"The broad moonlit surroundings that laid bare to the sharp biting wind, which flew through its own course, was adorned with the clear night sky, the moon seeming to be engraved as the sky's most precious jewel. But on the other hand, opposite to what laid around me, my mind possessed a completely different stature, trying to seek comfort and solace. I was profusely sweating, with sweat wrapping my body with fear and my heart couldn't cease from pulsating wildly. My inner instincts were clearly telling me that they were coming for me. Coming to stake my life at the doors of death—"

The opening melody of a French song filled the air, interrupting the garbled voice. "...Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien..."

No, absolutely nothing, Toshiya translated. No, I don't feel sorry about anything.

The man in the red cloak nudged the gramophone needle into place, playing the song a pitch louder. Whether he had been imagining it all or not, Toshiya could not tell. But there was an explanation for everything; he did not believe in spirits. For the moment, his head still heavy from the jet lag, every muscle in his body in tense knots all over. That should be it.

"Everything to your satisfaction?" asked the man in red, tightly fastening the clasp of his cloak. Toshiya always thought there was something vaguely canine about the man. A long, pointy nose like a jackal's snout, skin black as the looming night. 

It was an unexpected location for a hotel—hidden beyond a curtain of Spanish moss, bordered by pale cypresses that enclosed the area like a cage of bleached bones. Inside, it smelled like he expected any old building to smell. Of varnish, of decaying wood.

"This is good for me," he replied.

"I shall be off, then. I'll see you in...what? Three days?"

Before Toshiya could respond, the man was gone. A teenaged girl, one with feathers woven into her corkscrew curls, ushered to his side.

She's about the same height. Same built. Same round face. Toshiya tried his hardest not to take notice, not to make any associations.

The girl led him across an oriental rug, one protruding through the glass-paned doors like a monstrous tongue. She did not look at him, nor did she speak.

Stuck here, in this piece-of-crap hotel for the next three days. But it could be worse.

The entire third floor was empty of people, and deathly silent. He saw no one there, except for an old man with a short, beak nose and a harelip. The old man poked his head out through the door of his room, surveying him as he traveled down the dimly-lit hallway. It made Toshiya extremely uncomfortable.

The innkeeper waited for him just outside of his suite. He was a tall, well-built man, in his early thirties, all his actions grossly refined. "Welcome, Sir. A warm welcome. As you can see...we don't get many guests here." He opened the doors, and the girl brought his luggage inside.

The suite was twice as large as his own place, with a row of arched windows bordered by narrow white shutters. But large as it was, the room was mostly empty—with the exception of a four-poster bed, a fireplace, and a vintage television set, one that no longer seemed to be functioning. A calendar set to today's date—August of 1984—stood upon a low table.

"Last guest we had was a man named Bancroft," spoke the innkeeper, dolefully.

"Englishman?"

The innkeeper nodded. "A foul-tempered gent. Didn't want people getting all up in his business. Said that he was a writer."

"I won't give you problems," Toshiya assured him.

Once inside, he checked his passport, his travel papers, made sure nothing was missing or out of place. He'd have what he wanted soon enough—a chance to start over. He was finished running—from place to place, from one country to another.

After he was done, he re-shuffled the documents, stuffed them back into his luggage-case, then made his way over to the bed. Toshiya did not know for how long he was asleep, but when he woke up the moon still hung up in the sky. It showed no reflection upon the brackish waters of the bayou.

The girl with the feathers in her hair had re-appeared, carrying a tray of food in her arms. "Take and eat," said the girl, setting the tray upon the bed. Even her voice sounds the same.

"Oi..." he sputtered out. "What's your name?"

The girl looked at him straight in the eye with a serious face, as if he'd said something interminally stupid. Under the combined glow of the silver moonlight and the sconces upon the walls, the resemblance was uncanny.

"Mayet," she answered at last, and immediately left.                

The tray held a roulade of meat, a slice of cake, and a small bottle of dessert wine. His hunger pangs escalating, he shoved the meat whole into his mouth. Toshiya retched, tasting peat, along with a mixture of nasty flavors he could not describe. He dropped upon his hands and vomited upon the floor. As he looked down, he could see an insect leg poking out of the chum.

Still, he was hungry. Impossibly so. He bit into the cake, suffering the taste of tissue paper and lighter fluid. He spat that out, too, but the disgusting flavor remained upon his tongue.

What the hell is this? Some sort of practical joke? 

He scrambled to uncork the bottle, sloshed the contents down his throat. But whatever was in it was not wine. The liquid was pungent and slightly salty, like urine mixed with blood...

It stinks like a slaughterhouse, he thought, upon seeing how he'd thrown up all over his hands. "How long is it going to take to get the smell out?" he said aloud, realizing it wasn't the first time he'd asked that question.

The television monitor flickered to life. As the images began to take form, he could hear the sound of a girl whimpering. "Stop. I beg you. Stop."

"Be quiet." A male voice this time—his own. "I'll do it again if you don't stop whining like a baby."

The picture blinked out the moment Toshiya stepped closer, replaced by a steady stream of static. He let out a shout of frustration, as he slammed his fist down upon it repeatedly.

"Damn you!" he cried. "What do you want?"

The monitor winked back on.  The black-and-white picture showed a Caucasian man sporting a moptop and a charismatic grin, dressed as an astronaut. The scene was almost chilling in its normalcy: a birthday party, with a little blond-haired girl blowing out ten candles from a cake.

Blink. The next scene showed the same man, shovel in hand, walking through a graveyard as the midnight hour struck. Blink. The same man seated in front of his typewriter, nodding off to sleep. Blink. Again, the same man. Hacksaw in hand, the pale corpse of a Romani boy lying upon a slab inches away from his elbow. 

One scene lasted longer than the others. It was the man again, but this time he was strung up to a bed—inside a room exactly like the one Toshiya was in.

"....they were coming for me. Coming to stake my life at the doors of death—"

Three shadowy figures loomed over the man. Toshiya watched in horror as one of these took a cleaver and raised it high. He averted his gaze.

He looked again, this time watching as the three figures, now standing in a row, passed an object the size of a human fist amongst themselves. The last of the three then took the object, balanced it upon a scale, measuring against the weight of a peacock feather. The thing pulsated and twitched as it grew heavy and sank.

Something moved in the walls. Ancient eyes watching hungrily, observing the entire rite from a place that stood beyond this world. Cradling the object in its hands, the last figure dropped it free as the creature stretched out its jaws, swallowing the lump whole.

The screen went black.

"He was on a skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps." The innkeeper floated into the room. "Then a snowstorm hit, and he thought to check himself into a lodge."

Toshiya then felt himself being dragged across the room and onto the bed by an invisible force, his wrists and ankles tethered to the posts. After the innkeeper, the girl and the old man entered. The girl reached up and plucked a peacock feather from her hair. The old man mounted the scales upon a table. Toshiya's eyes grew wide.

He could hear the walls moving. He knew what was there, lying in wait in the darkness. Its eyes were gleaming, hungry.

Her name was Risa," spoke the innkeeper. He spoke solemnly, in a flat, emotionless voice, as if reciting a vigil. "The fish-merchant's daughter, youngest of three..."

"They'll come looking for me...you'll see. You stinking cowards!" he cried out, but his threats would not be heard.

"Upon the third day of the season of Akhet, month of Tekh, you carried her off—" The old man drew closer.

"--you and your cohorts. All this because she spurned your advances—" continued the girl.

"Stop...stop it!"

"--Is that not right?" The innkeeper leered over  him. His dark eyes bored into Toshiya's own. "Do you confess?"

Glass shards, like that from a shattered liquor bottle, pierced the skin of his soles. It stings—it burns.

"Do you confess?"

The words bubbled out of him. "I...confess."

The shards dug deeper into his skin. He could almost hear his own voice taunting, amidst a cloud of lewd laughter. Those words he would keep repeating, with each horrible deed enumerated, one-by-one and over and over. Too late then, but he wished he could undo it all, that day when he and his gang cornered that girl riding her bicycle.

The cleaver descended upon his chest. He could hear the sickening crack as his ribs sprung open like an animal trap. Maybe the scales won't tip, maybe...

Over and above it all, he could hear the eager groans of the Devourer in the darkness. For tonight  it would feast, and it would be satisfied.

A/N: My entry to the contest by TheCRYPTIC_ . I tried to make this one dark and dreary, without having to make it too graphic (fingers crossed.) Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Egyptian Mythology and the Junko Furuta murder case. Hope you all enjoyed it—and happy Halloween!