Killer Curves

KILLER CURVES

by Leslie Diver

KILLER CURVES

Leslie Diver

LeslieDiver.com

All Rights Reserved ©2016 Leslie Diver. First Printing: 2016.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Author’s Note: All characters in this story are 19 years of age and older.

If you notice any errors, I’d appreciate a heads up please.

corrections@lesliediver.com

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KILLER CURVES

CHAPTER 1

Mom suggested I wear a FitBit – of course she would. Why should I? It doesn’t have an entry for killing supernatural creatures.

Not that I could tell her that. If it had an entry, I’m sure I’d log burned calories for sure.

Short and curvy isn’t most people’s idea of monster hunter – if they knew we existed.

Not that there’s anyone out on this lake to see me.

If I knew I’d be out at night on a boat for an hour, I’d brought along something to read. It’s not something I’d do for other monsters. Flesh Golems aren’t smart. Strong? Hell yeah – just look at my smashed Jeep – but golems are about as bright as a bag of wet mice. It’s their creators that are smart. This one took off and left his pet for me to fight or rather slowly stagger out of the woods and toward my boat.

Real life isn’t like the novels. Most paranormal novels involve women hooking up with werewolves or even – ugh - vampires. Others have six foot tall muscled men well-versed in firearms. A few are even supernatural monsters themselves with paranormal abilities.

None of that applies to me except for the powers – maybe. I’m still not sure if I have them or if I’m insane. The three ‘people’ in my mind might be from trauma or real bona fide spirits. I mean if werewolves or mummies are real, why not invisible demons? Where do you draw the line? I still haven’t decided how real they are but I’ll get to them later. It’s my story and I’m not sharing with them – at least not more than I have to.

I suppose it began two years ago. I was a typical Texas girl just outside of Plano, Texas. Hell, even the name summed up my plain ol’ life. I worked as a secretary, then rushed after work to the gym to burn off those five oh so critical extra pounds.

Funny what I used to think was important. If I didn’t go to the gym that night… none of this would have happened. Maybe it’s punishment for vanity?

I shrugged to nobody in particular.

My lips pursed into a frown. I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with me – before he or she had me committed. I can see it now…

Hiya doc… My job? Oh, I kill monsters – werewolves, vampires, you name it. Yes, I enjoy it and it’s good money. That’s not important. I want to ask you about my three friends. Where are they you ask? Yeah… you can’t see them but they’re here. They’re invisible. You sure you aren’t the crazy one? Anyway, can you tell me if they’re just hallucinations or real supernatural creatures?

I probably should speak to somebody but the PHD has no psychiatrist on call. I suppose I was lucky to crawl out of that quarry or pit and it wasn’t a metaphorical one. It was a real one with other people at the bottom – some alive and others dead from drained blood.

Once I climbed out, a tall and lanky man with a long white beard offered me his hand. If it wasn’t for his California surfer accent, I’d almost think he was Santa with an early present. Well… not really but after a vampire attack, you start to wonder.

I was just about to convince him about vampires when he smiled and aimed his shotgun behind me. One exploded house later – and dead or deader vampires, I got a job hunting monsters. You’d think that’ll make me lean and mean. Nah… just mean.

After my pit experience, I gained weight, and Mom’s disapproval. If I cared to weigh myself, I’d tell you the number. My theoretical psychiatrist might say it’s an adverse reaction or a coping mechanism. Nah, it’s a realization that life’s too short for salad.

It’s not like PHD cares what I look like – just results.

I wouldn’t say we’re an organization like in those books. We’re much too… relaxed for that. Just people who know the truth and decided to fight back. Of course the money doesn’t hurt. They get anyone that knows about the real world and let them try their luck against creature. The only training I got was a photocopied manual with useful information. Silver hurts werewolves, vampires have anger issues, mummies are flammable, etc.

Then they turn us loose. If we kill a ‘supe’, that’s good and we get a check. If not, well that’s just life. Anyone that knows can hunt. Just make it back alive and they’ll pay us.

The official reason for our random hunters is they don’t want our enemies to come up with common defenses. Attack them with the same method every time, and they’ll come up with defenses. We got ex-military but also housewives, computer geeks, strippers, and even a guy in a bear suit. I’d laugh if it wasn’t for his kill numbers and those titanium claws.

My head jerked up to a soft low moan from just behind the darken trees around the lake. I smiled. In the movies, this would be just before the girl got taken under water. My three so-called friends never steered me wrong before – with monster hunting anyway.

Like I have a choice to listen.

I cocked a mental ear for any murmur of agreement and heard none. Usually I fought to keep them out of my head. Now, I’d welcome the break to fight the boredom. The books make it sound so exciting, but ninety-nine percent of this job tonight is waiting and planning. Mostly just waiting. It’s the one percent that’s exciting but can kill you.

If I wanted exciting, I’d hunt vampires. I had enough of them.

My head jerked up to a splash. Off to my right under the moonlit sky, I saw the translucent form of Cleaver shimmer into view and solidified. I still couldn’t figure out why a hallucination – or a demon – picked an image of a British professor.

He held up a pipe to his grey bearded face while his other hand held a dusty thick book. He was balding, but that made sense for someone centuries-old. If I saw him on the street I would’ve guessed his age as mid-60s. His book vanished, and he reached into his brown tweed jacket and pulled out a gold stopwatch. He nodded in satisfaction to some internal thought. His glasses reflected the full moon overhead.

He paced as his feet walked on top of the water before he spoke with a soft British accent. I estimate the creature’s weight as one hundred and seven stone… fifteen hundred pounds if one’s a Yank. He smiled with an expression I could only describe as chilling. Gooseflesh rose down my arms. I’ve seen my share of horrors but he still unnerved me. Maybe it was the cold and calculating methodology he used. I suppose things could be worse. At least I convinced him – and the others – not to kill normal people.

To my left, my second visitor slowly materialized. Even in the twilight, I made out his short curly brown-blond hair, electric blue eyes, and perpetual wide smile. He reminded me of a college frat boy. Perhaps it was the popped up collar on his blue and black striped shirt. Maybe it was the thick, athletic muscle. It might be the Boston accent.

If Cleaver was the cold and logical type, Swatter was his opposite – at least in temperament. All three of my invisible friends demanded I kill – in horrific ways but all with different methods. Swatter stood up over the water and I saw cut, developed muscles flex out under his blue polo shirt. He held out his right hand and a long thick wooden bat materialized. Darkness steals color but I still saw the red splatter of dried blood at the end.

His thick Boston accent rang out. If you were wicked smart, we’d just bash the creature’s head in. I’m telling you. Ain’t nothing like seeing a mook’s expression once their skull caves in, he mimed a quick baseball swing, upside the ol’ noggin.

Cleaver sighed and pushed up his glasses. Yes, wood against a steel skeleton and supernaturally hard skin. What an excellent idea… to get our vessel killed.

Swatter’s smile widened. It wasn’t unlike the look I’ve seen with some drug users. Maybe the thought of a kill gave him a high. If he was a figment of my imagination, what did that say about me?

Swatter mimed another baseball swing. You hit something hard enough, it ain’t coming up. No way, no how!

I think he waited for a response but Cleaver looked away almost bored. Even my third friend didn’t show up.

She’s probably baking cookies or something. Yeah the kind that smell like almonds from the cyanide.

Fine, no wood. The wooden bat disappeared and a metallic one took its place. The blood contrasted more against the brushed steel. I raised an eyebrow at the splatter of crimson. There were a few questions like where the blood came from or if it was from my own desire to see it.

Like I said, I’d like to see a psychiatrist just to make sure these things were just in my head. I still wasn’t sure if they were demons or mentally created to help me in the pit. I’d say they were just figments of my imagination if they weren’t so helpful.

I came up with several tests to see if they were real or fake but never decided on an answer. They couldn’t hear my thoughts. I didn’t know if that was a limitation of the magic, how my hallucination worked, or if they pretended.

I turned to Swatter as he mimed his baseball swings. Hey Swatter. Boston sucks. It’s pronounced ‘car keys’ not ‘khakis’. I’m glad the Red Sox lost.

I watched him ignore or not hear me – I couldn’t say for sure.

Nothing.

An older sweet as sugar voice interrupted, and I saw my third friend. I stared at the smiling grey haired, older lady with glasses right out of the 1950’s. My male hallucinations had nicknames but June was adamant I address her by her given name. Nicknames were for the men-folk. She was a Southern lady and demanded I address her with respect.

I’d think of her as a grandmother if it wasn’t for the poison thoughts she whispered in my head. She dusted off the imaginary white flour off her blue apron and held up a pie with whipped cream on top.

Her normal accent called out although some outsiders might call it a Texas accent. "Now boys, I’m sure both of ya’lls plan could work but why go through all that trouble? She held the pie up higher. Ya’ll catch a bunch more flies with honey."

I knew the pie wasn’t real but I still couldn’t prevent the rumble of my stomach. There’s no way I’d eat one of her pies – if they were real. I could only imagine at the amount of cyanide she’d put in there.

All four of us turned our heads in unison to a loud splash. If there’s one good thing about monster hunting, it’s the eerie quiet that goes around it. Sure the monsters aren’t quiet but everything else is. I don’t know if it’s a happy coincidence or just something primal in every natural creature. It’s almost like the world senses the oddness of it and