I Rescue Monsters

The start of evening rush hour traffic signaled the winding down of another day at work, exactly like it always did. Just another Wednesday, just another shift. My little pet shop on the corner of First and Robertson, "Happy Paws Pet Place", was about as stereotypical as pet stores came. I'd inherited the business from my mom when she'd grown too old and tired to care for it anymore and, having grown up surrounded by all things fuzzy, scaly, and feathered, I guess I'd been predestined to become an animal lover. I hadn't the heart to sell the place, outdated as it was. Sure, the paint was chipping in places, and the sign out front was older than I was, but it still had its charms. Mom liked to call it "vintage". I definitely got my optimistic brain from her. Her appreciation wasn't misplaced, however--this place still drew in customers new and old, year after year. And I had such fond memories of helping out behind the counter and feeding, petting, and playing with the various animals throughout my life that I just couldn't consider getting another job.
The old cuckoo clock on the wall (another of mom's old vintage artifacts) cooed and crowed when the hands stuck seven in the evening, and I turned my attention to the door behind the counter. All the new product had been put away, shelves stocked, cages cleaned, and animals fed... at least, all those on the ground floor. Downstairs in the basement was another story entirely. Downstairs was... stressful. Taking a deep breath, I rose from my seat and made my way into the back room. My one extra pair of hands for the day had gone home hours ago--kid fresh out of high school, hard worker, and thankfully quite ignorant of this shop's secret little menagerie. I had the store to myself.
The basement door lay concealed behind a large framed poster of a giraffe. Not exactly pet store material, but I'd needed something tall to hide the door, lest my small team of employees get too curious and venture downstairs. It hadn't always been this way, mind you--mom sure hadn't stored anything down there worth keeping secret. I often wonder what she'd think if she ever found out about my... for lack of a better term, let's call it a "hobby".
I'd just about reached the half-way point down the stairs when two luminous green pinpricks caught my eye, gleaming obviously at the bottom of the staircase. They were upon me in a flash, and I nearly toppled back onto the stairs behind me as a ball of deep darkness tackled me, dark tendrils wrapping around my arms and waist. Rather than panic, like any normal (or sane) person might, I simply grumbled and straightened myself back up.
"Yes, hello Shadow." I freed one hand from the amorphous mass of inky blackness that had pounced me and caressed the thing's head, or at least what passed for one, and listened to the sound of his purrs. I say "purrs" for lack of a better word; it's the sound he makes when he's happy, sure, but it's nothing like a cat's gentle rumbles. Shadow's purrs sound more like distant wailing of disembodied souls and the whispers of maddening secrets, mixed with an adorable warbling sound that nothing in this world is capable of making. It's delightful and freaky in equal parts, and I can't say I dislike it. The ball of semi-liquid darkness relaxed its grip enough for me to move my limbs properly, and I continued down the stairs, ready to face the other, less friendly specimens that resided below.
I remember Shadow's introduction into my daily life quite distinctly: how I, as a dumb seventeen-year-old walking home one night, followed the sound of what could have only been him slipping through a crack between our world and wherever he comes from. As a little aside, apparently tears in the fabric of reality sound like velcro ripping crossed with TV static, with a touch of horrible screaming. I remember my rational mind thinking "oh, it's just a cat" for a fraction of a second when I saw his glowing green eyes in the dark of the alleyway, then watched him slither out on a half-dozen shadowy tendrils, making sounds that could probably pass for mewling if they hadn't been so creepy.
And yet I don't remember being scared. Maybe some maternal instinct kicked in, or, hell, maybe I'm just weird. But against all rationality, I got down on one knee, scooped up the little morphable horror, and brought him home. Five years later, and he's still at my side, albeit a bit less often than when I'd first found him. Hiding him from mom was easier than you might think--for one thing, he doesn't seem to eat. Whatever sustains him is either too small to see, or doesn't exist in a physical sense. Added to the fact that he can morph his body at will, and at least seems to understand that I want him to stay hidden, and it's not hard to see how I've kept him a secret. He even came to school with me for the latter half of my senior year. Just slipped into my backpack and stayed there all day.
As time ticked by, however, and I went from lazy teen to working-class adult, my time at home started to lessen, and I'd raise mom's eyebrows if I took a backpack with me everywhere for seemingly no reason. Moving Shadow to the pet shop was just safer in the long run; I had a job to do, and god forbid he grow curious in my absence and spook the hell out of mom.
He's been my constant companion, whether I like it or not, and this has come with its own set of unique issues. The first, more endearing problem, if you can even call it one, is that he's very attached to me. I'm not sure if he's imprinted on me like a baby chick to its mother, or something else is going on, but he doesn't like it when I'm not around. He behaves himself, insofar as not tearing up the basement or messing with the other creatures down there, but he gets really clingy--literally and figuratively--whenever I come downstairs. I do bring him home sometimes, but I also bring dates home every now and then, and I'm still figuring out how exactly I'm going to balance that aspect of life with my "hobby".
The second issue is that, somehow, people... found out about us. And I don't mean some customer stumbled upon the basement or saw me walking home with Shadow one night or anything like that. It's just a theory, and one I only thought up from reading silly sci-fi/fantasy books, mind you, but I feel like creatures like Shadow mark the people who get close to them. They leave some trace of whatever otherworldly essence they bring with them to this world, and it sort of draws us mere mortals who experience these weird meetings of worlds together. Like six degrees of separation, except with eldritch abominations straight out of a Lovecraft novel.
It started innocently enough. Someone came into the shop one day and lingered for a little longer than usual. I felt something odd about her, even though she looked like an ordinary old lady shopping for dog food. Then, out of the blue and when the shop emptied out a little, she pulled me aside and asked me to help her with something. To cut a long story short, her granddaughter had caught a weird fish in the river and decided to keep it as a pet, but soon after decided it was "scary" and "made weird noises" and almost wound up flushing it down the toilet. My customer, being the animal lover she was, took pity on the fish and brought it home.
Oh boy, did she have an interesting night. Even in daylight hours, this fish looks strange--pearlescent scales that shimmered in such beautiful patterns and fins that flow out like feather fans. I swear this thing is a living fractal image. It's no wonder the kid scooped it up. It's too bad that, once night fell and the lights went off, she discovered that those shimmering scales come alive. It's actually really fascinating--they fan out and elongate, and it almost looks like a bright white lionfish, except this thing's scales are razor-sharp when it goes into hunting mode. Worse still, it really does make weird sounds. This damn fish... sings. Not like a person would, but the way its scales vibrate produce a really unsettling sound, a bit like if a tuning fork was capable of screaming in agony. This is how the damn thing hunts--other fish are drawn to the sound, and it slices them apart with those fins and eats the gibs.
Needless to say, this woman wanted nothing to do with this freakish fish, and something compelled her not to surrender it to the local wildlife scientists, despite its obviously alien nature. That's how I wound up with my first "rescue", which still swims happily in a fish tank in the basement, singing its horrible siren song and eviscerating anything alive that I throw in there.
After that, things just got weirder and weirder, until "weird" just became normal to me. Remember the six degrees of separation thing? It works twice as hard when people start talking. More and more, people started to approach me with weird pets they couldn't handle, or just things they picked up that something told them they shouldn't just report to the government. Dog-like things whose heads split open to reveal rows of curved, jagged teeth; spider creatures which spun maddening fractal patterns in their webs; masses of fleshy growths made entirely out of mouths and eyes. I suppose, after a while, I'd built something of a reputation for myself as someone to go to when your exotic bird with golden plumage starts turning everything it touches into precious metals, or that beautiful alien cephalopod you bought off of the man who was clearly an incarnation of Nyarlothotep whispers to you every time you draw near its tank.
As much as I knew how much trouble these things were, I couldn't bring myself to turn them away. They aren't "monsters", in spite of their frightening appearances and the seemingly senseless violence some of them commit. While it's clear that some are intelligent beyond even human standards (I seriously hate going near that damn whisper-squid), some of them are obviously just animals, and they're behaving exactly like animals would outside of their natural environments. And even if some of them are just evil creatures full of malice and hatred for humanity, I still don't see that as a reason to flush them away. Not sure if you've watched the news recently, but humans kinda suck. I sort of hate us, too. I just thank my lucky stars that Shadow's so agreeable and, admittedly, adorable, and that I have such a sweet companion to remind me that the universe isn't all blood, gore, and horrible mind-breaking secrets. Sometimes it's amorphous liquid darkness kittens.
Shit, maybe I am weird.
The aforementioned void creature finally unwrapped himself from me when we reached the basement proper and rolled along the floor beside me, his form ever shifting, growing new limbs with which to propel himself forward and swallowing up the tendrils that circled around behind him. His bright green eyes--there were six of them now, by the way--circled around his body in all directions, excitedly peering around as I approached the bladefish tank. Like I said, Shadow doesn't eat, so he's never expecting treats when I feed the other entities in my care, but he clearly gets something out of it. Maybe he feeds on my primal fear of losing a limb whenever I come down here. Or my mind, if that hasn't happened already.
The bladefish was already singing its horrible scale-song. It didn't seem to matter how dark the basement was--this thing's internal clock knew when night fell, and it wasted no time in beginning its sunset search for food. I grabbed a fish net, dunked it into the feeder fish tank I'd set up nearby, and snatched up the three unlucky sacrifices for the evening. Unceremoniously, I dropped the trio of soon-to-be-giblets into the bladefish's tank and watched the show unfold. It was gruesome, as always: The fish's beady black eyes turned toward the first of its prey, and its powerful fins sent it darting forward in the water. In a matter of seconds, the first fish was cut to pieces as the alien creature swam back and forth, making passes in the water and leaving almost surgical cuts in its victim until it was diced to pieces.
That was enough for me. All I was really concerned with was that the thing ate what I gave it--the gorey mess was fascinating from a scientific standpoint, but I didn't take any particular pleasure in witnessing it. Besides, I had other friends to feed.
Most of the others were easy enough and gave me little trouble. Some of them were a bit more difficult to contain effectively, but I'd gradually worked out solutions; the golden bird can't aurify lead, for instance. Experimenting with that particular problem had made me a bit richer, I'm happy to say. Gold is always worth money, even if it comes in the form of canary cages. The guy at the cash for gold store down the road couldn't stop scratching his head at that. And before you ask why I don't just cash in on this bird's innate money-making ability, it's because the feds would definitely be on my case if I sold any more gilded household items on anything but the black market, and that's the last thing I need. I'll mess with alien fish, bloodthirsty cryptids of any manner, and cosmic horrors, but I won't fuck with the IRS.
Thankfully the bird happily munched on millet and bird seed like any other. Next up was the whisper-squid, which had insisted that I refer to it as Santana. Its vocalizations aren't like Shadow's--they have very clear form, and while most of them are in a language no human tongue could ever hope to reproduce, some of the messages come through with disturbing clarity. It's like having a second inner monologue that you can't control, and if you don't focus your intentions particularly well near this thing's 500 gallon tank, the whispers start to sound like your own thoughts. In a room full of gnashing teeth and razor-sharp fins, Santana was still probably my most dangerous rescue.
'Hello Tabitha.' I forced myself to filter the greeting through my conscious mind in a voice distinct from my own. One of the little tricks I've managed to work out when dealing with this thing.
"Evening, Santana. Still on about the prophecy today?"
'Everything you do brings us closer to the precipice of a new age. The day the sun fails to rise and the oceans surge to usher in Our Time.'
"Uh huh. Vegetarian today?"
'Your thoughts and mine intertwine as well as always.'
I couldn't honestly decide whether or not I liked Santana. On the one hand, it was by far the most disturbing and manipulative thing I kept in this basement, but on the other, it made me laugh. It knew just how to catch me off guard and make me chuckle. I rolled my eyes and stifled a little giggle as I roughly diced up some watermelon and kale--Santana's favorite non-meat meal, if you could believe such a vomit-inducing combination could be palatable for any sapient creature. My warbling amorphous companion stayed curled around my legs, three big green eyes staring daggers up at Santana's enormous tank. In stark contrast to my own indecision, Shadow's feelings for the squid creature had never been ambiguous. I probably should have trusted his intuition, as it turns out.
Santana finally emerged from its rocky hidey hole in the bottom of its tank and fanned its tendrils out in an almost proud manner. And it wouldn't be wrong in doing so; for all its unsettling talk of prophecies and the doom of all land dwellers, Santana could be best described as some kind of sea angel. Its form never seemed to stop shifting color, and its long tentacles extended laterally from its squidlike body, rather than around its mouth, which sat at the top of the body, surrounded by smaller feeding tentacles. One large eye dominated its "face", containing four smaller pupils surrounding one large, plus-shaped one. All told, Santana was a solid three feet tall and nearly four wide when it spread its tentacles out in a way that absolutely was meant to look like angel wings. Its color-shifting body filled the basement with a bioluminescent glow. Disturbing, regal, menacing... and beautiful.
'I will miss these treats when our kingdom rises.' Santana's voice echoed in my mind as it delicately collected its meal with its tentacles. 'And our talks. You have always been interesting.'
"Not interesting enough to not drown humanity in an aquatic apocalypse, though." I teased, moving along to a desk containing some of the smaller cages in my menagerie. I tossed a couple crickets into the dizzying fractal web of a pure silver spider, making sure to avoid staring directly into the center, lest the world start to spin. Shadow extended his head to desk-level to watch the spider eat, apparently unaffected by its maddening silken home.
'You may be dead long before it occurs.'
How encouraging. I didn't grace Santana with a reply, and probably didn't need to. Intangible things like thoughts and emotions were as plain as color to this alien mystery. Realistically, I likely didn't even have to speak my ideas aloud, and I'd come across just fine to Santana. Not exactly a comforting thought to a species with so many secrets to hide, but to these strange cephalopods it must have been as natural as breathing.
I left the aquatic horror to its snack and continued my routine. I tossed a slab of meat to the open-face dog, the amoebic mass of flesh and faces (each face fought for dominance over their meal, in spite of sharing the same body), and cut up a tiny steak for the homunculus in a jar (it didn't move while I was down there, but its food was always gone by morning). I roughly chopped lettuce and carrots for the rabbit that phased in and out of existence and fresh fruits for the winged serpent. Another dozen animals with slightly strange and otherwordly qualities that hardly need mentioning compared to some of the others, all given their daily meals. It might sound weird, but after the first two or three of these it just became normal for me.
Shadow rolled along at my side, never lingering at one enclosure for too long. He seemed fascinated by the other specimens, watching them eat or run around or make their sometimes horrible sounds. He never attempted to touch any of them like a curious cat would, but it's still the impression that I got. Some half-formed hunting instinct that didn't quite develop into full-on pouncing. Well, except when it came to me, of course. Maybe his species--or however you could describe his kind--didn't count on human influences on their children, and this was the result. Every now and then he'd nuzzle up at my ankle and I'd bend down to run my fingers over his smooth, somewhat oily head. I say "oily", but the feeling doesn't translate to any residue or ichor on my hand. His form gives an impression of texture, but I don't really think he has one.
Absently, I grabbed another big, raw steak and turned toward a particularly large enclosure. One could even call it the main attraction if this thing wasn't so horrible to look at. At the very least, cryptozoologists would have a field day here, because I'm pretty sure someone caught a--
My mind froze for a split second. Something didn't quite add up, and in that fraction of a moment my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. The enclosure gate was open. The iron bars that kept this monstrous beast contained were flung wide, and there was no sign of the creature within.
"Shit." I hissed the word, chancing a closer look inside, hoping and praying that the thing just hadn't noticed its door being wide open. No such luck. The messy pile of hay it slept on lay empty, and there wasn't exactly a place for it to hide in there. "How? How the hell?!"
My mind raced. Of all the things to escape, it had to be THAT. I retraced my steps from yesterday and tried to figure out just how the thing had gotten out. I did my rounds, fed all my strange acquisitions, opened the door just enough to reach a very long broom inside to sweep out the mess this particular creature had made the previous night, and locked...
Oh god, I never locked the door. I'd been distracted. A pleasant ringing sound, or something to that effect, had drawn me to the other side of the basement. I never did discover its source, but now the feeling I'd gotten became clear in my mind: That calm realization of unimportance. The mental sensation of "Ah, I'll do it later." What the hell was I thinking? How could I possibly feel that way about something so dangerous? The answer didn't take long to reveal itself in the form of a chorus of sinister giggles, echoing inside my head.
Oh Santana, you bitch.
"Santana, where's the chupacabra?"
The giggling turned into full-on laughter, and I threw up a mental brick wall to drown it out. My growing panic gave way to anger as I asked again, "Dammit Santana, where's the chupacabra?!"
'Nearby.' came the whisper-squid's playful echo. 'It wanted out, so I... arranged a walk.'
"You overly-smug calamari. WHERE is it?"
The sound of clawtips tapping the floor from the other end of the basement reached my ears, and I turned. Out from under a tall desk crawled what I affectionately referred to as the chupacabra. Was it actually the goat sucker of Puerto Rican urban legend? I can't say. Between the gnarled rat-like face, mouth lined with needle-like teeth, enough muscle to put a small work horse to shame, and a back lined with barbed, wicked quills, I couldn't think of a better name to give it.
The goat-killing menace stood before me, breathing steadily, staring. I noticed a certain atypical emptiness in its gaze, and every so often it'd shudder and struggle against something unseen. I put two and two together quickly enough. "You're controlling it."
'For the moment.' came Santana's arrogant whisper. 'Oh, how it fights my every compulsion. How its instincts reel against my invasive thoughts. Not like humans, who are so easily led by their emotions. Intriguing, this legend made flesh... but, ultimately, just another animal. Disappointing. Fleeting in its usefulness.'
"Why let it free? What are you trying to prove?" I went to sidestep the mind-slaved beast, but it snapped in my direction. I reeled back, effectively cornered in the rear section of the basement.
Santana let another fluttering giggle flow into my mind. 'You keep such dangerous things down here. Who taught you to care for such things? What claim to proficiency can you possess? You, someone so young... so foolish. So... insolent.'
That'd be hilarious coming from that damn squid, if I wasn't currently staring death in the face. "So what," I posed a dangerous question, "Are you trying to show me this thing could kill me if it ever got out? Because I've been keenly aware of that since I received it." I edged closer to a set of drawers near the chupacabra's cage as I spoke. Pulling one open, I produced a telescopic stunprod and flicked it out to its max length.
'In a way.' Santana replied, its giant eye fixated upon me from its tank across the room. 'I wish to see if you are truly capable.'
"Of what, exactly?"
'Survival. Perhaps, if you survive the cataclysmic rise of my people, you would have a place among us. You and few others of your kind.'
"And letting the chupacabra loose tells you what, exactly?" I flicked the switch on the prod, sparking it a couple times to test it. The thing did wonders when I had to clean this monster's cage and couldn't distract it with food. God, why did I ever agree to take it to begin with?
Santana's tone shifted to a dangerous low. 'Your resolve. You've told me before that you've conquered your fears, that you feel confident around this collection of yours. Now I want you to prove it.'
Unbelievable, this talking seafood dish. I started to plan my way out of the basement; the direct path out was blocked, but there were a few desks and tables sufficiently high enough that I could crawl or roll under. All the while, I kept the prod held at the ready. "And what happens if I die? Who's gonna feed you then?"
'I'll inevitably end up where I need to be.'
"Great. I hope whoever flushes you pisses in the toilet before they do."
'Such vulgarity! It truly isn't necessary. Entertain me, and I'm sure you'll survive. Now, do yourself a favor, and...'
Santana's voice trailed away from my mind, and the chupacabra shuddered. Disturbingly, its mouth began to move, and it grunted and growled, almost like it was working out how to use its voice. Finally, it fixed its eyes upon mine, and groaned out a single word through grinning teeth: "Run..."
All at once, the awareness returned to its pitch black eyes. The chupacabra shook its head, momentarily confused, as Santana apparently cut the strings it'd attached to the beast. The quilled monstrosity turned its attention back to me and snarled, hunching down and rattling its quills together. I froze. Running was the absolute worst thing to do in this moment. Even an idiot knows not to provoke a chase from a wild animal.
"Hey, buddy." I started, holding up one hand while keeping my shock-stick ready with the other. "You know me. I feed you every day. We're cool, right?" The snarling hiss I got in response immediately shot that possibility down. Retreat was the only option for now, and getting this thing back in its cage was paramount. I turned my body slightly and took slow steps back, and the thing matched me step for step.
"Shadow?" I murmured, keeping my voice low so as not to unintentionally challenge the spiny dog-rat stalking me to the back of the basement. My inky black companion quivered fearfully at my ankle and let out a tiny warble in response. "Go hide, okay? Find a safe spot."
Thankfully, Shadow's strangely remarkable grasp on English chose not to fail him, and he quietly slipped away into the darkness. I moved closer to the chupacabra's cage, fighting every compulsion to run. I knew Santana had to be feeding them to me, tempting me to break, to give in to dumb animal instinct and become this thing's prey. I'd had more than my fill of that damn squid's tricks, though, and I wouldn't give it the satisfaction.
"Just get back in your cage. Back in your cage." I quietly begged the rattling, hissing quadruped as I neared its heavy-duty enclosure. The door was open wide enough for it to go through, but it wasn't just going to surrender its freedom on a whim. I groped for the handle of the fridge where I kept its food, never once taking my eyes off the beast. If I could just throw a big enough chunk of meat inside...
But no, of course it wouldn't be that simple. The second I got the fridge open and the smell of chilled flesh wafted into the air, the thing went on alert. Its nostrils flared, and it jolted forward--though thankfully not at me. It slammed into the fridge as I dodged aside, making a feast of the (ordinarily) carefully rationed meat inside. Not exactly the outcome I'd planned, but it did give me an opening. I went for it.
Scrambling toward the front of the basement, I called Shadow to my side and made for the stairs. My shadow-blob companion rolled at my ankles, warbling in panicked tones and casting his green eyes backward. A sudden sharp shriek of terror told me before I looked back to see it myself: the chupacabra had chosen fresh meat over the cold ribs it'd stumbled onto. The sound of its claws raking at the stone floor reached my ears, growing louder in the few eternal seconds my flight to the stairwell took.
'Run, run, run, girl. It's going to get you.'
"Shut the FUCK UP Santana!" I scrambled up each step, practically climbing them on all fours. I must have looked like a scared gazelle to the damn squid, if it even knew what a gazelle was. A sharp pain in my calf sent me sprawling, and I brought the stun stick around, sparks blazing and deafening in the narrow stairwell. I shoved it in the chupacabra's face before it managed to take a bigger bite out of my leg, and its angry howls soon drowned out the prod's menacing crackling. Up I went, slower now but driven by adrenaline, the pain muted in the face of my imminent demise.
Shadow cleared the threshold, and I made it up a half-second later, slamming the door behind me. It latched just as the chupacabra slammed its full weight into the sturdy wood, the impact shaking the entire store. I breathed for the first time in what felt like forever, but I knew I had precious few moments before that door came down. I sprinted to the counter, opened the lowest drawer, and grabbed my dad's old revolver. "No one would ever rob a pet store," he'd said, "But you know, in case they do." If only it'd been as simple as a robbery.
"Tabitha?" the voice of an older woman caught my attention. In my panicked haze I'd failed to spot one of my regular customers standing just a few feet away.
"Mrs. Williams?" I stared, dumbfounded. I'd forgotten to lock the damn door!
"Are you alright? Sorry, I knew it was after hours but I saw the door was open and I figured you were still here. Just needed to grab some dog food--"
"You need to go." I cast a glance back at the door, watched as its hinges bent with each impact of my pursuer's heavy frame.
"What? What's going on? Oh my god, you're bleeding!"
"You need to leave, now!"
Too late. One last smash and the door exploded into splinters, rent in half by the chupacabra's claws. I wish I could say I put myself between the beast and Mrs. Williams, heroically shielding her from the rampaging whirlwind of teeth and claws I'd unwittingly unleashed. In reality, I aimed the gun as best as I could, squeezed the trigger over and over, and maybe struck the chupacabra once or twice as it charged. Only it didn't come straight for me.
Poor Mrs. Williams, for all it's worth, probably died swiftly--the only mercy I could imagine for how this monstrous animal came down upon her. A shower of gore painted the shelves, floor, and counter bright red as the beast shook her apart, ravenous like a shark. In mere seconds it lost interest, turned its blood-drunk gaze upon me, and lunged. I fired again, but the gun clicked. The impulse left my brain to drop it and grab the stun prod again, but all too late. I felt the world spin as I was pounced to the floor, my arms flailing, fists connecting with the beast's head, as if my weak flesh was any defense against this apex predator's gnashing teeth. Time slowed as I realized this stupid hobby of mine was about to get me killed. I squeezed my eyes shut, awaiting the end.
Only it never came. I became aware of a strange static in the air, and a sense of vertigo overtook me. I opened my eyes to see none other than Shadow, stretched upward, shadowy tendrils spread wide, green eyes blazing with what could only be described as righteous anger. A low, growling warble rumbled from within his dark form, and the chupacabra trembled, skittering back several feet from my supine body. I could have squeezed my little buddy to oblivion in gratitude, but he wasn't finished.
The sound of velcro ripping, crossed with TV static, and the wailing of damned souls... Just how I remembered it from the night I found Shadow. What started as a thin black line in the air soon stretched wide, just short of the ceiling. Clawed tendrils slithered through to pry open the rift between dimensions, and a million-trillion luminous eyes, all colors of the rainbow and beyond, peered out into our world. The sound quickly became deafening, and in my peripheral vision I saw the chupacabra, transfixed in abject terror, its quills pressed against its back. A deep, distinct warbling came from the other side of the rift, its powerful resonance rattling every shelf in the store and pounding into my sinuses.
Then there was Shadow, my adorable guardian, warbling right back, answering this otherworldly horror's call. The terrifying and beautiful exchange went on for several minutes, and Shadow rolled himself between me and the rift, ethereal tentacles coiling around my legs protectively. Another set of warbles, rumbles, and squeaks passed back and forth between Shadow and what I could only assume were the rest of his kind, and suddenly all the eyes in this parallel universe were upon the chupacabra.
It rose--not of its own accord, but through some gravity-defying force emitted from the rift. It flailed and gnashed in panic, running in place--it might have been comical in another context that didn't involve the bloody death of my favorite customer. The denizens of Shadow's world lifted the beast into the air, and I felt a force push outward from the rift that I can't properly describe. The next thing I knew, the chupacabra was howling and wailing in agony as it was ripped apart, atom by atom, dissolving into a haze of gore, bone, and chitinous plates, slowly at first. By the time thirty seconds passed, the beast burst into a flash of energy, the echoes of its final death-cries ringing in my ears as the rift began to close.
Shadow kept his eyes on it the whole time. Gentle coos and chirps rolled forth from the rift, and my companion answered in kind. A decision had been made, an agreement sealed. The hole ripped open between two worlds stitched itself together again, the last vestiges dissolving into threads of darkness, then vanishing altogether. Silence hung over the shop, and Shadow rolled onto my chest, his eyes turning to mine. Concern shone more clearly than ever in his gaze, and in that moment everything came crashing down. I held my little friend close and cried, curled up on the floor and wailing as reality slammed against my fragile ego. I could handle weird. I could even handle danger. But I'd just gotten someone killed. Apparently that was where my messed up brain hit its limit.
I'm not sure when the police arrived--never on time in this city. Nor do I remember exactly when the unmarked black vans rolled up, and men in hazard suits flashed badges that sent the cops away, confused and definitely not paid enough to question why. Everything went by in a haze for the next few days, and it was nearly a week later before I'd snapped out of the daze I'd found myself in, sitting in a small, featureless room akin to those interrogation rooms you see in cop movies.
Except these guys weren't cops. I still don't know who they are, or which three letter organization they truly represent. I just call them "the feds", because who else drives black vans and dresses all their guys in black suits, sunglasses, and earpiece mics? I'll try to summarize what happened while I was in their custody, but it was all so much that I've probably forgotten a lot of it.
To address the elephant in the room, the whole incident was covered up as a car accident. A drunk driver sped down the street and slammed into the shop, crashing through the wall. The news articles printed after the fact were so convincing that no one would think to question it. Mrs. Williams was just an unfortunate victim in the wrong place at the wrong time--which wasn't entirely false. But the accident was claimed to have been so awful that a closed-casket funeral was the only option. Her family came by after I was released and told me how much she loved coming over and chatting about dogs and their quirks. I could hardly contain my guilt, but didn't dare tell them the truth. Maybe it's better that way, both for my own conscience and to spare them the mental imagery of the vicious cryptid attack.
The feds tried to contain Shadow once they found us, but the little guy just refused to be held in whatever boxes they tried to stuff him in. Even the fancy shit--electromagnetic containers, or maybe something entirely more exotic--failed to hold him. So they'd begrudgingly allowed him to stay with me, seeing as he absolutely would not leave my side. I guess they figured he wasn't going anywhere as long as they had me.
They told me I'd been largely catatonic, that I had post-traumatic stress and would likely need counseling. Not from any ordinary shrink, of course--it'd have to be at this facility. They tested me for all kinds of diseases, radiation, weird otherworldly infections and mental corruptions, but came up with nothing. I told them my theory about how people touched by weird stuff tend to attract each other, and their doctors seemed real interested in my menagerie and the people who'd managed to find me in spite of how secretive I'd been. So maybe it's more than just a theory.
Speaking of my collection, the feds took most of it. I can't exactly say I'm sad to see some of them go, but they let me hold onto some of the more benign ones. If you think that's a weird thing for a clandestine government agency to do, well, the reasoning is sound: They want to find more of these things. They've known about aliens and extradimensional creatures for some time, but my shop was something of a unique opportunity for these things to sort of... fall into their lap. Why spend resources hunting these things down when they'll all eventually congregate in one easily monitored spot? So, throughout our many lengthy conversations, I was offered something sort of resembling a job. Keep collecting strange beasts, write reports, and surrender the ones that are dangerous.
Of course, that means my freedoms are severely restricted. My moments of privacy are incredibly limited now, and my job at the pet shop is basically a cover at this point. But let me tell you, hush money is a thing, and I don't have to sell golden bird cages anymore with this kind of cash.
As for the bastard who set this whole thing in motion, Santana disappeared in the chaos. How, I have no idea, but that crafty squid could have probably vanished any time it wanted. From the very beginning, it'd been toying with me, measuring me up as someone with "potential" to survive its prophesized apocalypse. Even now I have no idea if there's any truth to its words, but I guess I'm worthy now, since I survived its test. Only time will tell. Just watch the tides, I guess, and get to the highest point possible if anything weird starts to happen in the ocean.
As for me? I'll continue my work. Keep on collecting weird and dangerous pets that just so happen to be cosmic horrors beyond our comprehension. And Shadow will be right by my side, warbling and bubbling like always. My little eldritch horror, and my adorable savior from a world of darkness. It's weird to say, but I couldn't see myself doing anything else. For better or for worse, this is what I was meant to do. And I couldn't be happier.
If you ever come across something bizarre and otherworldly, just hold onto it for a while. You'll find me eventually, if my theory holds up. But for the love of god, don't send me another damn chupacabra. That's your problem, buddy.
Category:Cryptids
Category:Beings
Category:Monsters