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Estimated reading time — 32 minutes

He liked to kill animals. It was a game he’d play during the longer drives. Jones wasn’t a bad guy entirely, he wasn’t particularly rotten, at least not to the core. He’d never kill a dog, for example, that would of course be wrong. Dogs were part of the family, they could be loved and they could love in return, no, dogs were like people – you couldn’t kill one, not even the smaller, louder, more opinionated ones, no matter how annoying. Cats? Well, cats were something of a middle ground. Jones had no doubt that they could be loved, but he wasn’t convinced that they could return that love. Not like a dog. A good dog would be loyal, but to Jones a good cat was one that just did its business outside. Cats would go where the food was, they’d never love their owners, not really. Martinez, one of Jones’ coworkers, reckoned that if a dog was as big as its master, it would still show love, but if a cat was as big as its owner, it would eat them. But they were still a pet, so he wouldn’t aim for them, but he wouldn’t brake for one either – that seemed fair.

Deer? He would avoid, but only because hitting one would wreck his car, and in its current state of disrepair such an impact would all but finish the old girl off. Most people seemed to consider deer to be cute like a cuddly toy, but to Jones they were vermin, along with every other untamed creature roaming around out there. Squirrels, frogs, mice, rats, hedgehogs, they were all fair game. Foxes? In his mind they were like dogs, but after one of them had been bold enough to wander into a house on the other side of the city, and gnawed off a baby’s finger before being chased away by a horrified mother, he decided that they were viable targets. Kids should be protected from those dirty, filthy beasts.

Jones worked for a small Chinese restaurant on the South-side of the city. ‘Satisfaction’ was the name of the place and despite sounding like an unconvincing massage parlour, it was well known for making some of the best Chinese food in the country; so much so in fact that customers would pay extra just to have it delivered to them from across the city, rather than ordering from somewhere local. And so, this was Jones’ lot in life: Driving back and forward down streets and lanes, and over bridges, both in rush hour when roads were crammed with sluggish traffic, and also when they were empty at night. Despite his flaws – and a university degree in politics which sat in proud frustration on his bedroom wall – he enjoyed the simplicity of his work and took at least a small amount of pride in doing it to the best of his abilities, ensuring that each evening between the hours of 5PM and Midnight, customers received their food promptly, before it would get cold. There are few things worse than a cold Chinese meal.


A driver, whether delivery or long haul, has to amuse themselves somehow, filling each journey with pastimes designed to rescue the mind from a fate worse than boredom; for Jones it wasn’t the radio or an audio-book which saved him from the jaws of monotony, no, it was his game – a nightly target to reach, to see just how many unsuspecting animals he could nail with the wheels of his car. The game had a simple scoring system: 1 point for a frog, 2 for a rat, 3 for a hedgehog, and 4 for a squirrel – once he even hit a badger which he decided was surely worth at least 5 points.

Of course during many shifts he scored 0 and then on others maybe a paltry 1 or 2, but on this night he was flying. He had managed to crush one hedgehog, a whole group of frogs in a single go, and a squirrel, although he acknowledged that the squirrel was already dying having been partially squashed by another vehicle, its back legs mushed into the ground, but with a subtle shift of the steering wheel Jones was sure to finish it off, claiming the points in the process; happy in the thought that his car – his ‘Old Girl’ – had added to her own grim tally for the night.

Despite his glee at the crunching sound and subtle vibrations of the old girl claiming a good number of prey in quick succession, there was an annoyance about the situation. He had just been a few minutes from finishing work, with his mind turning to the beers nesting in his fridge, when a regular customer put in a big order – at five to midnight! It was to be delivered to a suburb in the north of the city and, even with the roads deserted on a Monday night, it was still at least a thirty minute drive to get there. This meant that Jones would not be sitting on his worn red lazy-boy chugging a cold beer until at least half one in the morning. That was more than enough to put him into a foul mood, but despite the animosity burrowing inside, he did take his job seriously and knew that the delivery just had to be made.

After ten or so minutes of driving through the empty city streets, with the only sounds for company the grumbling engine of his rusting car, the Chinese food rustling away in their containers and bag on the passenger seat, and the occasional splash of rubber through oily puddles gathering quickly in the intermittent rain, Jones began to amuse himself once more with the game. Could he add to his tally for the evening? If he did it would surely be a personal best.

The old girl’s glistening tyres skipped across the wet road surface as she was guided by her faithful master onto Hope street. The irony of such a name was not lost on Jones, it might once have been a place for aspiring young families and of burgeoning industry, but now it was nothing more than a shell. Rows of multistory buildings blackened with grime flanked either side of the road, their windows boarded over with bruised and battered metal panels obscuring the empty spaces inside. The entire area would have been flattened, but the city simply didn’t have the money to do the job, nor fix the potholes on the surface of the streets which were causing havoc for the old girl’s already ailing and arthritic suspension. Indeed Jones would have avoided the place altogether if it didn’t shave ten minutes off of his journey.

The only people who frequented such concrete graveyards were the homeless, or drunks and drug-addicts, maybe an occasional group of kids who would manage to bend one of the metal shutters back far enough to slip inside to the darkness and mess around with whatever was left of the buildings’ skeleton inside. It was surprising that he had never heard of anyone being hurt in one of those eyesores, warned as visitors were of the dangers of the rot inside by occasional ‘Condemned’ signs, ironically themselves rusted and cracked as if the treacherous stagnancy of the place were contagious. But for these sporadic guests, the place felt dead.


Jones saw it only for the briefest of moments. It leapt across the abandoned road straight in front of the car. He didn’t have much time to react, but as his mind was already on his points tally, and being a seasoned pro at that sort of thing, with the deftest of touches to the steering wheel, the old girl responded quicker than her rusted body would have suggested possible, making sure both driver and car got the kill.

Bang on target.

It was quite clear that Jones and his weathered metallic accomplice had ended the animal’s life, as a loud squelch spat out into the night air. The car rose up and shuddered on the driver’s side slightly as the front wheel rolled over the body, before the rear wheel finished the job. The sound of bone crunching was louder than expected, and for a moment he was convinced he had heard what sounded like the animal shrieking – a high pitched shrill which cut through the quiet like nails on slate. Indeed, of all the tiny bodies his nightly drives had severed and broken, none had been accompanied by such violent protestations, no matter how brief.

Looking in the rear view mirror with a curious smile on his face, Jones was slightly disappointed that there was no evidence of the kill left behind. The car must have entirely eviscerated the carcass, that would have explained the loud screeching sound. Still, points were points and reaching a personal best was enough to make the late delivery worth it: But which points to award himself? He wasn’t entirely sure what he had hit as the animal seemed to leap up out from an open drain at the very last minute. The area was notorious for its rats, but even by those standards, that would have been the largest rat he’d every seen. A cat maybe? The more he thought about it, the more the size of the animal surprised him. Was it really that large? It certainly made an horrific noise as it was mangled by the hulking mass of his car, suggesting something bigger. After contemplating an appropriate scoring system for ‘unknown’, he settled on six points for something as big as a large cat – maybe larger – and congratulated himself on finally beating his score from the previous year. Perhaps a couple of whiskeys to accompany those beers in the fridge would be a suitable reward for such a grand achievement, it seemed only right to recognise the occasion. Life is full of little victories.

Navigating around the insidious holes in the road, turning into similarly vacant streets poking like veined branches through another web of crumbling and decrepit buildings, it was only after a few minutes that Jones first heard the noise – an intermittent clicking, grinding which grew louder with each corner and uneven dip in the road. He ignored it to begin with, not because he didn’t care about a malfunction of his car, but simply because it was hardly out of the ordinary. Barely a week would go by without something going wrong with the old girl; this had been the source of regular arguments between himself and his girlfriend a few weeks back, she wanted him to take it to the scrap heap or trade it in, so Jones did what was left to him – he traded the nagging pain in for a cute shop assistant on the West side of town. Less mileage too.

And so for a few subsequent vacant blocks he ignored the noise as best he could, but deep down he knew that sooner or later he’d have to attend to the issue. Killing his speed in the hope that pushing the vehicle a little less forcefully would somehow magically fix the problem; the old girl wearily pushed on. For a few minutes it seemed that being gentler had worked, soothing the rusted beast, but that hope vanished when the car turned onto a long straight avenue which pierced its way between the shells of three or four once prosperous factory buildings. Now he could feel the noise; something loose moving beneath. A scraping vibration sliding along the undercarriage of the car. Edging forward from the rear, it had dislodged itself from the back axle and was now below the seats behind, but still he tried to ignore it. Whatever it was that hung between the car and the road, he’d check as soon as he’d made the delivery.

Tiredness was setting in and the jubilation of his recent high score was now beginning to wain. He just hoped that the old girl could get him home, he didn’t really care about anything else and did not relish the thought of breaking down in such an isolated place. It was strange to think of remoteness in a city of hundreds of thousands of people going about their existence on a daily schedule which had to be kept, had to be followed religiously; sleeping, working, pointless. In any case the noise was probably just the remnants of his last kill caught on a loose piece of metal, swinging about and wiping its crushed insides over the undercarriage with each bump of the failing suspension or tired turn of the wheel. The previous year he had hit a hedgehog which somehow got caught on the underside of the car, its body sheered in half and stretched unnaturally long scuffing the road like skin on sandpaper. Yet in the back of his mind, he still felt this sound and worried that the scrapes and intermittent clicks were not the result of an eviscerated rat or cat battering against the ground and undercarriage, but something wrong with his pet instead, his old girl whom he had grown quite attached to.

As the car plodded down the long crumbling street, the noise continued to move further forward, slowly, almost meticulously. Jones strained his ears trying to ascertain its nature, he had always wanted to learn more about the workings of a car, but in the end had never bothered too, even though he used one daily and relied upon the old girl in fact. It could have been many things, but what troubled him most was not the presence of the noise but rather the nature of it. The sound moved, and as it did so a cold shiver washed over him, almost frightened by the thought of the jagged grating reaching the underside of the driver’s seat where he sat. Inch-by-inch metal scrapes and muffled clanks sounded as the problem swung and juddered with each and every concrete indiscretion. Closer, still closer. Finally, and with no small amount of aggravation, Jones decided to pull over and take a look at what was wrong; better setting his mind at ease than feeling that strange anxiety building inside for the rest of the journey.

The engine coughed a little and the body of the old girl shivered in the cold as she pulled in to the side of the road, straight in front of an old factory with bubbled and peeling white walls, a pair of once proud and looming front gates now broken, resting on the withered grass attached to the crumbling pavement, and its hundreds of windows either smashed or covered by weathered and cracked wooden panels.

He sat for a moment in the uncomfortable stillness of the car, a car which should have been moving, should have been going – stationary its very purpose held moot. The internal workings of the old girl bubbled slightly under the bonnet, not so much a purr as an aged breath filled with the phlegm and fluid of a failing biology. To him, this noise was comforting in a way as it seeped through from the engine to the dashboard. Yes, her breathing might have been difficult, but she was still alive dammit, and the sounds she produced were soothing like a child listening to a grandparent wheeze – yes, still alive.

As Jones listened to that mothering, familiar noise, he strained his ears slightly, wondering if the problem was perhaps worse than he had originally assumed. For as he sat there in the driver’s seat, a tapping, clicking, scraping sound began to emanate from the undercarriage once more. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that it was more like someone clinking their nails against metal, than of an actual mechanical problem, but that of course was a ridiculous thought. Yet there it continued. Tap, click, scrape. Then silence, the sound of the car’s troubled inhalations once more dominating the abandoned street. Tap, click, scrape. Again, it sounded, rhythmic almost. Tap, click, scrape.

By now, he was beginning to scare himself a little. He wasn’t normally one to entertain flights of fancy, but there was something about the entire situation which did not sit right with him. He had driven countless nights for years delivering food to customers, almost every inch of the city and even a couple of nearby towns had all witnessed the sight of Jones and his old girl chugging through the streets. Even that place, that forgotten, rotten part of the city which had at one time been host to prosperous neighbourhoods mixed with the huge sprawling factory buildings which kept the community thriving – even there he had driven through many times; hell, it was quicker to get to the north side this way, despite being eerily stagnant.

But things felt different sitting there; the steam rising from the front grill, the broken concrete and vacant shells which once homed or employed people – alive, yes alive people. The place felt emptier than he was used to, but not completely empty, not altogether vapid and lifeless.

Tap, click, scrape. Again, the noise of nail on metal, that tapping sound rang out – or was it a click? Jones began to doubt himself. For the briefest of seconds his attention shifted as he glanced to the side and thought of busy workers in blue overalls funnelling into that once shining factory; hammering, twisting, manipulating, creating – alive, yes, still alive – tapping walls searching for a hollow? A cavity? Or for something more concrete and solid; a place to drill.

Condensation began to collect in the car and as the windows steamed up, Jones rolled down his to take a breath of the fresh night air. But it wasn’t fresh, nor clean. A sewer must have been open in the street somewhere, a manhole cover removed, broken, or a drain backed up – the stench of the place reminded him of a rubbish dump he often drove past; the smell of rotting vegetables and decomposing things.

Tap, click, scrape. With the window down, he could hear the noise more clearly, and could better estimate its placement. Tap, click, scrape. Silence again, nothing. Jones wasn’t a mechanic, and knew little about cars and so jumped to a generic fault he was sure he had heard somewhere before – possibly on television or from someone more knowledgeable in such matters – an oil leak underneath, perhaps that would somehow cause the tapping, clicking, scraping noise; he barely had time to convince himself of that theory before it sounded once more. Tap, scrape. Only twice this time? No clicking? Maybe it’s getting better, Jones thought, trying to alleviate the sense of dread which was now clambering up his spine.

Then, a new noise. Something different. This time, it wasn’t a tap or a click, no, but it was familiar. He had once sat at the side of a motorway and watched curiously as a rescue service crew tried desperately to resuscitate a passenger who had been horribly injured in an accident. Jones felt sick, but it wasn’t the memory of that gruesome scene which caused him discomfort – he believed that it was probably the passenger’s own fault for getting into a car with an incompetent driver – no, it was the similarity between this sound and the one he had heard that day which caused him to shiver slightly and break out into a cold sweat.

It was the sound of something cutting through metal, and it was coming from under his seat; yet a far more sinister sound than that of a rescue crew cutting an already dead passenger out of a car wreck with a powered saw, for here the metal split and shrieked as something sliced through it, but there was no buzz of a revolving blade, no mechanical noise at all, there was only the sound of metal giving way to quick, sharp strikes.

No, no, this is crazy. It’s just the old girl again.

With a quick turn of the key in the ignition, the car fell silent with one last gasp of air. With that silence came the sound of the neighbourhood, poking its head intrusively through the open car window. A slight wind rattling a corrugated rooftop, building’s creaking under their own weight, and the occasional scamper of rat feet, the only indication that life still saw fit to call such a place ‘home’. But no tap, click, scrape. No sound of metal being clawed and sliced.

Letting out a long sigh of relief, he concluded that it must have been something wrong with the car as the noises ceased when he turned off the engine. He wasn’t keen on spending anymore time in that place than he had to, so he took a torch from his glove compartment and with a deep breath, opened the car door, stepping out onto the soaked and crumbled road.

The torch was a little cheap number he had bought from a local supermarket with a black handle and an orange head – no point coughing up money for an expensive one he’d hardly use. Still, as he stared up at the grimy white factory building in front, he was glad to have it. Many of the street lights were out, a few occasionally flickered, inspiring little confidence in their continual support, so having that meagre, flimsy torch provided at least a modicum of reassurance. The thought of being stuck in that street if the lights went out was not something which Jones wished to dwell on, but despite his hurry he could not help but turn his attention to the factory building itself. Old buildings creak, and rats take over any abandoned place, but a crazy thought now entered his head: What if the occasional scampering sounds were not rats at all, but something else? A plague of things running around the festering basement of that once busy place, sliding around in the dark, forgotten.

Jones shuddered momentarily before simultaneously laughing and chastising himself for being so easily frightened. It was an old building, simple as that. Times must have been hard a few decades earlier and businesses moved to better areas or just went bust. A place like that gets all kinds of things running around it. Normal, diseased, annoying vermin. That’s all. On a better night he and the old girl would have happily claimed them all as points for the scoreboard.

Taking another deep breath, he shone the light from the torch at the side of the car. He paused only for a second as the memory of that scraping and slicing of metal sound made him think twice about looking, but never mind that! There was food to deliver, and it would be getting cold. He’d be receiving a few complaints no doubt from his boss, but right now all that mattered was checking the underside of the old girl and getting her back on the road – at least for long enough to get the delivery done and then home. A mechanic could wait until the morning, well, as long as the car could drive.

Jones crouched down, resting his denim clad knees on the wet road surface, being careful not to tweak his left knee as it always gave him a bit of a pain when driving after a few hours. Hesitation took hold, but after listening for another moment and hearing nothing but the scampered pattering whispers of the old factory building’s rodent population, he quickly shone the light underneath.


Thank God.

There was nothing hanging down from the old girl that he could see, but a chill caught Jones’ off guard as he glimpsed what appeared to be the impression that something had been there. On the undercarriage, the oiled and muddied surface had been scarred. What looked like scratches where something had clung on to the car could be seen. Several at a time, seemingly climbing from the rear towards the front. He adjusted his torch once more.

What the hell is that?

Directly under the driver’s seat, a large incision, as if someone had taken a cutting tool and torn through the metal flooring, scarred the underside about a foot across. The cold, rotten air throbbed through Jones’ lungs as his breath grew anxious. The light from his torch shone through the slit and into the interior of the car, exactly beneath where he had been sitting.

Standing up abruptly, he stepped back away from the old girl, just enough to give him a feeling of safety. But safety from what? Okay, so there was a gash across the floor of his car, but that didn’t mean that something did it. Something, alive. No, it made much more sense that he had scuffed the undercarriage off of an unseen obstacle on the road. But wouldn’t he have heard it? Maybe, maybe not. It was late, he was tired so his attention could have been elsewhere. Or, it could have started out as a small crack and the strain of the old girl thumping along those pot holes could have been enough to stretch the gouge. Yes, this was increasingly likely. Jones calmed himself slowly, assuming that in his zeal to flatten a few local animals and beat his personal best score, he had just swerved over an uneven bit of road, a speed bump, or a rock. There was simply no way an animal could have done that, was there? No, surely not.

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Looking down at his feet, the realisation present itself that he had taken quite a few steps back in his panic. Enough to take him over the threshold of the factory grounds, next to the gates, resting like two large cadavers forgotten by both family and friends, consumed by the dirt and soil. One day they wouldn’t even be visible, completely devoured by the ground, and yet once they had stood tall, strong and proud, welcoming industry into their embrace. He turned to the factory building with this thought. With enough time it too would be gone, its once shining white walls now cracked, bubbled and moss ridden – they too would be consumed. Claimed by the wind, the earth, the roots and weeds. But what if it had already been claimed, what if something took up residence there to be left alone, and you, you idiot, are standing on its property?

Another ridiculous thought, but a creeping feeling once again took hold, like someone watching from the windows, and for the briefest of seconds Jones was convinced that he had seen movement up on the fourth or fifth floor. Something which glanced past the window.

I wonder what they made in there?

It was time to move as Jones felt he had scared himself enough with his idiotic and juvenile contemplations – the product of a bored delivery takeaway driver – but the available choices were not too pleasant to him. Phone someone to come pick me up? That would involve waiting around for a while, and that was something he had no desire to do. Walk out of the place to a main road? He knew the area well and it was probably at least a twenty minute walk before he would be out of that forgotten neighbourhood; looking down the street at the other old factories and occasional residential buildings, they all spoke of things rummaging around at night. He just wanted to get out of there quickly. Going back to the car and driving out of there seemed the fairest option, but while Jones had tried to convince himself that there was nothing to those deep metallic scars other than a bump or two, their very nature still suggested to him deep down that something with purpose committed the violent offence.

The indefinite patter of scampering feet once more sounded from the factory building, and with the thought of a swelling mass of rodent tails and claws exploring the night, Jones stepped forward cautiously towards the car in hope more than anything else. Yet as he sat back down into the driver’s seat, a noise again grabbed his attention. He turned in its direction and saw, for the briefest of moments, a movement; but like the common phantoms which we all see from time to time out of the corner of our vision, the source of the movement was not present long enough to be identified. Overhead nearby a street light had flickered in tandem with the activity and all Jones could think of was green; dark, putrid green. That was the impression of it.

Fear was still present, but so to was curiosity. It was an animal, it must have been an animal. It couldn’t have been anything else. The factory looked on sternly, and Jones shuddered in response. This is ridiculous. Standing up once more, he exited the old girl. A subtle breeze blew threw the street, not carrying freshness, life; carrying with it a foul stench of rot. Then, a sound of wet. Something viscous and animated poured out from the rear of the car, receding quickly into the old girl’s shadow. Yes, he was convinced, there was something moving around back there.

The light from the torch quivered and Jones looked down at his hand doing likewise. Closer to the rear of the car he moved, and with the proximity, that wet sound continued. The street lights flickered and rattled again, but he did not register nor so much as contemplate their temper, for he was convinced that he had just seen the slightest flash of grey pallid green skin, bobbled and warted, retreat farther beneath the car. What was that? A rat? No, there was no suggestion of something warm blooded. Whatever it was gave off a cold impression.

Then, anger began to rise; he still discounted the possibility that an animal could have torn up his car floor so badly, but he knew one thing – whatever it was that he had hit, it wasn’t dead yet. A bang echoed out across the street from the factory building, a clatter of falling masonry, a broken floorboard, or an old pipe seizing up and giving in to an expanse of fetid water inside. Whatever it was Jones was in no hurry to find out, what he was in a hurry to do was expel that horrid animal from under his car, he’d crush its skull in with his cheap torch if he had to. He couldn’t have it scampering around under the older girl – he didn’t believe that it could have torn through metal, no he didn’t believe that at all, but for some reason he did believe it to be the reason for his impromptu stop in such a lonely, rotten piece of the city.

Yes, that little shit would pay, Jones considered that he might even give himself the extra points for dispensing with a horrid piece of roadkill so manually. Probably would be putting it out of its misery in any case. Slipping quietly this time onto his elbows and silently as possible lying flat on the ground, he didn’t want the thing to know his plan. While he was convinced vermin couldn’t love, he wasn’t so sure that they couldn’t think. Gripping the torch now like a club or sword, its beam shone under the car once more. He couldn’t understand it, again, there was no sight of an animal – none. The marks and gouges were still on the undercarriage, but no animal itself. Drawing in closer, Jones slowly pushed his head into the shadows underneath, his arm protruding forward to look behind the tyres. Nothing. Almost disappointed, he began to slide his head back out from under the car, only to be stopped. Frozen to the core. He knew now why he hadn’t seen the animal. It wasn’t under the car, it wasn’t hiding behind a tyre, no, it was curled up inside the wheel arch above where Jones’ head now sat. Sitting there, in the darkness of the curve above the tyre. Motionless, but as Jones saw it, not lifeless, no, it peered out through two front facing eyes with intent.


The torch was now by his side, still in his grasp, but he did not move it to take a look. He couldn’t entirely perceive what sort of animal it was. All he could see were two eyes, the impression of a mouth and nose. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that it was almost human, in fact it was very human, like the disfigured, dark green head of an old woman wedged between the tyre and the oiled metal of its shielding arch. But no, it was more than just a head, there was the suggestion of appendages, and it had squeezed the entire contents of its sagging body into that tight space like a coiled snake or rat in a drain pipe.

Yet Jones dared not move. For although it had shoved itself into that confined part of the old girl’s body, it was impossible to know its true size, or its true nature for that matter. It could have been harmless, but those eyes staring so fixedly, they did not feel harmless.

Suddenly it let out a noise. Low and almost Owl-like, a deep sound which resonated within its body, causing a reverberation which was accompanied by a wet, liquefied noise. A pause. A deep automatic inhalation, gasp of fear which channelled its way into Jones’ lungs. There they stayed for a moment of nothing, then slowly, a protrusion; a sharp piece of its body sneaking out of the darkness under that wheel arch, moving softly through the air. It hovered directly over Jones’ face hypnotically, pointed, dark-brown, tinged with a muddy, earthy smell. It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, so close to his face was the sharp object that it blurred and drew his stare towards the centre of his nose like a child attempting to cross their eyes. It looked like a talon, resembling that of a bird of prey, but it was not a talon, nor was it a nail or a horn, it was something new, something unseen and unknown within the animal kingdom – at least to him. All Jones knew and was now sure of was that it had sliced its way through the metal of the old girl’s body, and that it could gut him like a fish.

Then a soft sound, almost calming. It was a vibration again, but it resembled a deep, gentle coo, or the satisfied purr of a cat, and although Jones’ intellect screamed for escape, his senses and his body slipped into an unanticipated relaxed state at the sound. He remembered sitting under the television as a child on a Sunday afternoon, watching an old B-movie wondering how they did the effects, with the rain crawling down the window outside, and his Granddad snoozing in his chair. A comforting memory, and that sound elicited it from deep within.

Two pieces of gelatinous flesh widened in the darkness, and from that human mouth stitched to that fluid body came a sound, a horrible, torturous howl, part animal, part human, and part something between. The talon sliced quickly and hooked into Jones’ cheek. He remembered once more as a child catching his forearm with a fish hook, its barbed curves pulling and ripping at the skin. The hook of the creature’s appendage had dug deep. Through flesh, and ligament, and into the muscle of his face. He struggled for a moment, blinding pain sheering through his body. Once more their eyes met, prey and predator, and then Jones spoke, sure that somehow it could understand, that he could compromise with that thing under the wheel arch. That a creature with the capacity for thinking resided there, certainly not something which could be loved nor love in return, but perhaps in that facsimile of a human face there was a thought or emotion which resembled compassion; all the while the hook, its cold, barbed structure buried deep within the muscle of the cheek, just above the jaw, its sharpened end grazing slightly against the bone underneath.

‘Please, no’ Jones whimpered.

The face within the darkness howled once more and with a jolt, blood spouted upwards into Jones left eye leaving him momentarily blinded. The talon was obscured within the wheel arch again, but not before taking its prey’s left cheek, muscle, ligament, flapping skin and all, with it.

Jones cried in agony, and rolled out from under the car as soon as he was released. Reaching up he felt a deep depression in his face, severed wiry anatomies which he could not name, and the hard abrasive texture of bone. Panic and horror shook him, part of his face was gone, torn from him by that thing under the wheel arch.

The back of the car began to shriek as the sound of metal ripped and severed echoed out across the empty street. The old girl shook violently, shuddering, convulsing as if being tortured by a powerful assailant. Lying with his back against the ground, dazed, Jones’ awareness focused once more at the familiar – but now terrifying – smell of petrol. It seeped out from under the car from a fatal wound, soaking his denims. The old girl bled out, now useless, her master now trapped in that horrible street with that beast.

The face appeared from under the car, its arms stretching out with limbs in peculiar places, contorted by an unnatural anatomy of doubled joints. As Jones held what was left of his face with his hand and turned to run, the wet and jerking yet quick movements of the creature’s appendages clobbered and clambered over the pavement in pursuit.

It was fast, too fast. And its size had easily tripled since sliding out from underneath the car, its awkward limbs attached to that hideous face thrusting forward awkwardly like a spider squeezing forth from its venomous hole. Liquid poured in through the large opening in Jones’ face and as he gasped for air he was met with the sickening metallic taste of his own blood. He dared not look back, but the beast drew closer, the sound of its slithering, contorting legs only out done by the anguished, pain-ridden howl which escaped from its mouth.

Jones stumbled, he clawed at the ground and as he steadied himself he realised where he was – at the door of that old, crumbling factory building, that place of scampering feet which once housed the busy human boiler suits and all, fixing, building, manipulating, making. But over the door lay an impenetrable wall of metal panelling. Thrusting his closed fists against the barrier, he pleaded – ‘Help’ through broken teeth and ruined jaw. ‘Please, help me!’ he yelled once more. But there was no answer, and why should there be? For that place was long a shell which the rodents had claimed for themselves.

Creaking, slithering sounds shook out from the fervent movements of the creature as it closed in. Then that noise, that comforting lullaby purred from the beast. For the briefest of seconds Jones was transported to a childhood memory, one where he stood over the dead body of his pet hamster which had died in the night. His father took its lifeless corpse from its cage and laughed as he shook it, mimicking an unusual ventriloquist act giving the little boy’s dead pet a sickening and comical voice.

Jones cried.

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood and saliva which still spewed from his jaw and cheek. The purring, soothing sound continued from behind. Turning to view his predator, it stood there, staring at him. Jones’ breaths were laboured and nervous, the cold air rushing through the hole in the side of his face, stinging deeply with each inhalation. Their eyes met once more. The face stared, letting out a painful gasp. With an abrupt burst of powerful strides, the creature tore across the overgrown grounds, leaping incredulously high with each movement, its talons raised.

Jones let out a whimper as the mangled mess of legs and arms chased towards him. Shards of light glistened on what seemed to be a body and head, its erratic movements whisking past strands of shadows which made it impossible to truly comprehend its anatomy. It howled and yelled and screamed in what approximated rage.

A forceful breeze covered everything in an invisible cloud of movement, rattling one of the panels which covered a window at the side of the door. It had been bent back, bent back! Escape, help, run! Jones now no longer accepted his fate, but rather saw something to hold on to, hope and the promise of life God dammit. Pulling himself to his feet with the palms of his hands against the blistered once-white walls of the factory building, the spindly viscous legs of his pursuer clambered and wriggled ever closer, but humans too can be nimble – Jones leapt for the ledge which housed the bent panel standing about 6 feet from the ground. He scrambled and struggled and hauled himself up as fast as he could. But the beast was upon him. A blinding pain shot through his body as a talon sliced into the heel of his foot, cutting into meat and nicking a tendon. Retracting with force, it retrieved a bulbous piece of flesh from its prey.

Wounded but freed from its barbed incision, Jones pulled at the flapping metal panel, losing his balance and falling inside in the process, into the darkness. Howls of derision and disgust bellowed from outside as he lay sprawled in agony on the floor. The ground was covered in a thick mixture of dust and powdered concrete. He coughed and spluttered as it invaded his lungs assisted by the cold still air of the place, deep within. Beams of light broke their way through fractures in the building’s shell, enough to allow his eyes to adapt to the darkness.

The sound of the tangled monstrosity outside climbing up onto the ledge sent a shudder of fear and dejection through his body once more. In a panicked fumble, he limped badly, knocking into a desk with a clatter. If he had the time he would have thought that it was strange that such a place should retain its old furniture and belongings, but a light shone brightly from one of the street lamps outside, as the creature pulled back the panel he had used, like tin foil, poking its bodied head with gaping mouth through the gap, howling at the sight of the human hobbling in agony.

Jones moved as quickly as he could, but in the panic a thought permeated through the fury and senseless mess of the situation: He could never outrun it. A wet thud slithered through the air as a contorted mangle of legs or arms, grappled to the floor, righting itself and then turning its body upwards in a strange convulsing, gelatinous movement. With a shriek it made for its prey moving violently over the desk, which once played host to a man or woman filling in a rota or paperwork before heading home to see their family.

Through a door, Jones found himself in another room, then another, each displaying the forgotten remnants of a bygone era – a chair where someone once sat, a cabinet which held files and papers and consignments, orders for the troops, a peg where a boiler suit, or a uniform of some description once hanged. Into another room, then down a short hallway, populated by a thick layer of dust. All the while the clambering pacing movements of his recent roadkill chasing nearby.

Closer and closer still it came as Jones threaded through the maze of rooms and hallways, his injured leg dragging painfully, desperate to keep up. Slamming a door shut behind him, he pulled a large metallic table onto its side, the pitter-patter of blood dripping from his face twinkling in the light, bouncing off the metal surface like rain. Heaving it quickly across the hallway, he forced it against the door. Then another table, a collection of chairs, and finally a rusted cabinet which housed the forgotten musings of the factory’s once deliberate foreman. In the slightest of pauses he dug deep into his denim pockets and produced a mobile phone. Its screen was shattered, most probably from the fall into the building. There was no hope of fixing it and with that loss came the realisation that he was truly on his own.

The tangled mess of man made objects quivered as the scuttling, many-legged creature pushed and howled against the makeshift barricade. With each effort Jones watched in exhausted, gasping horror as the door inched its way open piece by piece, with each crash of a mangled limb.

There wasn’t much time, soon it would be there. In the dim light, he looked desperately for a mode of escape. Nearby sat a sterile staircase leading up to another floor. He did not want to risk being trapped away from the ground, away from being able to escape that thing, but there was no where else to turn. With an echoing crash the cabinet fell to the floor as the door now opened wide enough for the creature to place one of its long legs through the gap, but was it a leg? Revulsion boiled in the pit of Jones stomach as what looked like a human hand began to claw at the obstructions on the other side, pulling them away to free its path.


Fight or flight. Jones took to the stair case. In any other situation he would have been reluctant to enter the darkened stairwell, but between the unknown and that creature, only madness would choose the pursuer.

Globules of sweat and blood congealed on the side of his face as he ascended the stairs. For the first time thoughts of just giving up entered his mind, and it occurred to him that he must have looked like one of those deer on a natural history programme, when they literally give in to the shock and horror of a painful death brought about by a brutal predator.

A crash rang out and a howl of derision sounded once more, the beast had broken through Jones’ hasty construction and was quickly making its way to the staircase. Finally, he reached the top of the stairs where there lay a broken door rotting on the ground. It had at one time sat proudly as the entrance to an office, but now lay torn and mangled on the floor, the brass nameplate which at one time would have carried the handle of someone of importance, now scarred and disfigured, unrecognisable even to those who must have known or a had a covenant with the place.

With little thought, he staggered gasping for air through the empty doorway. He stood in an office. In its centre lay a large, austere desk, accompanied by a torn green leather armchair. At the back of the room lay a second broken doorway which Jones viewed gratefully as another route of escape.

Even in his frantic state of mind, he could not help but notice the papers strewn across the floor, on the desk and pinned to the walls. They spoke of construction, of design, of strange diagrams and of processes and calculations, but they were meaningless to Jones as he struggled across the room dripping sweat and blood and fear on the notes below.

He could hear the creature climbing the stairs, but at last a piece of luck. With all of its unnatural appendages, it ascended slowly, much slower than Jones himself had – the old stairwell had bought him some time. Reaching the exit he found himself standing on a grated platform looking over what must have been the main factory hall, where all of the work would have been done and where no doubt the occupant of the office would have kept an eye on the workers below, observing sternly.

Surprised again at the sheer amount of machinery which had been left there to rust and erode with time, Jones began to descend a set of metal stairs which led back down onto the factory floor. Once on the ground, perhaps he could get away from that place, find a door or window which would allow for his escape? Maybe it would not follow?

Each step down the staircase was accompanied by shooting pains which seared up his body. It became clear that he had torn a muscle or ligament in his good leg while running, but still he had to push on and get away from his pursuer. Reaching the factory floor the collection of machinery around him now towered above. All manner of drills and tables and unfamiliar tools dripped fluids onto the floor, their once chattering movements and mechanisms now silent – a technological tomb best served as a museum for the wary. Clawed arms, thrusting pistons, glass chambers and a mess of tubes and pipes surrounded him. None of it made sense, their internal workings nor their purpose clear. Just what did they make there?

That now too familiar howl screamed from the platform above. That rippled, green and grey withered female face oozed out foul liquids from its approximation of a mouth, screaming in anger as it awkwardly, step by step, hand by hand, talon by talon made its way down the stairs. Jones scrambled in fear, staggering between the countless mechanical relics. The wound in his foot made it almost impossible to continue with any success. Tired, whimpering and utterly devoid of hope, he did as best he could to duck below a strange machine with two large armed pincers, hoping to be out of sight as he climbed under its manufactured protection.

It was as if the creature knew he was hiding. The howls of anger and hatred had ceased, replaced only by the sounds of its viscous multiple footsteps echoing throughout the factory hall. Scraping, tapping, clicking. The wait was torturous, and with every breath more blood oozed out from the hole in his face and the wound in his foot, the pain was becoming increasingly unbearable. Occasionally he would glimpse the creature’s double jointed strides clambering around the factory floor, its warted skin rubbing against the dust covered ground producing the sound of sandpaper on wood which turned Jones’ stomach.

Then with no warning, the noises ceased. Silence. Minutes past, and still there was little or no sound in the old factory building. Finally a wisp of vitality returned to his being once more at the thought of the creature having left. Anger at being hunted, frustration, pain at the thought of being hideously scarred for the rest of his life took him. His heart beat rapidly as he prepared to act.

He was going to escape dammit. And when he did, when he did! He would be back with an entire troop of pest control or animal control, or whatever was required. And he’d laugh, yes he’d laugh as they fumigated the place and hunted that disgusting beast down, letting its lungs fill with poisoned air or its stomach burn with arsenic placed in its food. Then a slow horrible, painful death. One which was so clearly deserved.

But first he had to escape, and had to take the opportunity presented by his pursuer’s absence. Uncurling his feet, Jones slowly rose up from underneath the strange pincered machine. Where was it? Where had that piece of vermin gone? But those thoughts diminished: Salvation presented itself. On the nearest wall lay a window, a beautiful boarded up forgotten window. Obscured from the outside world by a board which flutter in the night breeze. It cracked its wooden body against the worn building in defiance. Yes, it was free, attached only by a few rusted nails no doubt on the top of the window frame. If he could make it there, Jones would most definitely be able to get outside and hope that the creature had slunk off to its rancid little hole somewhere in the building.

It was only about 15 feet away, but with a dragging leg behind him, that seemed like an eternal distance. But nothing ventured nothing gained, and if Jones hadn’t been missing a chunk of his cheek, he would have smiled. Looking around one last time, he decided to make his move. Each hobbled step and dragged foot cut through the silence and he was sure that at any moment the beast would leap out at him. But the factory hall remained quiet. The machinery did not stir, nor did their watcher.

With a rush of excitement he finally reached the boarded window. Pushing at the panel it lifted quite easily and in fact gave the impression that it was ready to fall to the ground outside should a strong enough wind catch it. He sucked the cool night air into his lungs, staring out at the empty street ahead, and for the shortest of moments felt hope to be gone from that place.

Then a noise sounded. That sweet, calming purring which had brought back memories of home and of bad times and good. Turning cautiously to his side, a shaft of light streamed in from the street outside and illuminated what looked like a vice or pressing machine on the other side of the hall. There the beast cooed and purred softly, with motherly devotion. A mass of slithering and garbled sounds whispered from the darkness, quivering and huddling together; countless infantile versions of the creature from under the old girl.

It occurred to Jones that all along the beast was perhaps caring for its young, protecting them from the clanking and screeching of his own mechanical beast. Perhaps it could be loved and love in return. And for that moment, he felt no anger towards it; not hatred, not rage, just understanding.

Slipping out quietly between the panel and once-white paint of the factory building, Jones slowly but surely began to limp towards the old girl. He knew he’d probably have to struggle to the nearest pocket of civilisation to get help, but if there was any way that the old girl could still get him even one little piece closer to a hospital then he’d be grateful.

A thunderous bang sounded as the creature, that loving, caring, cooing mother or father, burst through the window panelled shell of the old factory building. Jones had no time to turn let alone react as the beast thrust one of its legged talons deep into the back joint of his right leg – the good leg. With one swift motion, Jones yelled and crumpled to the ground as the beast hooked his kneecap from inside and ripped it clean out through the back of his leg. Its arms and appendages battered away, piercing up and down its prey’s body like a typewriter, before moving off.

Jones lay there, the life bleeding out from him, watching in anguish as the creature scuttled over to the old girl still parked faithfully out front. As the street lamps flickered above, the dim light of Jones’ life slowly faded to a single point, soon to be extinguished. The last glimpse of the world for him, a mass of armed and legged things tearing apart the old girl piece by piece; taking the metal, frames, seats and wheels into darkened doorways nearby. The sound of clanking and manipulating and twisting rang out into the night, along with a final thought: I wonder what they make in there? A razored talon hovered above.

Jones body was discovered three months later by a group of kids who had decided to explore the area for fun, but also with a healthy hope of finding some scrap they could sell. His body had been consumed twice, once by the rats and then again by the earth, obscured as his remains were by weeds and roots and soil converting him into an empty shell, a forgotten grave not unlike the factory gates resting beside him.

His death remained unexplained due to the hideous condition of his body, but one thing was clear, his head was missing. This caused many arguments between two medical experts. One claimed that the head had been eaten by rats much like the rest of his body, but the other noted a clean strike to a neck bone, almost as if his head had been surgically removed.

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44 thoughts on “Roadkill”

  1. Millennium Falcon

    Maybe it’s me but somehow that creature reminded me of the Alien from the movies of the same name… But on an earthly setting and helping to exert some revenge on Jones, on behalf of the poor animals he ran over…

    This is a creepy story but it’s a bit too long-winded – took me several hours spanning two days to read the whole thing through (and way too many “old girl” stuff)! XD


  2. ~shudders~ Bleck! That creature gave me the heebie jeebies! I was originally sitting all relaxed in the dark reading some more of Mike’s work, but as the story continued, I drew my feet in, and started bouncing my leg nervously. Amazing work!

  3. Another amazing story by Michael whitehouse! But… I do have to.say there were several grammatical errors and spelling issues. And not enough description on the monster… Too much description on the buildings and car.. But other than that amazing lol huge Michael whitehouse fan here I’ve read almost all the works you have on creepy pasta and I love how you take the time to respond to some of your fans. You’re an amazing writer and I agree with some of the other fans I’m totally waiting for a book!

  4. Marry me! ? Becoming a real fangirl lol. Loved it, good amount of gore and creepiness. I’m a big fan ?

  5. Awesome pasta, it kept me nervous until the bitter end and I wasn’t expecting the ending. What was up with the factory by the way? It felt like there were hints it had something awful happen, maybe involving the creature? 8/10

  6. I joined just to comment. i think this was wonderful. I honestly didn’t even notice the length until others kept bringing it up.

  7. Way way way too long. Found myself skipping parts and didn’t even finish the story. The fact that I read old girl about 20 times in 2 minutes was the tipping point.

  8. Ok I appreciate long pastas when every little detail and description is worth reading and contributes to its creepyness. But this one totally felt like it was dragging on! I admit actually had to skim and skip through a couple of paragraphs because I was quickly losing my interest… It started off great but damn….

  9. The bit about the father making the dead hamster pretend to speak was by far the most disturbing thing I’ve ever read in any creepypasta, ever. It’s actually the most disturbing mental image I’ve had in quite some time (which is odd, because I do read a lot of scary and disturbing things, but this seemed to be on a different level). I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. Wow. Impressive.

  10. what a piece of crap (not your story, the main character) for going out of his way to kill small animals. definitely got what he deserved the big jerk.

    descriptive and well done, I like how you described the emotions of the creature and almost made it seem as if his car were alive

  11. I just… Wow…
    Just wow…
    I was proper scared! There were times I just couldn’t read on. The tapping under the car and him listening to it made me so so so creeped out, I couldn’t read on; too scared for the monster’s description (and what a description indeed).

    Top notch work, seriously!

  12. I think this story is perfect. Readers are getting darn lazy, lengthy stories can be the absolute best stories you can read. As always Mr. Whitehouse you drew me into the story and didn’t let go of me. Wonderful work as always.

    I have no gripes with you at all and every negative review I’ve seen focuses on the length which readers don’t appreciate on a site like this. Most readers expect short, cheap thrills and scares. I enjoy monsters like this. Driving freaks me out enough, I really did not need to worry about this as well.

    The monster was viciously vague and that was perfect. You have the incredible talent of writing a story and creating a monster with incredible details while leaving just enough up to your readers.

    As always, my fear is forever in your debt. Keep it up.

  13. Possibly one of the most detailed pastas I’ve read in a few months. Most people might say that the entire first half was a waste of time, but getting me familiar with Jones was extremely necessary. The second half was just as detailed, and every time the beast struck Jones, I could picture it in my head; the most gruesome being his kneecap being removed from the back of his leg. All in all, I enjoyed it thoroughly. 10/10. A few spelling errors, but easily forgivable.

  14. Not bad… I’d give it a 9/10 on the creepiness factor because I literally grabbed my knee at the part where his knee cap was torn out. I also said to myself: Dang, that must of hurt. I think there was one grammar miss happening but it was a good pasta.

  15. Yeah I mean, I’m not sure if I’m just stupid, but this was really hard to follow. It was a bit over descriptive to the point that I can’t even tell what the monster looks like? Or where exactly it was hiding when it was on/in/under the car?

  16. I think the monster was described very well, you just have to pay attention to the words and envision the creature as it’s being described to you. It’s harder for some people to do this, so don’t blame the author! He did a good job with that. I do agree however that the repetition is unnecessary, it just pointlessly makes the story longer.

  17. @Geoff, I believe there was a piece in there about the protagonist’s father playing with his dead hamster’s body. Sounds pretty macabre, possibly traumatic, and ultimately a hint of backstory – reason – as to why Jones thinks of animals the way he does.

    As I said, I BELIEVE that was somewhere in this story. I glimpsed it as it passed by, lost in the multitude of lines describing the factory, the sounds under the car, and the manly love for Old Faithful.

    In all honesty, the story was by far the most chilling I’ve read in a while, and I’m glad that I had the foresight to turn on my lamp before beginning this session of Creepy Pasta readings, but I have to say that the middle of this pasta trudged on to the point that I started skimming, and that is something that I rarely do as I feel it ruins the feel of any work, pasta or otherwise. The whole process of building up the story was perfectly fine until after Jones had hit the creature. At that point, it was unnecessary (although not entirely unenjoyable) to force several more paragraphs of development.

    The creature itself was haunting, to say the least. Your description was not so vague that I had to completely conjure it on my own but not quite so concrete that the power of the reader’s imagination was lost. As for Jones, it would be nice to have seen more of the person himself, perhaps in place of (or at least nested within) the long section of text between hitting the creature and finding it.

    Tl;dr – Sometimes it’s better to keep it short and sweet, much like the atrocious post I just made. Even my tl;dr is getting lengthy. God, I need to sleep.

  18. The protagonist of this story seems like kind of an asshole. He runs over small animals on the road for the fuck of it, and breaks up with his girlfriend in favor of his slowly decaying. I thought there was going to be some kind of character development with him, but no.

  19. Rutabaga_machine

    This was amazing, and it might have been to long, but it was worth it. If Micheal Whitehouse does write a book, I would be one of the first to buy it. 10/10

  20. What you guys need to remember is that this story is basically identical to two other Whitehouse tales, with the trimmings changed up here or there.

    They all follow the same formula.

    -Meet Henry/Jones/Rick.
    -Henry/Jones/Rick lives your average life as a haggis eating, sheep tossing Scottish gent.
    -Henry/Jones/Rick are soon hunted by a horrible monster!
    -The horrible monster chases our hero, more likely than not using his Whiskey pickled brains against him, especially in the case of Rick .
    -Hey look, Henry/Jones/Rick has found an escape! It looks like he’ll survive this to the end…
    -Just kidding! Monster brutally kills our unfortunate Scotsman even though it looked like it had given up.

    1. Hi ILikePeas,

      That’s a great observation. One which I’m very aware of. Some of my stories do tread the same ground, but then a monster hunting a man is a horror trope which I’m sure I’ll return to yet again.

      What I would say is that while there are similarities, I consider all three stories quite different. To me, they have a different taste and explore different ideas. My intentions as I wrote those stories were: Pass It On was about the paralysing effects of routine, that you are never truly in control of your destiny, and the frightening idea (at least in my opinion) of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Off the Beaten Path was a loving tribute to one of my favourite writers M.R. James, and my love/fearful relationship with the Scottish wilderness and my country’s fragmented, and in some places, missing history. Lastly, Roadkill for me ended up being about technology, progress, and the decimation of working communities. How we end up leaving our accomplishments behind without having the true skills to fix our creations when things go wrong.

      There are parallels between the stories, but they are essentially horror tropes. I wrote an article about Monsters and how I was growing tired of writing about them a little while ago, but I have a real problem with that: I see monsters everywhere ;)

      Thanks for reading!

      ~ Mike

  21. The only problem I can really see with this story is its ten pounds of story crammed into a five pound bag. A lot of sentences and even entire paragraphs are completely unnecessary. As soon as he hits the unidentified creature but cant see its carcass, we all know the game is afoot. It shouldn’t take like two thousand more words before the car breaks down and the creature is encountered. By letting us obviously know that the creature is below the vehicle, but taking so long to get to it, its almost like a slap in the face to the reader. You’re basically making us read all the nonsense you’ve written before getting to the meat of the story. Because of that, I gave it 7/10. Also, I agree with Katherine C that you are held to a higher standard than other stories. It is for this reason that I gave you a 7 and not a 9. Still very well done and your writing ability is beyond reproach. Even with its flaw this is Better than 90-95% of the stories on this site. Look forward to more. Good day good sir

  22. I’m sorry but this is way too long. The descriptions were unnecessary and the author kept repeating himself too many times. For now, I’m leaving it halfway read. I may come back and finish it later

  23. Also I did feel a bit confused with how you were describing the monster. Other than the face it’s very hard to visualize. I kind of just imagine some jumbled blob with tons of noodley appendages

  24. I liked this story a lot and often felt “on the edge of my seat” for lack of better words. I found myself not wanting to read what comes next, dreading what was going to happen. I don’t feel this way often. I don’t think the story was to long, I was entranced the whole time. But I must say? What’s up with spelling tires tyres? And realization realisation. Just such odd typos

    1. Those are not typos. I believe Mr. Whitehouse is Scottish. Using an “s” instead of a “z” and spelling tires with a “y” (as well as the using the word torch for flashlight) is proper BRITISH English.

  25. This was a good Pasta. Very lengthy but nevertheless good. Also was very descriptive, sometimes in places in which such vivid descriptions weren’t necessarily needed. Also, you didn’t address what happened with the car, and the scratch marks and such. That was kind of aggravating after you described the state of the car so well.

  26. Having grown up with writers whose prose was plodding and prosaic, this didn’t feel too long. I found that the descriptions of what was going on built on the tension and made me eager to get back to the action. As a reader, I know that there is something under the car, even if Jones doesn’t, and the buildup, and letdown, and the subsequent buildup was quite refreshing, rather than just having the creature shoved in the reader’s face. The creature itself was original (so far as I know), which added considerably to the freshness of the work.
    I enjoyed this. The style is different from most of the other stories on this site, which is why some readers may find fault with it.

  27. Compared to most stories, this is excellent. But, Mr. Whitehouse, you have made such a reputation for yourself that you are held to a higher standard. Even considering this, it is a darn good story, just maybe not as dazzling as some of your others. I agree with Nani to a degree; there were a lot of repetitive descriptions of the buildings, the truck, and the creature. They became a bit tiresome, especially because there was nothing new being added. I did like the ambiguity of the creature’s form, and I feel you did an excellent job balancing the need for some description and the desire to keep it beyond the realm of human comprehension. But keeping it so shrouded in mystery meant that the descriptions were consistently vague, which makes them feel more burdensome, to me at least. I also found that this story too clearly telegraphed what was going to happen. From the first paragraph, I knew that an animal he tried to kill would instead end up hunting him. The references to the motherliness of the monster made me suspect there would be smaller ones lying in wait, and the complete sense of isolation created early on made it clear Jones was not coming out on top in this fight. It was interesting and kept my attention, but was not necessarily compelling. The plot was pretty clearly laid out, and it was just a matter of how you were going to move Jones from point a to b to dead. That said, it is excellently written, and I think I would read just about anything you write based on how well you construct scenes and sentences. The monster’s ability to conjure memories was unique, and I liked that a lot. I would love to see more of that, because it was an interesting psychic ability that lures prey into a sense of security/nostalgic distraction. Even if the memories weren’t pleasant, they were conveyed as traps used to distract. The initial set up seemed to drag a bit for me, taking a rather long way around to get to the meat of the story, but it served the purpose well of turning Jones into a realistic character (rather than a caricature of an animal-killing lowlife). He is a very engaging character, though not one I like or would want to know better, and I think that makes the whole story flow really convincingly. He thinks and acts logically, which is refreshing. You always do a great job of creating characters who act like they live in the real world, not a horror movie. His rationalizations and hope were interesting, and helped to pull me even more into the story. Overall, it was a really enjoyable story. The predictability of it is what really left it falling flat to me, since it felt too much “on rails.” There was nothing left to surprise me by the end, and I missed that. But, these are all minor quibbles on what is for the most part an excellently constructed and conveyed story. My terror of accidentally hitting some small critter while driving has inevitably tripled after reading this. Thanks for that, and happy writing!

  28. This was an awesome read! Repetitious….a little. Lengthy….yes. But do those things matter when the story is damn good???? No!! So enough complaining people….best pasta in a long time!

  29. Michael Whitehouse strikes again! Another super story. However, I felt that this one is a tad bit too lengthy and descriptive, thus making it tough to read and follow at times. Sometimes, less is more, but this is a pretty darn good pasta nonetheless.

  30. Good story, but I think more emphasis should be placed on describing the creature, the descriptions of the surroundings/settings were definitely very well written. But when it came down to visualizing whatever that had killed the main character, it just left a fuzzy image.

  31. I found this super difficult to read. So much repetition, unnecessary descriptions, and just beating around the bush. I know we think descriptions and descriptions make the story amazing, but it is overkill. You do not have to state that the buildings were lifeless and old 20 times, and call his car “old girl” 30 times. However, was a good idea. Sorry for being harsh.

    1. I had exactly the same thoughts while reading. The story got me bored pretty fast because of all the descriptions, all the associations, thoughts, ideas, memories, comparisons and other related details that add no creepyness or horror. Those things can make an enormous contribution to character development or make a good background of characters, but too much of that only slows down the pace. What I have seen authors of books do in these situations is shock the reader with a surprising event crushing into a character’s flow of thought. For a story with such a predictable ending (it is very obvious in almost all stories that a guy who kills for fun would end up bad, especially when such character does not give reason for even a modicum of empathy) the events were unveiling too slow. Still, I love the style and recognized the author pretty fast. I bet many others did too. I also wonder how many points the creature scored for the kill.

  32. Dammit Micheal whitehouse, you have done it AGAIN!!! I never read who the author is until the end. Reading this story,I got the feeling I was reading another one of White house’s masterpieces. This is the best pasta I have ever read. My heart was pounding the whole,time. this monster is perhaps the scariest ive read on this site. Would LOVE for more stories about this creature, and what happened to the factory .. you can definatly expand this to a series. Kudos micheal whitehouse. I’ve said it before,I’ll say it again, I’m waiting for a book. you have a special way of telling a horror story,better then any ive ever read. Yes,iI am a whitehouse groupie!!!!!

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