A bloody monster!

The night wrapped around George like a suffocating shroud as he trudged aimlessly down the deserted sidewalk. The steady thrum of rainfall drummed against his shoulders and back, seeping through the thin fabric of his sweatshirt.

He didn't feel the chill. In fact, he barely registered the physical world around him at all as he drifted along in a waking dream, reliving the final moments with Carmen on an endless, tortuous loop.

Her radiant smile as they fed one another, utterly at peace and having their romantic anniversary dinner. The way her silken chestnut curls had fanned across the throw pillow, framing her face with a subtle glow in the flickering candlelight. Every nuance was seared into George's memory with agonizing clarity.

Up until that explosive eruption of shattered glass and his entire world transforming into a kaleidoscope of emerald flames and Carmen's life bleeding out before his eyes...

With a ragged gasp, George jerked back to the present. His gaze dropped to his hands, trembling violently before his face. Even in the dim glow of the streetlamps, the pallid, sickly hue of his flesh was unmistakable.

"Like a walking corpse," he rasped, flexing his bony fingers. The oversized sleeves of the sweatshirt he wore hung past his wrists, the fabric comically large on his withered frame. Only a few months prior the well-worn garment had been a snug fit on his broad shoulders and muscular build. Now the material sagged loose, as if he were a small child playing dressup in an older sibling's hand-me-downs.

A bitter pang twisted George's gut as he gripped the frayed cuffs and tugged them higher, exposing his forearms. The dark hairs there had thinned and faded until they were barely visible against his translucent skin. Even his veins and tendons stood out in grotesque relief, like twisted roots or bony fingers worming their way up from his wrists.

With a violent shudder, George wrenched the sleeves back down, hunching his shoulders against the unshakable sense of wrongness gnawing at his core. Food held no appeal for him any longer, each bite tasting like ashes on his tongue. Even the most pungent or flavorful meals might as well have been wet cardboard for all they roused his appetite.

A sound like metal scraping concrete snapped George's attention away from his macabre self-examination. His head whipped around, eyes straining through the downpour until he pinpointed the source – a lone figure backlit against a nearby storefront, trembling violently as she struggled against an unseen assailant.

The woman's shrill scream pierced the night like a banshee's cry. "No, please! Take whatever you want, just don't hurt me!"

Through the pounding rain, George could just make out the glint of refined steel as the robber waved their weapon in a silent threat. The woman must have reached for her purse by reflex, because the next instant the thug had her by the hair and was wrenching her head back at a brutal angle to expose her throat.

Something dark and visceral uncurled deep in George's psyche at the sound of her terrified whimpering. Something about her scream, the way she flailed helplessly in the robber's hands brought back memories, bad memories. His jaw clenched as a red haze bled into the edges of his vision.

"Hey!" he bellowed, his voice a guttural growl rippling with undisguised menace as he broke into a sprint. "Get your filthy hands off her!"

The robber startled, one hand instinctively raising his knife towards this unexpected new threat. George didn't so much as break stride, adrenaline and rage propelling him forward with preternatural speed. He slammed into the scrawny criminal like a freight train, heedless of the blade as they cartwheeled through the downpour and sprawled across the pavement in a boneless heap.

For an endless heartbeat, nobody moved. The woman cowered against the alley wall, too petrified to even whimper. George flexed his fingers where the slick concrete had torn away ribbons of flesh from his knuckles but felt no pain, only a dull sense of shock as dark ichor welled up to mingle with the rain sluicing over his skin.

The robber broke the stillness first with a gasping, rattling groan. He lashed out weakly, his switchblade on his left hand attempting to slide into George's ribs without so much as slicing through the sweater. A derisive sneer twisted George's features as he loomed over the dazed criminal.

"That the best you got, punk?" he snarled, seizing one bony wrist in a vise-like grip. "Now it's my turn."

The scream that tore from the robber's throat was wet with agony, it seemed like every vertebra in his forearm were misplaced as George twisted with sadistic force.

"Run," George growled through gritted teeth, hazy red bleeding deeper into his vision with every ragged breath. "Run while you still can, you worthless sack of filth."

For a fraction of a second their eyes met, the robber's wide with shock and primordial horror. What in the Conjuring was he staring at?!

Just then, wheezing through his pained arm, he did precisely as instructed. Scrambling up on his limb, the robber fled wildly into the night with the coordination of a rabid dog, slipping and sliding through the downpour but never daring to slow until he disappeared around the next corner.

But seeing the robber take off like that set off something inside George. It was like a switch was flicked, something in him saw the robber differently as he ran away. Prey!

With a grunt of derision, George turned away from the lady who was still frightened and sprinted after the robber.

The robber's footfalls pounded through the downpour as George gave chase, the thrill of wild hunger setting his blood racing. His heightened senses operated on a primal level, the world sharpening into hyperfocus as they crashed through the trees lining the park's edge.

Up ahead, the fleeing figure vanished into the dense underbrush and shrubbery. George didn't break stride, hurtling through the tangled foliage in a flurry of snapped branches and scattered debris.

The robber glanced back with a panicked grunt, his foot snagging on an upturned root. He went down hard, face-first into the muddy earth.

Before he could leverage himself upright, George was on him. Seizing two fistfuls of the robber's shirt, he wrenched the man over and pinned him to the ground with a snarl.

In the driving rain, their eyes met and locked. George's gaze bored into the robber with reptilian intensity, while the robber squealed and thrashed like a terrified rodent.

"P-please! I'm sorry, I swear!" he blubbered hysterically. "I won't ever do it again! Just let me go!"

George remained utterly impassive, the words little more than meaningless noise. His focus had transcended the human realm, operating purely on predatory instinct. Seeing he wasn't getting through to George, the robber knew he had to fight his way out.

With startling swiftness, a deep line of blood blossomed across George's collarbone as the robber struck. His switchblade cut a deep gash, severing flesh and tendon in one decisive slice.

White-hot agony lanced through George's body, his senses overwhelmed by the rich copper tang of his own blood spilling freely. He arched his back with a strangled howl, loosening his death grip just enough for the robber to wriggle free.

Staggering upright, the robber clutched his knife in a white-knuckle grip, trembling violently. George held his shoulder where he was stabbed, fruitlessly trying to stop the flow of blood as more of his lifeblood poured out in pulsing gouts.

The world tilted violently as he slumped back against the trunk of an oak, his strength waning. Through the wavering shadows, George watched the robber turn and stumble off into the night, disappearing between the trees.

Burning streaks of emerald fire flashed behind George's eyes, the witch Griselda's cackling laughter echoing across his mindscape. Pain mixed with the anguished screams of his beloved Carmen in a nightmarish torment.

But rising to join the discordant chorus came new voices, hungrier and more bestial. Urges and instincts long buried in his deepest psyche, now unleashed to howl for succor. Their maddened shrieks lapped at the fringes of his faltering sanity in a red tide.

"Blood!!!"

Only the rich, cloying essence of blood may seem to hold them briefly at bay. The tantalizing copper bouquet served as both lure and leash, whipping the savage compulsions into a feverish hunger yet momentarily restraining them.

As oblivion encroached, that intoxicating life-scent was the final imprint seared onto George's consciousness before it slipped away entirely. For in the wake of that invitation echoing through his veins, something anciently organic began to unfurl and metamorphize.

Svelte coils and needle fangs emerged to greet the beckoning feast, ushering in untold hungers and depravities once the way was cleared of its fragile human host.

When the robber finally slowed to a gasping halt several blocks away, chest heaving from exertion, he fumbled at the gash in his arm that wouldn't stop bleeding. Head swiveling in panicked confusion, he scanned the empty streets glistening with rain in the wan glow of the streetlamps.

Where the hell had he ended up? And more importantly, where had that psycho who'd chased him down gone?

A sound like scales scraping concrete made him jolt. He whipped around, knife extending in a defensive guard. But the rain-shrouded alley was deserted.

The robber backpedaled slowly, tattered coat billowing around his trembling form. His breath came in ragged pants that plumed the chilled air. His gut clenched with a sick premonition that he was being watched, studied...hunted.

"H-hello?" he called out in a wavering voice. "Ain't nobody gotta get hurt no more! Just...just let me go, aight?"

Only the steady tattoo of rainfall answered his plea. Mustering his nerve, the robber spun on his heel to start retreating back towards the main thoroughfare.

A blood-curdling roar shattered the stillness, so primal and unholy that he felt its vibrations in his very marrow. Something whistled through the deluge, liquid shadow given form.

Before he could even hope to react, something massive and coiled lashed around the robber's torso with bone-shattering force. His eyes bulged in shock as he was wrenched off his feet, switchblade clattering uselessly to the asphalt as a set of recurved fangs the size of railroad spikes materialized from the gloom.

A concussive force slammed him back against the alley wall, pinning his flailing limbs with horrific ease. What remained of his vision was consumed by a cyclopean maw lined with innumerable serrated teeth, each glistening obsidian tusk larger than his spread hand.

As the first agonized scream began tearing itself free from his throat, all that emerged was a gurgling choke as row after row of fangs buried themselves into the soft flesh of his torso and face. The thunderous wails of suffering echoed briefly before being drowned out entirely in a deluge of shredded viscera and splashing blood.