Standing Alone.
Chapter One.
My name is Alan Standing. I am twenty-three years old and I am a murderer. I am not your classic killer. I am not a serial killer nor am I a contract specialist. What I am is something completely different, something that you could not classify if you worked at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am something more, something that you would only read in fairy tales and horror novels. I am a...no, that is too easy. Better that you find out as the story evolves. Let us start at the beginning, or the near beginning.
I grew up in a loving home, raised by the Standing family, but I was not one of their biological children. The Standings adopted me when I was a toddler of three years. I was housed at a Christian orphanage until they came and adopted me. Henry and Alice Standing and their two children, Mark and Leslie, walked in the front door of the orphanage on a rainy, spring afternoon. Henry and Alice were thirty-two and thirty years old respectively, Mark was eight and Leslie was five. Henry was tall and built lean with brown hair and ice-blue eyes. Alice was nearly half his size and slightly pudgy with blonde hair and green eyes. Mark and Leslie were almost mirror images of their parents, except for that Mark had green eyes and Leslie had ice-blue eyes. It was a happy day for me when I saw those four faces smiling at me, regardless of the rain.
The Standings were the utopian American family, earning enough to live well, and happy enough to spread the emotional wealth to everyone around them. They would do everything together, from going to the mall or watching a movie in a theater to playing sports and eating dinner. The only time that they were not together in some activity was when they were at work and school during the day. On the weekends, they would give to local charities, both financially and personally, donating time and energy to help any and all they could. They were also the family that would host the best parties during the year, inviting everyone that they knew. There was no animosity brewing between any of them, they all loved their lives together.
Henry worked as an investment banker, and Alice worked part-time as a substitute teacher. She would say,”Its for the Christmas fund because Henry earns enough at the office for the whole family.” Mark grew to be the star football player at Harmon High School. He would joke with me, saying that I was adopted because a dog was too little responsibility for the family. Leslie became a political leader to her peers by becoming the Freshman class president while her brother caught touchdowns as a Senior. She was my favorite of the four because she would treat me well without patronizing me for being adopted. She would let me learn from the mistakes I made. The Standings, the type of family that every immigrant imagines of when talking about the “American Dream.” The white picket fence and all. The problem with this family, though, was me. I was the atypical exponent in the equation.
I was born somewhere, at sometime, in the middle of the night, left for dead in a dumpster behind a hospital in Los Angeles, California several days after my birth. At least, that was what I was told by the Standings. They did not like to mince words when it came to my adoption. Fortunately for me, a nurse at the end of her shift heard my cries and screams for help as a baby. She took me into the hospital and called Child Services while a doctor checked me out and warmed me up from the chilling autumn night. That night Child Services came and took me to an orphanage, and there I stayed for three years until the Standings were kind enough to adopt me. I do not remember too much from the orphanage. The only thing that I can remember was playing with a another boy named Charles Stachenko. He was about my age, and the nuns would call him Rhino behind his back. This was because of his short, stout stature and, of course, the small wart that somehow ended up at the very top-center of his nose, between the cartilage and the bone.
I learned morals from the Standing family and tried to be a model child, like their two genetic progenies were, but, for some reason, as I grew older, I could not control my actions. I would pick fights in school, disturb my classes, prank my teachers, and generally was a nuisance to everyone except the Standings. I was rambunctious and over energetic. I liked trouble, and trouble liked me. If it was dangerous or impractical, I would attempt it. I would jump out of trees, run around the old people at the park, or go to the store and shake all the soda cans and bottles. It was all good fun to me. If it wasn’t for the Standings, I would have been in juvenile detention until they booted me out when I was eighteen. Henry and Alice would sit me down at home and talk with me about my feelings. They were very proactive about emotional health and well being. They would tell me what I was doing wrong and what I should do to correct it. They never punished me, not once, the whole time. They probably should have.
Then, puberty hit me, like a concrete bag falling from a cargo plane in the sky, when I was twelve and changes began to happen. A fire burned inside me that presented itself in pain and agony in the middle of the night. The only thing I could relate it to would be the sensation of growing pains that some people get in the crooks of their knees and elbows. The tight, wrenching pain of your bones and muscles expanding faster than your body can compensate for. Imagine that pain, but ten times more powerful, deep within your gut. I would awake from my slumber to screams coming from my own mouth.
I also began to have nightmares so hellish that I felt a lust for blood and savagery while asleep, enjoying the torment that I was...causing in the dreams. The nightmares depicted me brutally killing animals, eviscerating and feasting on them. Eating out their internal organs and relishing the taste. I would chase them down and snap their necks, but with my teeth. I thought I was going insane, so I asked the Standings to allow me a stay in a mental hospital for one night to get a psychological evaluation. Even at twelve I was unusually smart, and they reeled back when I asked them. After an hour of discussing the problem with Henry and Alice, like usual, they denied me the visit to the hospital saying that the nightmares were just a sub-conscience reaction to my trouble making tendencies. Basically, I was telling myself that I need to start behaving and doing good deeds or I was going to start paying for the trouble I caused. Henry and Alice could not have been more wrong.
Chapter Two.
On the night of my thirteenth birthday, almost ten years after the Standings adopted me, I woke up at the foot of Henry and Alice’s bed. I was standing over them on the floor, drenched in their blood. Not just their’s, but Mark and Leslie’s blood as well. Somehow, I knew that I was wearing the blood of my entire adopted family like some kind of death shroud that I made. I knew that I must have killed them, but I could not figure how or why. Was I sleepwalking, or sleep killing rather, and sneaked into my family’s bedrooms? Did I go into a fit of rage so fierce that I became a berserker, ignorant of my own deeds, and slaughtered my family? Did aliens come down from outer space and control my mind, making me kill the Standings? I had no rational explanation for what had happened, and why should I? I was not even awake for the entire onslaught. I do not even know how it began.
What was even more disturbing was that I could taste their blood in my mouth while glaring at the gaping holes in Henry and Alice’s chests where their hearts should be. Had I killed them and eaten their hearts, why would I do that? How could I do that? They were my parents, I loved them. My mind began going at light speed trying to figure out how this small, skinny thirteen-year-old boy could possibly kill, and eviscerate, four human beings larger than he. I kept going over it in my mind, coming to the same conclusion each time. There is physically no way that I could have killed them. I am shorter and weaker than all four of them. Mark would constantly remind me of that fact when we would play basketball together. If there was only one thing that he was proud of, it was his ability to play any sport better than anyone else. He would have become a professional athlete, probably staying with his first love, football.
Now a bigger question sliced through me, “If I did not kill them, then who would have and why?”
Logic and reason spun around me like a thread wrapping around a spindle, tighter and tighter with no end in sight. What now? What do I do next? Call the Police, an ambulance? No. The first thing they will do is blame me. Of course they will blame me, I am the only one who survived. I am the most viable suspect. But, they might believe me instead. Who could believe that a scrawny thirteen-year-old could do all this destruction by himself. They would believe me and then, maybe, they would protect me.
I stopped thinking for what seemed like a year and listened. I listened for sirens and voices. Did someone already call them, did they hear screams from my...parents...victims? I did not hear anything. Nothing. The night was uncommonly still of sounds. How is that possible? Nothing was audible, not even normal night sound, like crickets and the wind. The night was still, like the proverbial calm before the storm. Then fear gripped a strong hold of me. A shiver of desperation climbed my spine. Something was here. Something unseen and silent, but nevertheless, present. I could feel its aura of death wafting in from the hallway. Pure hate almost seethed from its very being. It was headed towards me.
My flight response triggered. I needed to run and fast, but where? I felt that my life was in great peril and I needed to flee. Why? Why did I need to run? It could be Mark or Leslie, still alive and trying to escape. I could just be imagining this feeling. Why? Because, somehow I knew that I had interrupted the killer while it was slaughtering my family. I felt the murderous intent in the thick of the air, amidst the stench of death. But, did I run? No. I went to the night stand on Henry’s side of the bed and removed the locked drawer with such force that the lock plate was still inside of it. I had no time to stop and ponder about how. Inside the drawer was Henry’s handgun, a Walther P38. Henry had a soft spot for James Bond films. The gun was one of those little family secrets that the neighbors would not know about. I took the gun, checked the clip to see if it was fully loaded and ran to the closet in Henry and Alice’s bedroom.
I hid, poised with the gun at the ready for anything that might try to break in and consume me. A few minutes passed when I heard it, the scraping of something sharp and hard against the wood floor, almost like an animal’s claw. Tak...scrape, tak...scrape, were the sounds it made as it slowly moved around the room. Whatever it was, it was leaving marks on the floorboards, evidence that I did not kill my parents. Then I heard it smell the air vigorously. “It...it...SNIFFED!” I had thought to myself with utter shock and horror. It was a beast of some kind. A rabid dog maybe, or a mountain lion that had lost its way.
It was smelling the air, trying to get a lock on my scent. It knew that I was here, like it was searching for me. It must have been having trouble detecting me, but why? Of course, the blood. I was drenched in my family’s blood, hiding my scent. It was getting an amalgam of scents that it already knew. I was already hiding from the beast before I was ever in the closet. How ironic that the family who saved me from living in that child farm was now saving my life from the thing that murdered them. They were always givers, even after death. The thing stopped searching the air for my scent and traipsed back to my parents. Grumbling low under its breath, it grunted several times as it left the room.
“Was it leaving,” I thought to myself. Then next thing I heard told me the answer to that question.
Chapter Three.
Petrified and shaking, I sat in the closet with the Walther P38 tight in my grasp when I heard Leslie call out for me. “Alan, it’s Leslie. Where are you?”
“Shit,” I thought, “She is alive and that...that thing is still in the house.”
She called out again for me, “Alan? Alan, where are you? We need to get out of here before it comes back.”
“Comes back?” I thought to myself, “It is still inside the house.”
Her voice beckoned me to show myself, “Alan?”
I shut my eyes. “What should I do?” I whispered to myself. I thought of leaving the closet and running to her, hoping we could make an escape.
“Alan?”
Then, I thought of the beast catching up to us and ripping both of us to shreds.
“Alan?”
Scenario after scenario played themselves like a movie inside my skull. If I did this, what would happen?
“ALAN?!”
If I did that, what would happen?
“ALAN?!” Her voice deepened slightly, but I was too lost in thought to notice. Seconds passed as my brain role-played each act in my head. That is when it hit me. This was not Leslie.
The moment she cried out the first time the beast would have been upon her in a flash, tearing her apart and probably eating her heart out. But, she kept on calling out to me, attempting to get me to reveal my hiding spot. How could she keep doing that without the beast pouncing on her? Logically, and illogically, the beast was mimicking her voice to get me to reveal myself. But, that could not be possible, it was an animal. How could an animal mimic a human voice so well?
I can understand how a parrot mimics words and phrases, but a distinct voice pattern. It is not possible, but there really was no other explanation. The beast was trying to trap me by using my sister’s voice. Well, I was a little too smart for that trick, Mr. Beast. I was just going to sit right there on my throne of dirty clothes and dress shoes until it left or help arrived. Besides, I had my eight castle guards right there ready to say hello, seven in the clip and one in the barrel.
“ALAN SSSTANDING, WHERE ARE YOUUU?!” screamed the beast, as if it knew that I had figured it out. Its voice was guttural and raspy, as if it were growling the words it spoke. Its spoke deep and slowly, and it hissed its S’s. And when it talked it had a mocking tone, as if it were playing Hide and Seek with a bunch of children. That is when I realized that it knew my name. Not just my last name, like from reading it off of the mailbox, but my whole name. This was no mere beast. Beasts and animals do not speak and they certainly do not learn your name. This thing had intelligence, very high intelligence.
Fear kept me alert. My heart beat like the pistons of a race car during the Indianapolis 500. Adrenalin surged through my veins, heightening my senses. I could smell its breath and the blood stench carried on each labored gasp. I could hear its chest pumping and lungs filling with air. I did not notice before, but the limited light in the closet was no problem for me. I could see every article of clothing hanging up on the rack and what color they were. The cold steel of the Walther P38 in my hands was much more apparent now. I could almost sense the imperfections in the metal through my sense of touch. The only thing I did not dare try was my sense of taste. There would not be anything practical to eat in a closet, although I was feeling a bit hungry. That was a little odd.
The lumbering hulk in my house began crashing through objects in my room, no doubt to try and regain its trackers sense of smell. I could hear my dresser being ripped apart and the splinters of wood dropping to the floor. This might just be my chance to escape. My room was on the other side of the house on the second floor. If I could reach the stairs unnoticed, I could run down and reach the front door before it had time to react. Undoubtedly, it would hear my footstep scurrying down the stairs, so I would have to move faster than I had done before. I had one more thing going for me, too. I still had the blood on me which would help cancel out its attempt to track me. At least, I hope it still would.
Another crash and my night stand was no longer. Now...I must go now, while it was still occupied.
Chapter Four.
Back in the present, I am currently being processed for murder. I never denied committing the crime, but I never admitted it either. The police say that I killed a homeless man on the corner of Lankershim Avenue and Magnolia Boulevard two days ago. I live in Venice Beach and have never been out to North Hollywood before, so I surely did not kill this man. I did not know who he was, I was in Oregon two days ago. Also, what reason would I have to kill a homeless guy. I have no motive, no opportunity and no justification to commit this crime, so why an I being incarcerated? That answer is simple...and complicated.
In the interrogation room the police stated that hair and blood were left at the crime scene and the DNA matches my genetic profile. Now, I know that this is a load of pig crap, because nobody would be able to process my genetic makeup without having to call either the Center for Disease Control or Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. The 1980's show with Jack Palance, not the latest show with Dean Cain. Jack Palance was great. Anyway, they had no DNA profile me. What they probably had was an inside tip or an anonymous phone call telling them where the killer was. They were just holding me on something other than a faceless voice until the lab results come in. What a load of pig crap.
I liked that phrase, it described so much. More than bullshit ever did. One, pig crap is lighter, so you can carry more of it. Two, it was a hell of lot easier to throw, so it got everywhere. Three, pigs eat just about anything, so their crap is one huge mixture of everything that they took in that day. The only thing bullshit does is smell worse, but for some, that is enough. Pig crap was what I said when my day was a total nightmare and did not seem to have any salvation in sight.
Well, after a series of tasteful photographs and finger painting, I was bushed so I decided to allow the nice police officers to escort me to my room. It was a lovely hobble with four walls and a ceiling. A sink and toilet were placed to the far right, while my bed was already turned down by my roommate. They thought of everything.
“Didn’t waste any time with the feng shui master, did you?” I snarled.
With my new roommate cackling at the sarcasm, the officer pushed me inside the cell and locked the barred door. “Don’t worry, I’ll call your interior designer for ya’, ya’ fruit,” he scoffed in his apparently fake New York accent. It probably makes him feel like Dirty Harry or Serpico.
“Well, be sure to keep his number for later tonight, ‘cause I know your wife is busy here and wont be able to come home until I’m done.” My new roommate busted his gut on that one.
He stopped five feet from the cell door and turned around to face me. That definitely got his attention. I leaned up to the bars and looked him square in the eyes. Without hesitation, he bolted forward and cold cocked me in the gut through the bars with his night stick. I grabbed onto him to keep my balance. The guard wrestled him back away from the cell door before he could attempt a second blow.
“Touchy, touchy,” I said as I mocked him, coughing from the gut-shot, “You really should keep that temper in check, otherwise you will find yourself sitting in a circle of people explaining your feelings.” That comment got the whole cell block in an uproar. I guess that I was not the only person that this officer has hit before.
Just as the guard and the officer left the cell block, the new Oscar to my Felix spoke up, “Mighty funny you are, sir. Mighty funny. Really got Officer Pickles panties in a bunch.”
“Officer Pickles?” I replied.
“Oh yeah, Pickles. Must of had one hell of a childhood,” he chortled, “Well, don’t worry about me here. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to ya’. Ol’ Brobble, here is a right fine ‘gent.”
“Brobble?”
“Yessir, that’s my name. Ol’ Brobble. I’m here practically every night. Drunk in public. Can’t seem to help myself. So, why are you here?”
“They say I killed someone...a homeless man.” I turned my head slightly and looked over at Ol’ Brobble. I could see that fear chilled his spine from the expression on his face. He kept silent.
I know that I am an intimidating man to look at. I stand six-foot, four-inches tall and I weigh in excess of two hundred-fifty pounds with not an ounce of fat on me. I have deep, black eyes and spiked, fire red hair with streaks of black running across my head like a tiger’s stripes. My nose as sharp as an eagle’s beak and I have a prominent forehead that makes my eyes appear to be recessed. I also have a jaw line that you could use to cut granite with. I am not an ugly man, just an intimidating one. In fact, I have never had a problem attracting women. It could be the physical features that draws them in, but it is my wit and intellect that keeps them close.
I moved over to the bed and sat down. Looking back up to Ol’ Brobble, I asked, “If you keep getting thrown in here, then why don’t you just stop drinking? Haven’t you heard that you can do anything if you put your mind to it? I mean, just look at you sitting there. You could be eating a decent meal or reading a good book instead of stewing in here. Why waste your life?”
“S...s...some things ain’t that s...s...simple, good s...s...sir,” Brobble answered, stuttering from fear. He must have been born with that particular problem and learned to control it while he was relaxed. “Drinking calms me down and...”
“...Slowly kills you,” I said finishing his sentence. “Death is inevitable, don’t help it along. Do something good with your life. Learn a trade, help the needy, do something. Do you think I am gonna just sit here and accept being falsely accused?”
“A..are you? Falsely accused, that is.”
“Damn right, I am. I was out of state when the murder occurred.” I could see relief in Brobble’s eyes, even if it was fake. “What’s even better is that I know who set me up, and I can’t wait to see him again.”
“Well, you gots at least twenty-four hours to wait before they even lets you out on bail.”
Bringing up my left hand, I opened it and showed Ol’ Brobble the key I lifted off of the cop when he hit me. “I am not waiting that long.”
Surprised, Brobble sat quietly with his mouth slightly agape as I got up and moved to the cell door. I unlocked it, exited and left the door open for him. Just before I opened the door to freedom, I stopped and looked back at Ol’ Brobble and left him with one last piece of advice, “Remember what I said, old man. Don’t let death bite you in the ass too early.” Then I walked out the door.
After dodging the police with the stealth of a B1 bomber, I began making my way back to my house in Venice Beach. With my car impounded, I would have to move on foot. I am going to have to run. I hate having to run, but at least it is not as difficult for me to hoof it for twenty miles as it is for most people. I would rather be driving my Chevy Trailblazer, though. It would have been less conspicuous.
I got home in about thirty minutes and, as I expected, the place was crawling. Cops were casing my house, looking for anything to link me with the murder. A weapon, fingerprints, hair follicles, anything that will prove that I was the killer. Eventually, they are going to stumble upon my secret. They are not going to like the surprise that they find in my basement. Hell, it will probably bring up even more questions that I am not willing to answer. If I get caught, it might even get me escorted to a special building for the deranged that are beyond that of mere criminals.
I am going to have to be more careful from now on. The police will post an APB on me. Cops everywhere will be on the lookout for someone with my description, and I am not easy to hide in plain sight. I wish that I could have gotten into my house so I could get a change of clothes. At least, then I would be wearing something other than what I was at the station. Also, I would not be so damn cold. It looks like I am going to have to steal some clothes and hide myself for a little while.
I have got to find him and finish this silly feud once and for all.
Chapter Five.
I bursted out of the closet and headed strait for the stairs. My heart pounded heavy, like a jackhammer in slow motion. I felt the adrenaline course through me as I scurried like a rat from a sinking ship. Instinct drove my needs and impulses. I knew that all I had to do was make it outside and I would be safe. That was, until I heard it stop rampaging in my bedroom halfway down the staircase. It heard my footsteps rapping against the wood steps.
“Ah, there you are, Alan. Now it is time to finish this,” it said in that raspy, growl voice.
As I made it to the threshold of the stairs, I could feel its blood lust at the back of my neck. It clamored to the top of the stairs as I turned the corner. I ran fast, faster than I ever had, to the door leading outside. As I grabbed the knob, it crashed through the ceiling of the first floor and jumped down. I turned to meet my assailant’s gaze. Ruby red eyes pierced through my soul as I stood in fear. The darkness hid most of its features, but it could not hide the sheer size of the thing. It stood as tall as a Clydesdale horse, but it looked more canine. Its muzzle began to grin a toothy and crimson smile.
“I am going to rip your heart out and swallow it with so much enthusiasm,” it growled. Its mouth did not move when it spoke. It literally growled the words that I heard. “I can taste your sweet blood right now. It is going to be so decadent.”
Suddenly, rage swelled up within me. Fear escaped and made room for a larger force. One I could not explain at the time. Anger, hate, thirst. I felt all of these things and more. My veins felt like they were swelling and filling up. My breathing intensified and I began to growl beneath my exhales. My senses sharpened ten-fold and I lunged at my attacker.
“Let’s see how you like being the prey, monster!” I screamed, as if something else was in control of my actions.
The surprise attack was definitely that, a surprise. I could see its eyes widen as I grasped its fur on either side of its neck. The fur was rough and thick, easy to grip. A new found strength filled my muscles as I shifted my weight and tossed the beast through the door that I was previously standing at. As the door exploded, I heard the beast whimper as a shard of wood embedded itself into the creature’s shoulder. I watched as it tumbled several times on the ground outside before it came to a rest fourty feet away.
Amazed at myself, I stood up from the judo move and began to step outside. Fearless, powerful, and in control, I walked up to the beast and kicked it square in the face. Its head reeled back from the power of the blow. I smiled from the pleasure of hurting something that had hurt my family. I felt vengeful and spiteful. I felt like a god in that moment. I pulled back my fist and held it for a minute, staring at the pitiful animal before me. I felt no mercy for this beast. It killed my family. It had to pay for that. Then it spoke.
“Do it, brother. Kill me and gain your place in the clan.”
“Brother?” I questioned myself with terror. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I said kill me. You feel it, don’t you? You feel the animal inside you?”
“WHAT?! What’s that you said?” I could feel the fear returning and my strength subsiding. My eyes were beginning to tear up. “What are you telling me?”
“Ha ha ha. You don’t know, do you? That is why I came here, to kill you before you discovered what you are. I had hoped that you were still oblivious to your true nature, but you seemed to find out because of me. What a fool I am. I showed you what you are, and you started the transformation to defend yourself.”
“Transformation? What are you talking about?” I stopped thinking of this thing as a beast and started believing in something supernatural. Something that I could not explain.
“Did you feel the surge? The power that you used against me, it built up inside of you, didn’t it? Your natural urges and instincts took over and your senses sharpened. You suddenly wanted to kill me. A child, standing up against such a scary beast as myself. Didn’t that confuse you, if even for a moment? Didn’t you ask yourself, ‘How did I do that?’ Didn’t it all feel as if it should be a natural process for you? You seemed to welcome it after you tossed me through that door. It felt good, didn’t it? You felt free and powerful, like an animal.”
Astonished, I was without words. Inside, I was going over each thing that it was saying. Putting login and reason to the mystical appearance of my strength and heightened senses. “Are you implying that I’m like you? How could I be? I’m human.”
“No, you’re not. You’re like me. You’re a lycanthrope, a werewolf, brother.”
Its words sliced into me like a Claymore sword, splitting me in twain. I started thinking to myself, “A werewolf. I’m a werewolf. That’s not possible. There are no such things as werewolves. They don’t exist. They can’t exist. Then again, large dogs can’t talk, either. No, don’t rationalize this.”
I looked down at that...thing again. It looked up at me with one eye and that is when I saw it, a human eye where the ruby eye was. It changed while I was watching. My mind moved inward and realize that it was speaking the truth. The strength, the urges, my lust to kill was all from another source inside of me. A source of animal instincts. I looked back down.
“Why do you call me brother?” I asked it.
“Because we are brothers,” it replied, and then its features began to contort. Within seconds I was looking at a mirror image. No, a negative of myself, standing naked before me. A twin with black hair wrapped with red stripes, like an opposite of my hair.
“Nice to meet you, brother,” he said with an evil grin.
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