No Touchi, Kudasai!

The severed digits starting to twitch is enough to make even my addled brain perk up. I jump to my feet and lock eyes on the fleshy lump, waiting to see if it happens again.

The heck? I'm did I see that right? No. It can't, can it? My mind says, clutching for excuses even as I back away from the finger pile.

They can't have moved! That would be impossible! Granted, this day has been pretty crazy. But we are talking the difference between Silence of the Lambs and H.P. Lovecraft here!

As if following some kind of morbid script, it the same finger twitches again — along with a half dozen more... Suddenly all the fingers begin to writhe and undulate in this pile of flesh that is clearly not attached to any kind of functioning human brain.

'Christ on a bike!' I spit out, my heart starting to beat faster and faster. I back away from the jittering flesh and thrust my broken chair leg out in front of me like a club.

However – being something of an idiot – when I thrust the club out in front of me I also raised it like I am about to defend myself from some kind of human sized attacker. My taget is a weird finger beast that is no more than thirty centimetres tall and – as I quickly discover – moves at "holy-shit" speeds!

The finger pile undulates suddenly and bounces up to stand on the tips of about a dozen of it's fingers. Then starts to scuttle like a damn crab or spider across the floor with a janky non-rythmic movements. Okay, we are well and truly in the Lovecraft territory now!

'Stay back!' I blurt out and waggle my club in the creatures general direction. I have no idea what the thing wants. But I really don't give a damn right now. This day has been to stupid and weird for me to just be "cool" about monsters being a thing! The spasmodic movements of the fingers made its destination hard to gauge at first. But I soon realise it is sprinting at me. I am not okay cool with that! As the mass comes close I raise my club and swing it down hard towards the creature. The fingers didn't have any eyes – at least none that I could see. But it had to have some sense of space, because they springs to the left and lands in a morbidly fumbled movement. I take a step back to make sure I am have enough space between me and the fingers.

If there was any doubt in my mind that this thing was after me; it's intentions become clear as it dashes towards me again. I strike out at the thing in a thrust this time, striking the point of my chair leg out forward like a spear.

The blunt point of my weapon hits home this time and I am rewarded with fleshy craunching sound! The knuckle bones in the fingers buckle and my stomach turns as a spray of viscous black blood bursts out of it – covering the floorboards around it in a dark icor.

The black blood wreaks horribly. As it enters my nostrils I feel like I have been smacked in the face by a sledge hammer. My churning stomach finally gives in and I gag and dry heave out what little bile is in my stomach for the second time that day. My muscles go weak and the grip I had on my club loosens. The finger mass must have felt the pressure pinning it down start to weaken. Because it begins to writhe and kick out with its joints trying to escape. I try to steady my grip so I can push harder again. But before I can even tighten my grip the fingers wriggle free and start scampering across the room.

'Hey!' I shout at the thing, and I start to move to chase after it. But then it occurs to me, if it wants to run the hell away from me then I am more than okay with that!

I watch as the thing scampers over to the large desk near the window leaving a trail of black blood footprints… finger prints? I'm not sure which is better here…

The fingers then disappear under the wooden desk frame. I stand poised – club in hand and staring at where it had just vanished out of sight. After a minute or two of silence I let myself start to breath a little easier and stand upright.

It is that same split second the sneaky bastard darts up on top of desk, spins in place, then pounces at my head like it's a damn Xenomorph.

I swing at the thing again but I underestimate it's speed and swing wide. The fingers land directly on on my face and starts to bury its tangle of putrid phalanges into my mouth, nose and eyes.

I stagger back, screaming out choking breaths as my mouth is filled with more and more of the necrotic flesh and that vile black blood.

My club falls from my grip and clatters to the floor as I shoot my hands up to my face and start clutching at the creature, trying to claw it off my face. But the black blood is so oily that I can't get a grip and I begin hopelessly flailing at it with my fingers.

Fuck! Fuck! Get this fucking thing off me! I can hear my own thoughts screaming in my head. Come on universe! Give me something to work with!

Thump! My back smacks against the front door behind me.

A wooden door? That's going to be damn useless! I think. Until I remember that the door isn't entirely made out of wood... I remember seeing a documentary about old western films. One of the things they showed off was the prop window glass they would use for the fights. You know the scenes where someone would get thrown through a window. The glass would shatter, but the cowboy would walk away with little more than a few cuts and bruises. In reality this isn't how it works out at all. In reality being smash through a window means blood, stitches, and a whole lot of pain... That trigger a very stupid, but desperate, idea in my mind. I don't have long to act, and if I think about it for too long I know I'll lose my nerve. But if I do nothing I'm good as dead.

I suck in as much air as I can through the tangle of fingers, then roar with fury and terror as I spin around 180 degrees and slam the finger creature — and my head — into the glass of the door. I hear the sound of the window panes buckling under the sudden force. But they don't shatter – not yet anyway...

Okay, one more fucking time! I think, try to amp myself up. Then I pull back and strike again. The sharp tingling noise of the glass shattering fills my ears. The soft, meaty crunchy felling of flesh getting shredded fills my mouth. Then the sharp sting of lose shards buying into my face prickles my skin. They all mix into one horrifying cocktail that has every nerve in my body firing at the same time. I am not in Japan — I doubt I am even on earth… So where the fuck am I?

In this moment I have to put all existential dread to the back of my mind. Because being flayed across the broken glass has finally been enough to loosen the grip of the finger creature. I use this chance to wrench the monster from my face. I hurl it onto the floorboards and it lands with a wet slap! I then fall to the floor, gasping for air.

The creature is still for a moment. But then I see it twitch a few of its knuckles. I don't hesitate this time. Instead I snatch up my club and smash it down hard on the fingers. I hear bones brake and flesh getting pummelled into paste as I strike again and again into the creature. I don't stop till it looks closer to mince meat than fingers.

I am bent double and quickly switching form gasping for air and trying to spit out every trace of the black gunk that the clawing fingers had left in my mouth. Eventually my racing heart slows and my desperate breath returns to something like normal.

Then a silence falls over the room.

******

I struggle to fully register everything that happens next. However, I realise I have forced myself to my feet. I scrabble against the door handle, but finding it still locked i end up climbing back out the window... Then I start pounding the pavement as I sprint back to the station. I run back into the building and start tearing through it. I'm looking for any trace of when the next train will be to get me the fuck out of here. I don't give a shit where it is going, because surely anywhere has to be better than here.

However, as I am sure you can guess, there is nothing. Not even an expired train timetable. I goes hazy again – like when I first woke up on the train. But I refuse to let it get the best of me, as I start sprinting across the street. It is dark by then. But I'm sure that thing isn't the only fucking creature out there, and I am dead certain there is no way I'm going to let myself get caught helpless again.

I remember there is something like a camping and fishing supply shop across the street from the station. I bolt over towards it, the front door is made of glass. I pick up a stray piece of tar from the old and cracking road. Then hurl it at the window. The glass shatters and falls like a razor sharp waterfall before my eyes and I step through the opening.

As I'm sure you can guess there is no one in the shop – I don't even bother to call out this time. Then I start grabbing stuff that looks useful. I find a large backpack, some bottled water. I crack the first one open and pour it all over my face trying to wash away the last of that black gunk and dried blood that is still on my lips and up my nostrils. I then drain another bottle by drinking it, and throw three more in my backpack.

I also find myself grabbing a box of granola bars by the counter and a sleeping bag from a shelf. Finally I spot a hatchet axe. The thing is about the length of my forearm. The shaft is an almost fluorescent yellow, the head is a carbon fibre steel black.

I pause as I look at the axe. My toes curl a little and my heart rate slows. This situation is dangerous… I get that… But picking up something like that… It isn't a tool for cutting wood in my eyes. It's a weapon. I know in my heart, that whatever place I'm in, I shouldn't approach it with the same logic as following the law, or relying on the idea that cops will be around to protect me. But taking that hatchet… It meant that I was planning on violence, and I've never been so much as hunting before.

I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the handle and pick it up. The weight is… strangely satisfying… I've never lifted a gun before. I think the last time I genuinely lifted anything thinking it was weapon was when my brother and I would have sword fights with sticks in the backyard as kids. This is… well it's just different.

I swallow the anxiety in my throat. It is time to move on. I shove my slingshot bag into my new backpack and thrust the hatchet into the side of my belt.

My plan is simple. I'm armed and ready. All I have to do is go back to the train station and wait for however long it takes for rescue. If there was one train that comes through here there has to be more. I am stocked up. I don't care if I have to wait all night and all day for a way out. I dart across the street, enter the station – it is still lifeless and empty. Ignoring the cold chill this sends down my spine, I rush through to the platform. Finally I take a seat on one of the benches. This is all I have to do. So long as I stick to my guns, rescue is bound to come.

The first hour passes quietly. It's late June — at least I think it is. The humid summer of the Japanese climate is on the way out. Being so late in the evening, the days sun has given way to a cool night breeze that is almost reliving. I can't stop myself. I let my muscles relax a little I as I eat a granola bar. Then I swat a mosquito, and crack open another bottle of water. My back is starting to hurt from the hard wooden shafts of the bench. So I let myself finish the water, then I lie back on the bench — using my pack as a kind of makeshift pillow.

I have little concept of time. So, naturally, I have little concept of when I fall asleep.

I find dreams entering my mind. The kind that echo of both memories and half truths that lie just outside the scope of the conscious mind. I see the face of a girl. She looks arouund twenty-five years old. From her features I would guess she is Japanese. She has short dark hair that is thick like silk and with a slight wave to it, making it part to the left side of her face.

She is looking at me with deep brown eyes that seem full of sadness. I expect her to cry but no tears stain her face. Just a tight lip and stiff cheekbones.

It hurts my chest to see her looking like that. It strikes me as strange because if I know her, I can't be all that well since I can't seem to find a name to match her face.

She's pretty though – even in the state she's in. She doesn't strike me as any kind of classic beauty, such as a model or idol girl. She's a little too stocky in the hips to fit that kind of look. But she has a honest and pretty face that draws the eye. As far as I can tell she wears no makeup and I can clearly see the lines from where her face has creased from smiling. These creases make me want to know her. To talk to her. To hear stories of how she got them.

It occurs to me that we are in a park. It seems oddly familiar – even if I can't understand why.

There are ginkgo trees around the fence line and instead of grass there is bumpy, dry dirt all around us.

I look again towards the girl. I can see that her lips are moving but the sound when she speaks is coming out distorted in a way that means I cannot follow her words – like when you play a song in reverse. You might be able to make out some of the sounds of the language, but none of the meaning.

I move closer to her, attempting to try and read her lips. He eyes widen as I approach, and I see a flicker of fear in them. I keep moving forward and her expression transforms from sadness to something more like terror.

I start to run, to reach out to her. To assure her that everything is okay. But for as fast as I feel my feet moving, she only seems to be growing more distant.

My focus is suddenly broken by a deep thumping sound – like a depth charge going off underwater. I feel it vibrate in my heart, head and gut.

I look back to the sad girl and our eyes meet. She speaks again, and this time I can understand her perfectly.

'Turn around...' she says.

I try to do as she says. To turn around and see whatever it is she is trying to warn me about. But when I try to lift my feet they will not move. I look down to see why and I realise it's because they are slowly melting away. Where I once had toes and ankles, all that remains is a bubbly mess or pale while that reminds me of pancake batter frying in a pan.

I open my mouth, trying to scream, but no sound breaks my lips besides a clumsy choking. I cough out to try and clear my airways and a pink liquid – the same texture as my melting feet spills out. I realise it is my tongue. That it too has melted.

I then glance at my hands and see that my fingers are dripping away and landing in the dirt with a soft splattering sound.

There is no pain, but some how that leaves me all the more panicked. I look up to the woman for help, but I see that she is melting too. I reach a dripping hand out to her – I'm not sure if I am asking for, or offering help right now. But all she does is shake her head and repeat the same words as before with her malformed, melting lips, 'turn around!'

This time is far more forceful – almost threatening in a way. I realise there will be no help from her and I do the only thing I can. I try to turn around.

My legs have completely melted away now – as have my hands. But with desperate effort I start dragging myself around. Each movement is harder than the last, and I am running out of the stumps I once called my arms to pull myself with. But I refuse to stop. I am almost there now, just one more pull and I can see what is going on behind me. I can make sense of this dream. Three... two... one... I say to myself, bracing for one last push.

This is, of course, when I wake up...