The Beast In The Bramble
They say I live in a hidden hut deep within the endless reeds that stretch beyond the riverbanks. They warn their children and travelers alike not to stray too far, not to listen to the reeds’ soft rustling, for fear of what waits within. I watch them from that same place as I wait. Some claim I eat those who wander too close; others insist I take those who sleep too deeply. But they’ve heard other stories too, of a growling that echoes deep in the cattails, like the rumble of a disturbed, ravenous belly.
I can’t remember who I was but I know I’m not from here, and the sun is merciless, baking the sand so hot it blisters my bare feet. It doesn’t matter. The beast won’t let me dress and it traps me under its weight during daylight hours, pinning me against its slick, heaving flesh that smells of rot. They say my hair is made of tongues, tasting the air as I stalk. They aren’t far from the truth. Each tongue slithers and writhes, curling at the nape of my neck before stretching outward, searching. They slap against my bare back, dragging pools of saliva across my shoulders, twitching with anticipation. They only stop when they taste flesh. Only then does the burning on my scalp fade, but the relief is always brief.
Tonight, the beast is restless, I can hear its stomach groaning with hunger. I nearly didn’t make it back before dawn. I slipped into the village, gliding between huts and houses where families slept. They don’t know I’m there, licking their bodies, tasting their skin. That’s when the tongues go still. That’s when I know, I've found one. “Shh… Shh…” I whispered to the child. His eyes blinked open, and I beckoned him with a finger. He followed silently, as they always do, his small feet padding against the ground as I led him into the bramble. My hut rests among them, in the water, always shifting, always moving with the wind.
Inside, the air is heavy with mold and the walls sag with rancidity but the back room is darker still. The beast waits there, its bulk sprawling across the floor, its body a mass of fetid flesh. It reeks of decay, and its skin, moist and blackened, shimmers like oil slicks under the moonlight. Half-formed limbs twitch along its sides, clawing at the ground as though trying to escape its own body. It doesn’t see me, it has no eyes, only the faint suggestion of hollows where a face might have once been. It smells me though, its nostrils flaring as its jagged mouth stretches open, revealing rows of teeth that shift and grind like millstones. The sound vibrates through the walls as it breathes its command. I lay down over whatever face it has left and let my hair dangle in front of its mouth, ensuring it can taste the meal I’ve brought back for it. Ensuring that it is satisfied. But the beast never is.
