Trancendence

A small clambering noises sounds in your ear, you struggle for a moment before giving up as a bright light shines down in the middle of the table, a half skinned animal lays to the side, not describable, covered in blood, but it has that fresh pink tint to it, it makes your stomach drop.

“Withered souls, albeit quite faint, still lay in the bodies they chastise. Everyone, since the ghost stories that our ancestors have spoken long ago has universally asked one question to anyone who would spare an ear,”

Someone sits down in front of you, goggles on top of their head, faintly glowing under the light of the crooked old bulb shining down in front of you, they have a large parka hanging off their waist on- although they barely seem to be shivering at the slight gusts of air that enter the chamber you’re in. They put a bored hand on the table and rest their head on the other, their voice is brash with a hint of somewhat bleakness that doesn't exactly strike fear into you. But also lingers in your ears for a bit longer than it should.

“What happens when we die?”

________

Do we simply- weather away, our souls and beings simply reduced to ash and grave soil. Mixing with the earth to join our hypothesized heaven?

Or do we live? Only not us, but in a different form, shape, place.

Most things can't be proven by science, it's more up to the individual to believe such lies, not only would it be blasphemy to most religions around the world, it would make you a fool.

I am that fool.

A fool that not only simply avoided death, but became death itself. Zombie would not be the appropriate word, I still have a somewhat conscious mind. No, I do not eat brains either. Simply folklore, you choose to believe such trickery and it engulfs your mind.

As my father once said, when someone gives you information, you are meant to stick with that for life. Although, coming from a strict Christan family didn't change me.

I believe in the paranormal, thats how I exist. Unfinished business? Somewhat. Thats what most people think ghosts stay on earth for, why not relax in the spirit realm? Well, simply...I am not made for that life, die young and fight hard I suppose.

Existing is but a fragment of mind and innerbody, ever thought about what it would be like if nobody believed in a god? Nobody would get along. That's just human nature, you rely on others who get you, and distance yourself from others who don't, or have different ideologies.

But who cares about fitting in, humans are like a puzzle piece that shows a clear picture on the box, but the pieces never align in action. Your parents set you up for manufacturing, but there's always something missing. A spark, perhaps. Mine happened to be ghouls and ghosts, trickery of the ages. Scary stuff, y’kno?

You might be wondering who I am, but does that really matter? Probably not. Theres millions of spirits around you, you just never know where to look. Hey, dont look away. You cant see them, besides, most of them are jackasses anyways. Most people who stay on earth are actually either: extremely nice and polite, or really quite vengeful. Mostly the second one.

________

“Alaskan environment is bleak, to say the least. Cold, shakes you to the core. I didn't think I’d find anyone else out here, but..you.”

Eyes dead as stone, the almost robotic stature haunts you as its eyes barely blink, but very faint humming of presumably a generator turning back on. Fear isnt exactly immintating from your eyes, but it can tell you are somewhat afraid of its stature.

“I do not hurt humans, rather hurt animals. Not to say you aren't one, coming into the cold harsh snow to do god knows what,”

He really seemed to like hand gestures, his fingers seemed to curl endlessly as he profusely gestured at you with little to no effectiveness in his actions. It did not show his point further, the assurance only gave you the fact that he did kill something, which was already presumed when seen the corpse.

You try to speak, but little comes from your mouth.

“No need to speak, you seem cold. Would you like anything?”

Before you can reply, you simply conk out.

________


Through the unconscious rivalry of staying afloat in the mental department, you can feel the tips of your hands and feet slowly beginning to weld to something..something very. Very cold, although its not like you haven't experienced such harsh weather, feeling it in your unconscious state makes you feel a bit more petrified of the tingly feeling.

“Doing...Illegal business isnt really my thing man, but sure, if you plan to give me a good amount of supplies, I’ll consider.”

You can hear the soft clap of gentle hooves within the shed, the roof creaks from heavy loads of snow as your captor talks to someone.

Instead of offering for the deal, the man digs in his pocket and wields a police badge, not a fleck of snow on it. At this, the man decides to induce a fight, its not that he wanted you for anything, he just happens to be a hoarder. A huge one, at that. You can tell when you open your eyes to see a lot more things on the wall than you saw before, large plaques and pieces of wood pile everywhere.

Despite this estranged hobby, he is nowhere from poor in deciding what to keep. He seems to search for designated objects to use, but rarely picks stuff he doesn't want. You can tell by how polished the wood is, and how clean the shed is itself.

Before you can actually catch a glimpse of the fighting (Not that you wanted to…) the man has already sunk his teeth into the officer, it mimicked the bite of a zombie, aswell. Although not in belief of such things, you decided it was best to just believe it for now.

Gagging, the officer thrashes around like a person attached to an alligator, alas, that only proves futile as it opens the wound more profusely and blood filters out like a simple stream of water down a crook, eyes strewn out like he’d just been told that he was going to die- and he did. His body flung to the floor when the man finally released him from his (exceedingly long) bite, he didnt have fangs- rather long rock shaped teeth like a shark. These were not harmful unless pressured onto skin, and the man knew exactly what to do with them.

To kill.


________


The Alaskan Killer.

Some state they know him personally, others say they’ve outsmarted him in his own territory. To be entirely truthful, nobody has ever made it out alive in one piece. Those who do live, are either children or equipped with a high ammunition gun. It's said that only a large high blast firearm can take him down for a bit, but if he were to tell someone the fundamental thing that can take him done with one strike he’d be dead by now.

Heat.

And again, to be entirely truthful, only one person knows this. But that time is long gone, it has been at least 9 years. 9 years of lonely hours, the cold biting at his past tense skin. But he doesn't mind, he has never minded.  

They most likely do not remember him.

It is not like he can forget, he can never forget. Photographic memory does him no good, and shuns him to infinity with everyone he sinks his bloodstained teeth into.

________


Hunters of Alaska are nothing to be messed with, taking into account the fact that they’ve mastered their land and learned everything there is to be learned; leaving life here and meeting cityfolk is practically impossible.

Although he recently found that taking your child to Alaska for summer break upstream is not the best thing. It is also not the best thing to leave your child in a pair of khakis and a puffy jacket and assume they will live.

Because they won't.

People tolerate pain differently, and accept it challengingly. Not him, though. Pain of never any concern, city life is plain and boring. A few accidents here and there. Progressively worse black and blue bruises however do not fit into that category. And CPS had a great deal to say about that.

He was really never a good liar.

So being shot in the head while being perceived as a bear then revived was something he couldn't lie about.

The sense of combined dread felt lucid, imagine the worst pain you’ve had and multiply that. Although that hurt very severely, he no longer must worry about injuries.

_____

Pop.

“You can't shoot your beebee gun at animals, Ral.”

The boy lifted his head and held the play pistol close to his chest, looking up at the taller of the latter.

“Are you aware hunting here is illegal?”

He rammed the but of the shotgun into the guys face, knocking him off balance and making him stumble as a reaction, holding the chamber up to his face with an uneven click,

“You’ve cheated death, you lucky bastard!” 

His tail flicked in distaste, aggressively smashing the jaw of the man with the but of the shotgun over and over again, eyes flicking over injury with little in mind.

“I have, yes. But you wont.”

He clicked the trigger and blew the guy back a few feet, standing steady on the recoil.

“I want to be just like you papa!”

The child chanted and spun around his father before being stopped by his arm, he set a giant army cap on his head.

He walked over to the corpse, stepping on its stomach like it was nothing but flooring, 

“You aren’t getting another chance, one too many motherfucker.”

He guns his head in with an aggressive click on the trigger, spitting on the limp body and walking away like nothing happened.

________

Its cold. He cant remember when he was last this cold, hes never been so cold in his life. Its a different type of cold, cold to emotion and cold to the bare feeling of snow pinching his skin abruptly with every sweep of wind carried his way.

He. Is. So. Cold.

His fingers feel like ice, so, so cold.

Cold didn't sound like a word any longer.

Only something to describe the boy that was scream crying outside of his home, tears drying and freezing before they could even run past his tanned cheeks. Only cold could explain the numb feeling of existential dread washing over him.

Have you ever tried to protect someone and failed?

Well? Have you?

________