He was a ferocious man. He had been ill-made in the making. He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork. Jack London, White Fang
A nondescript van pulled up outside the tumbling walls surrounding the large Victorian house. The neglected building, in an isolated village on the outskirts of Belfast, was camouflaged in night shadows and overhanging leafage.
The van remained parked for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, a man squeezed his body from the driving seat, stepping out into the crisp, cool air.
No ordinary man. Fearsome in many ways. Unnatural in size and appearance, as if built by some devious god of deception and devilment. His face was a eulogy of darkness and revulsion, a death-shroud of disfigurement. A large, deep scar shaped like a ‘Z’ trenched his face.
He walked to the high, rusted gates, and pushed them open without exertion. The great house came fully into view like a pop-up book, making him smile like an eager child at Christmas discovering boxes of wonderment, dark and mysterious.
The house had seen better years, swamped by luxuriant weeds and brambles. Stocky, mangled trees cast twitching iron shadows over the structure. Paint had long vanished from its pockmarked wooden skin, and most of the windows had been destroyed by the elements and time, giving it a Poesque air.
After a long moment of breathing in his surroundings, he returned to the van, swinging it in from the roadside, away from prying eyes. Moving steadily, he began to unload some items stocked inside, paying particular attention to a large, heavy rug rolled up in the back.
He lifted the rug easily, shipped it upon one powerful shoulder, and walked casually towards the house. He opened the front door with his free hand, and stepped in. Musty smells of remembrance, redolent of a lover’s perfume, greeted him.
Closing his eyes, he sucked in the smells deeply, his massive chest bellowing in and out. When his eyelids lifted, tears were welling in the brims.
A lost child finally found…
He stood in silent contemplation under the doorway’s arch for some moments, before stepping in and closing the impressive oak door behind him. The three heavy bolts slid home into their niches.
Energised now, he began to climb the bare, creaky stairs, taking them two at a time, his speedy stride surprising for a man of such bulk. He barely seemed to notice the massive rug resting on his shoulder, so fluent were his movements and strength.
He reached the third floor, halting outside the one-time master bedroom. Easing the rug down outside the door, he entered the room, his eyes focusing on the centre of the bare floor. A reddened patch, faded by time into a ghostly stain. He knelt down, ran his hands over the stain, feeling something coursing darkly throughout his body; something long dead, now given renewed existence, like Victor Frankenstein granting life to his Monster.
He stood, and began discarding all clothing, despite the cold night air coming freely in through the many gaps in the house. Fully exposed, his nude body was covered in tattoos of smirking skulls. Only the fully erect penis had escaped the craftsman’s ink, making it stand out like a stranger in a strange land.
Out on the landing, the large rug shifted slightly, a tiny, barely visible movement among the shadows. A hand appeared from inside, curled up like a withered flower.
The tiny hand of a child.