I’ve talked about my werewolf novella before. I even read a small snippet at Alt Fiction’s open mic in 2012. Since then, I’ve put the novella to one side to concentrate on other things, so the story has not progress further beyond first draft.
But never fear . . . soon this novella will be polished up and made available to enjoy through Little Vamp Press. Until then, enjoy this, the snippet from my 2012 reading at Alt Fiction (now known as Edge Lit)
Scott woke slowly, rubbing his eyes against the grit there which felt like rough sand. He rolled over, groaning as his body resisted even that simple motion, tumbling to the ground with a thump.
Soft sheets slithered down after him, heavy folds of Egyptian cotton shielding his face from the bright light in the open windows.
He helped his eyes open with his fingertips, peeling back eyelids that were welded shut with something thick and dry. Something that crumbled beneath his touch and held a faint metallic smell.
With his eyes finally open, Scott frowned at the patches of some rusty-red substance staining the sheets. He tugged them off his head, drawing them through his fingers to better feel the stains that were still damp in places. Places that almost shone with a brighter, deeper red.
Stinging bright sunlight flooded his eyes, forcing Scott to fling his arm across his face. As he did, he saw more of the red substance on his forearm, clotting in the hairs of his arms in thick, jellied clumps.
It took only a second to recognise it as blood.
Scott leapt his feet with a cry, his muddled head abruptly clear. “Marie?!”
The empty room answered with mocking silence.
He gazed at his naked body, liberally splashed with more of the crimson fluid. He gagged, stumbling backwards only to cringe when his leading foot met a damp patch of carpet.
A wordless cry slipped from his mouth.
He turned, straight into the bed, which could have been the location of an incredible massacre.
Blood soaked the sheets and pillows, dripping off one corner to form a large puddle on the cream coloured carpet.
The wall bore several crimson handprints, most large and smudged. Amongst them were a few daintier prints with narrow palms and long, slim fingers.
Bile raced up from Scott’s stomach, filling his mouth with the bitter fluid and something else he had no name for.
Scott lurched towards the bathroom, forcing his aching body through the doors and down to the toilet just in time. He retched and filled the bowl with something red, brown and lumpy, like chunks of barely digested meat.
The horrendous smell made him heave; squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head over the bowl. Loud splashes were all that remained to tell him he had met his mark.
Long moments later, Scott lifted his head.
The sickness passed, chased by a wave of dizziness that sent him reeling sideways. He crashed into the sink, cracking his head against the porcelain edge, making stars dance before his eyes.
With a last groan, Scott succumbed once more to unconsciousness, sprawled naked on the bathroom floor.