Stranger (standard:horror, 3445 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Nov 05 2016	Views/Reads: 2424/1415	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Don't go alone to a party, you might meet a stranger.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

rain came down. 

Then, in the mirror, she saw what she didn't want to see, headlights,
flashing, with the car horn resounding through the trees. "Go away", 
she said aloud, "Fuck off!". 

Her mother had always been a stickler for not swearing, and had ensured
her daughter never uttered anything even remotely rude, but behind her 
back, amongst friends, amongst influences, she sometimes stretched to 
the odd cavalier word, but Colin had made her swear, perhaps fuelled by 
fear. 

He's trying to collar me in the woods where nobody can see him, she
thought. 

He almost caught up to her, their bumpers a metre apart, Colin hammering
on the horn. 

The windscreen wipers did their best to clear the view, but they had to
work hard, and she rounded another bend and stepped on the accelerator. 
It was a gamble, she was going way too fast along this type of road. 
Should a vehicle emerge in front, then there was a high chance of a 
collision, but she didn't want to be dragged into the woods by a 
desperate weirdo, one whose headlights appeared further back in the 
distance, who still blared his horn, no doubt annoying the animals 
within the woods trying to sleep, and probably annoying the nocturnal 
creatures as well. 

Another bend emerged in the headlights and she didn't brake as she
swerved, the back wheels skidding, the left side door coming 
dangerously close to a tree, but she regained control and drove even 
faster, the pathway bumpy and unforgiving, growing more and more sodden 
as the rain decided to grow stronger, the wipers trying, but failing to 
give a clear view. Another bend emerged, and Kathy braked, the back 
wheels skidding slightly, but then another curve made her brake even 
more and her speed dropped significantly. 

Then he was upon her. He emerged as if from nowhere. Bright headlights
from behind filled her vehicle and reflected from the rear-view mirror 
making her squint, yet she could make out Colin gesturing for her to 
stop. 

"Fuck-off!", she yelled, and again, floored the accelerator, both cars
heading deeper and deeper into the woods. 

She managed  to put some distance between them, but could still hear his
car horn, and see his headlights about forty metres back. She rounded 
another curve, adrenaline flowing through her system, the fear of a 
dangerous drive and of being caught by Colin who had fuck-knows-what on 
his mind. 

The path grew narrower, and Colin seemed to gain on her, his headlights
flickering. The wheels splashed through puddles and spattered the 
vehicles with mud, streaked by the wipers on the windscreen washed off 
again by the rain. 

Why can't they have just made a straight path through the woods?  she
thought. Why does it have to twist and turn? and why is it so fucking 
narrow? 

She rounded a curve, then another and should a vehicle appear in front
then one of them was swerving and crashing into the woods. Then he was 
on her again. Colin appeared metres behind, and she saw him in the 
mirror making wild gestures. 

I'm not gonna be a victim Colin, she thought, in fact I might even call
the police. She rounded another corner without braking, but Colin 
braked, and she lost him for a few moments, flooring the accelerator 
again. The path widened slightly, but two vehicles would still struggle 
to pass each other. 

The path sloped downwards and curved to the right, then levelled out
again, and she could hear Colin still beeping his horn somewhere 
behind. Another bend to the left made the car swerve, its back tyres 
skidding towards the verge, dangerously close to the trees, but her 
white knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel and regained control, 
the path ahead straight. 

Again, in her rear-view mirror, headlights appeared, but they were
gaining. Colin's car was metres behind. 

Six metres. 

Four metres. 

One metre. 

He drove up alongside her, both cars going much too fast for this
pathway. She glanced across at him and saw he was wildly gesturing. 
Looking back ahead the headlights picked out the pathway curving 
slightly, and a tree heading rapidly close in front of the car. She 
slammed on the brakes, the tyres screeching on the muddied tracks, the 
headlights illuminating the offending tree which caused her to stop, 
the light blending into the the deep darkness of the woods, the rain 
still hammering down. 

Colin had also braked, his car alongside at about three metres away, his
tyres sunken down into the verge. Kathy angrily wound down the window. 
"What?" she yelled "What do you want?" Colin was pointing to the rear 
of her vehicle. He was saying something but she couldn't hear him or 
make out what he was saying. 

He opened the door and stepped out, rain soaking him. 

Again he pointed to the rear of her vehicle. "There's a man in the back"
he shouted. She heard him then, and looked in the rear-view mirror. 

He was right. 

There was a man on the back-seat, staring at her in the mirror. Suddenly
her hair was gripped and a cold blade pressed against her throat. She 
screamed but the blade was pressed hard and stifled the sound. Her 
terrified eyes looked across to Colin who was standing around not 
knowing what to do, scared to interfere. 

The man gripped her hair tighter and pressed the blade harder. His face
came inches from hers and she looked at him, and that was when she did 
scream. The knife could not stifle it because although the man looked 
at her with his green eyes, eyes were all he had. He had no face. 

No face from below the eyes. Just a gaping red maw, or cavern, where the
nose, mouth, jaw and tongue should be.  Some of his spinal bone could 
be seen but it was mostly red glistening tendons and veins, blood 
trickling from what looked to be freshly made cuts within the ragged 
maw. 

A low gutteral sound came from somewhere in the throat which turned into
a hissing sound. 

Then suddenly he let go and sat back in the seat. Kathy immediately
vacated the car and ran to Colin and hugged him. Colin didn't know what 
to do, looking around, confused, fear coursing through him, and rain 
soaking them. 

They heard the sound of a car door being opened and both looked to see
the rear door of Kathy's car swing back. Then he appeared. 

He slowly climbed out and stood up, staring at them, knife in hand. He
was naked, and had cuts and scars all over his body. Some of them were 
fresh and oozing blood. There were no genitals, just a gaping ragged 
hole. 

The rain soaked him, streaking the blood down his skin, matting his thin
hair. He just stared at them, more gutteral sounds coming from what was 
effectively the stump of a neck, blood spilling down his chest. 

Colin screamed. 

Then the man pointed the knife at the both of them, and Kathy gripped
Colin tighter. Then he turned and ran into the woods, swallowed by the 
trees. Swallowed by the darkness. 

They stood there for a few moments, frozen to the spot. Colin was
trembling, and Kathy knew he was in no fit state to drive. "Come on," 
she said, and led him across to her car. 

They were soon sat in the vehicle, but Colin was mute, and in shock,
trembling, staring ahead at nothing. Kathy had to muster all her 
composure and knew they had to get out of there, to get to 
civilisation, or at least some semblance of it. In the village there 
was a 24hour medical practice. There was no hospital. She knew that was 
their first port of call before the police. 

She drove back onto the pathway, and floored the accelerator. Other eyes
watched the car drive away, watched the headlights cutting through the 
leaves, turning around bends until one of those bends took it out of 
sight, and darkness returned, but it did not matter, because the owner 
of those eyes knew exactly where it was, knew exactly how to get back 
to one of its tents in the woods where it now headed, slowly walking 
through bushes, wet leaves trailing over his wet skin, manouvering 
through the woods until he was crawling into the tent, and laying down 
on a stained, matted sleeping bag. 

He lay the knife down and looked up at the roof of the tent, his eyes
indicating that if it could, it would have been smiling. 

He only ever used the knife on himself. He liked to cut the inside of
the facial area to get blood flowing. He had cut off his genitals to 
create a ragged, fleshy hole where urine would trickle out down his 
thighs. Sometimes he would slice down there to get blood oozing out to 
create a more visceral effect. 

Old Farmer George as he used to be known, and to some people, still was,
lived in the woods. He knew them inside and out, because they had been 
his home for eight years. 

He had been a farmer for most of his life, taking over from his foster
parents and knowing nothing else. Farming was in his blood, and he was 
successful for 46 years, never marrying or having any children. He had 
lived two miles from the woods near a river, and was a respected member 
of the community. 

Until the storm came. 

The river had bursts its banks, flooding the area and swamping his farm,
killing every animal, rendering him homeless, out of work, destitute. 

Depression hit him like never before, and as he been staying at his
other farmer friends while he figured out what he was going to do, he 
had said it might be therapetic for him to just help out like one of 
the farmhands, so thought that killing some of the cows for meat and 
dairy might help if only slightly. The thing was though, his farmer 
friends never always stuck to the tried and tested methods, and would 
kill his cattle with a .44 desert eagle handgun to the back of the 
head. So George took the gun, shot a few cows, and looked at the 
handgun, and knew there and then exactly was he was going to do. 

So without hesitation, and without saying goodbye to anyone, he left the
farm, and headed deep into the woods. 

He had knelt down, took the gun in both hands and placed the barrel
beneath his jaw. The thing was though, he arched his head back slightly 
too far, and when he pulled the trigger, the bullet tore through his 
face and exited at the bridge of his nose, missing the brain. He was 
knocked unconcious and collapsed back, waking hours later with a 
garbled, agonising bloody scream. 

After the realisation of his faceless ragged maw, he had scrambled
around and found the gun again, but although he could have put another 
bullet in his head, he had hesitated and leaned against a tree where he 
had rested and slept for hours on end. When he woke, it was a cloudless 
sunny day, dappled sunlight falling over him. 

He still had the gun, and stayed there another few hours. 

He had changed his mind, and threw the gun to the side. 

He had got on all fours and crawled into the woods. 

Eight years had passed since then, and there were only three people who
knew about him. Two of them were the local constabulary who would leave 
food and various items he may need for him to collect. He had dispensed 
with all clothes for all weathers. 

Mrs Bennett from the local parish church would sometimes come and talk
to him. Of course he couldn't reply but he acknowledged her the best 
way he could. George would never have hurt anyone, but he did rather 
have a penchant for mock violence and aggression. 

He loved to scare people. 

He had obtained a fishing fillet knife from the police who knew what he
did and did nothing about it. 

George just lived in the woods and did whatever he wanted, and scaring
people was his passion. Using the blade before a scare he would cut 
himself in various places to have the sight of blood enhancing his 
grotesque appearance, frightening the victim even more, especially when 
up close and personal. 

When campers came to the woods he would sometimes sneak into one of the
tents when he knew they were all asleep and position his face inches in 
front of theirs, and flick on a torch which they always had. His 
gutteral breathing would rouse the victim awake who would open their 
eyes to see the raw visage which sometimes dripped blood onto their 
faces when he had sliced the inside. The second they screamed he would 
make his escape, because by the time anyone had been woken up by the 
noise and had come out to investigate, he had long gone. 

Sometimes children from the village school would visit the home and its
gardens, but when the bus wound through the woods, George would appear 
and run behind it until the children noticed him where they would point 
and scream. He only did that one a select few times. He didn't want a 
lynch-mob of parents tracking him down. 

Then, when the police had been informed in the village, Officer
Sanderson would always make a show of writing notes and saying he would 
investigate, and sometimes would be co-erced into going into the woods 
to look for the creature, but would always say he would look into it. 
Exactly what he would say to Kate and Colin when they turned up where 
Colin would decry he was not going back into those woods to get his 
car, and Sanderson would walk up there, 'looking' for George along the 
way, and retrieve the vehicle. 

Mrs Bennett had been driving to the estate when George emerged from the
woods and threw a rock in her side window, then ran at the car. Usually 
when he did that the people would be terrified and would sometimes 
crash their cars. He would come at them with a knife then vanish into 
the woods, and sometimes if he could get into a vehicle when they were 
not there as he did with Kate's car then he would press the blade to 
their throats, putting his bloodied maw before thier face. Mrs Bennett 
however, was a different case altogether. When he smashed the window 
she slammed on the brake and angrily got out of the car. George rushed 
at her, but she stood her ground and George stopped. He had not 
accounted for that and had no idea what to do. He didn't even think to 
rush into the woods. 

"What was that for? and who on earth are you?" she had asked, and since
then, she came to give him the local gossip and give him various 
treats, almost like he was an animal that she came to feed every so 
often. 

He didn't scare everybody that came into the woods. Maybe once or twice
a week, fuelling the 'Legend' or myth that there was a creature. A myth 
that hadn't quite got off the ground. There was talk by his victims of 
some strange freak in the woods but it soon gave way over time to their 
memories of it. Was it some horrible monstrous creature? Or was it just 
a man? 

For now, he sat inside his tent, which was crawling with insects which
he let crawl over him, a sensation he enjoyed. He would wait for a new 
victim to scare, to fuel the legend of the creature in the woods. 


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