobilizing Jay's head in order to do his sacred work. The yearning caterwaul of the wendigo's stomach, and the spiritual importance of the symbols being inscribed, rendered him deaf to the young Native's agonized, hopeless cries.41

As the blood flows quick and free, Chain Breaker lowers his head, lapping it from his prey's torso with greedy slurps. All too quickly, the licking becomes biting, and with his new teeth, neither bone nor tendon is too strong for Chain Breaker to bite through. The shape of his mouth, however, is still fully human in the material world. The wendigo tries several times to dig deeply into his prey's flesh with his jaws, only to discover their extremely limited capacity in that regard. Impatience thrums through the predator and he brings the knife down, biting into the man's bleeding flesh even as he stabs the flesh right beside his own face. He rips with the knife as if it were a talon, dragging it up and down, side to side, slitting between each rib and lifting up to break it upward through the skin, then sitting up to get access to the soft belly. 42

Soon enough, the spirit which once called itself Flying Jay tries to flee shrieking from its body, and finds itself trapped, unable to escape its own dying flesh. Unable to escape the hungry jaws of the cannibal spirit consuming it, flesh and spirit alike. Unable to make noise with its lungs anymore, the soul still screams. Until, with great reverence, Chain Breaker lifts the heart from the mutilated remains with bloody hands and consumes it raw. 43

Silence falls, spiritually and physically.44

The essence of the being once known as Flying Jay breaks up, suffusing the meat of its former body, enriching it with raw power, the energy which makes up a soul. 45

Chain Breaker is quite satisfied with himself. Looking forward to his first hot meal in hundreds of years, he begins to butcher the body, to take home and cook over his fire...