The Dark Creature Passes, Part IV

SPECIAL NOTE – This is horror. If you don’t like horror, turn back now. As you are turning back, notice the guy in the dark, voluminous cape. Walk toward that guy.

Part Four: Cruckshank is Reborn 

By Karen R. Sanderson

A 21^st century Kelvin Cruckshank strolled along the stone path which led from the barn to the back of the manor. The grounds had been redone – at his insistence – and even on an ominous night with no moon, he enjoyed the course. He could smell the rose and gardenia fragrance coming from the greenhouse beside the barn. Another addition made once he’d accepted his new position. 

He was a strapping young man of 17, though the look of him was older, wiser, more assured. Not one of his acquaintances would guess his youthful years. His dark Welsh features – black hair and hazel eyes – accompanied a fine ivory complexion. His dark lambskin gloves hid long, delicate fingers. 

He pulled open the back door to a new stainless-steel gallery and strode through, arrogance dripping. He needed no candle or flashlight to guide his way – he could see quite well in complete darkness. He hummed to himself – a jaunty tune he’d recently heard. After a turn here and there, he was at the door to the library; he pushed through that as well. 

Directly inside the library door was a coat rack with the former Creature’s cape and hat. These antique items were brushed every day and shook out to clear them of dust. He shrugged out of his wool coat and hung it next to his mentor’s cape. He wore no hat. These days it was not fashionable, and he chose not to draw attention to himself. Not until it was necessary. 

Young Cruckshank had outlived three assistants; his fourth was in the barn attending to the collected souls. Here in this shadowy room, a fire raging, he could not hear the screams.

At the sideboard, he poured three fingers of fine Kentucky bourbon into two rocks glasses and carried them over to the hearth: one glass on the assistant’s table, one on his own modest side table. He sat, fatigued, and kicked off his Parlanti boots. He placed his pair next to the mentor’s gleaming black riding boots to the side of the hearth. He sat back and relaxed. He brought the glass to his lips, burning liquid flowed over his tongue and down his dust-caked throat. 

He waited patiently for the assistant to join him for their evening exchange.