Before starting my journey as a horror writer, I did work for several video game and comic book companies as a character and concept artist. Currently, I'm an aspiring horror writer hoping to break into the industry through what opportunity I may find. My writing credits are mostly that of published work in the music and comics industry as well as two self-published books so far, "Hellverse: Shadows of the Abyss" and "Hellverse: Bloodlines of Kaos." Whereas most authors these days cater more to modern audiences, my goal is to rekindle the poetic violence and debauchery of classic literature. I prefer a story to build to something instead of giving everything right from the start.
You can read more by Sean right HERE.
Vile
by
Sean Walusko
Give. Give Meat.
Trevor Jacks was not a smart man. At 6’9, 310 lbs, he was a beast with the mind of a child. If one were to assume, from first glance alone, that he developed a social awkwardness from his physiological disposition, they would find their observation not wholly inaccurate. Forty-eight years a recluse, abused and abandoned, Trevor found comfort not in childhood friends, household pets or pre pubescent musings, but in the scouring of meat from flesh he deemed worthy.
Give. Give. Give Meat.
Kimberly Carter was thirteen years old when Trevor first laid eyes on her. It took only three weeks to study her routines, what side streets she took home from school and when she separated from the safety of her friends to walk exactly eighty-four feet alone to her house. Eight seconds was all it took for Trevor to dump her in the back of his truck and take her to the silo.
Give. Sweet. Sweet Meat.
Trevor made sure to keep Kim’s body as undamaged as possible, choosing strangulation, crushing her tiny throat with his massive hands, while under a forced dose of morphine and xylazine. Both were taken from his parents’ trailer, used to aid with animals that suffered extraneous conditions.
The first cut came above the hip and circled through behind the inner thigh. It was a flaying knife, he found, that gave the cleanest incision when slicing through skin. Though he was clumsy and lacked a refined vocabulary, Trevor was surprisingly accurate with keeping a steady hand while applying enough pressure to keep an inch deep incision evenly through dead flesh.
Cut. Cut. Meat.
A handsaw was next used to rip through subcutaneous tissue and tougher strands of thigh meat. Blood poured out in slow flowing red ropes as, after thirty-six hours post mortem, it resembled a thick gelatinous syrup.
Sweet. Sweet. Smell Sweet.
With a final crack of bone separating the ball joint of the femur from the pelvic cusp, Trevor took the amputated leg and placed it in a 180 gallon tank. He smiled while hundreds of dermestid beetles rushed the appendage and began devouring its succulent meat. Their black shells glistened with a wet stickiness from the girl’s fluids that were dumped into the tank. Dozens climbed up and over each other, taking small nibbled bites, leaving pocked holes and shredded lines of ripped skin before burrowing deeper into still wet muscle.
Meat. Yes. We Eat. Meat. More.
Trevor continued to cut through the girl’s body, collecting her blood in metal bowls beneath the stained wooden table.
“Thank you,” Trevor said, slack jawed and tearful to her corpse.
The beetles continued to scurry and feed on whatever severed limb or dissected body part was placed carefully in their tank. They buzzed their wings and clicked their horns in gratitude for what bountiful nectar their master provided.
Trevor so too enjoyed watching his friends, those tiny creatures that did not judge him, belittle him, give condescending remarks and antagonize him, feed and enjoy the gifts so readily given.
“Why?” Trevor heard what was left of the girl’s corpse ask him.
“You laugh. I no like you laugh,” he responded to the eviscerated head and torso.
“I’m sorry. Please let me go.”
“You laugh.”
“I miss my mom,” the torso cried.
“Now I laugh.”
More. Meat. More.
It would be six more weeks and two more victims before Trevor was caught by the authorities. He confessed to nine in total, while denying a tenth.
Meat. Want. Meat.
The acrid stench of rot and decay took over the silo, as Trevor had not returned since his arrest. When detectives, led by the local homicide and missing persons unit did arrive, they found a scene of gruesome terror. Those seasoned in trafficking and kidnapping cases marked sites of interest with yellow evidence tags. Crime scene photographers snapped pictures of body parts laying thrush on wooden tables as others hung from hooks used to haul stacks of hay.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened here?” asked a beat cop, placing caution tape around the entrance.
Five minutes was all it took for one of the first to arrive to lose their nerve and their stomach.
“For fuck’s sake, Mendoza, keep it inside.”
“I need some air.”
Enough evidence was found to convince a jury that Trevor Jacks was fit to stand trial. His parents, who had struggled with his urges since childhood, pleaded for a sentence of no contest on the grounds of being mentally unfit to understand what he was doing. Photos of young boys and girls walking home from school, notebooks with planned routes and bones stacked inside a tank filled with flesh-eating insects proved otherwise.
Trevor Jacks was executed by lethal injection four years after his conviction.
Trevor’s parents cried for him. His victims’ parents did not.
What evidence was left was incinerated or placed in holding to be sold off at public auctions.
A curious item, the tank used to house Trevor’s beetles, was sold to a curator of macabre antiquities. An oversight of investigators, auctioneers, and the buyer was the livelihood of said tenants. Still, after four years and eight months, they hissed and scurried, an act of defiance well past their usual five month life span.
It was on the night of the tank’s delivery, when the owner of a house of oddities, accompanied by other cursed trinkets, noticed the very active and hungry beetles.
Meat. Feed. Meat.
The curator peeked closer into the tank and cocked his head in a manner, curious about what he saw. The beetles moved as one as hundreds circled the tank in a clockwise motion, slow and meticulous.
Meat. Feed. Repeat.
The curator smiled. As he got his keys out to lock up his shop, he looked back at the tank.
“Aged? Or fresh?”
Sweet. Sweet. Meat.