The Monster of Wickit Village

I was a young man when the creature haunted our homes, killed our people, and broke our souls. We were decent people before then.

September had come cold and serene on our Wickit when the birds left and the forest fell silent. No one saw it at first, but people began to disappear. Men did not return from the forest. A shut-in was not heard from in five days. When the constable broke down the door, he was nowhere to be found. A black substance, thick and oily, lay in a spotted trail from the bedroom to a window and out into the forest. Gossip soon spread that this substance was always near where vanished persons had last been seen: the tanner’s wife near the washing bucket behind the house, then her two young daughters at the edge of the woods.

Not everyone disappeared. A farmer, was found dead inside his barn, surrounded by black substance. His face was intact, frozen in a deathly expression of unutterable terror. Much of his body was torn apart. Devoured.

The decent folk of Wickit village became vigilant after the first few disappearances. No one walked at night. No one went about town or the forest alone. For the first deaths, most thought a bear, or perhaps a pack of wolves was at fault. As the toll mounted, accusations began to fly. This was a plot, some said, for political power in the village. This was the work of a deranged murderer hidden among us, others said. Trials were held and reputations ruined, but nothing came of it. There was no evidence at all to convict any suspect.

I first saw the monster out my window on a moonlit night. Without the light, I never would have seen it. At first, I thought it was a cloaked man, for it was as a man in shape. I was ready to tell off the person for walking alone at night in such dangerous times. Upon closer inspection, however, I realized that it was a creature, not covered in a cloak, but in a viscous, dark liquid: the same oily substance that had been seen around the village. It wore it like a terrible suit that dripped behind. It had a long face without discernible eyes, an unnaturally large mouth of sharp teeth. Its fingers were as long as a forearm and tipped with cruel claws.

Full of horror, I remained quiet as the monster walked in perfect silence past my home and into the night. When I shared my story in the morning, not everyone believed me. Not at first. Still, the story spread enough fear for action to be taken. A militia came together to guard the village. Families living on the outskirts or further off in the woods moved in temporarily with those who lived in homes closer together in the village heart.

By then, seventeen people—men, women, and children—had either disappeared or had been found dead and devoured.

Eventually, we villagers of Wickit discovered that the dark substance was combustible: the creature was covered in oil, or at least an oil-like element. A trap was planned. A few pigs were slaughtered and placed together in the center of the town square. All booths and shops were carted away to make it an open space. Militiamen watched in shifts from windows surrounding the town square with old guns from old wars and aged bows with flammable arrows. The beast would come for its bloody meal, and the militia would set it aflame and kill it.

The monster did not come. Not after three nights. The creature did not thirst for the blood of animals. After much debate, we decided to tie August, a horse thief, to a post in the center of Wickit. We were sure of his guilt. Death to save his betters was a fair price for his crimes. We were decent folk, after all.

It came that night. So certain were we of its coming that all the militiamen were awake and ready, despite orders to maintain only two watchmen. It was just as I described it, a monster covered in a black cloak of oil. In perfect silence it walked with certain steps toward August, who, tied facing away from the monster, could neither see nor hear its deathly approach. He must have felt it near, though. He began to scream for his life, pleading for mercy, for help, for anything. I turned my face away, but his cries echoed in my soul.

I had to look again, though, when the order came to fire the arrows. They came down on the beast like falling stars, and it was alight in an instant. I saw the monster in full the moment the light of the arrows illuminated its foul hide. The beast was soon drenched in hellfire, a barely humanoid shape in raging arcs of gold and red. It raised its head to the sky and unleashed a scream such as I had never heard before—that I still hear at night as I close my eyes. The screech sounded precisely like that of a young child, but longer. It held the scream for half a minute or eternity. Then it continued, still ablaze, to August, still tied at his post. It came behind him, where he screamed fervent prayers and pleas for mercy, and wrapped him in a burning embrace with its long arms and longer fingers.

It devoured him. Both their screams fell silent as it did.

And we watched our bloody sacrifice. Though we hoped the fire would slay it, the monster fled into the night, leaving a scorched trail. In the morning, August’s scant remains received a burial of the highest honor we could conceive. It was all we knew to do. No one tried to justify what happened.

We never saw the monster again.

A monster once came to the men of Wickit Village, and it turned us all into its own image.

***

Jack Bylund is an editor and writer based out of Utah. He is teaching English while pursuing a masters degree. He loves Panda Express, bad movies, and writing stories about the end of the world. His writing is published in Nightlight, The Dangling Modifier, Sink Hollow, and Blind Corner literary magazines.