Frustrated, Incorporated
After her initial transformation, The Winnisquam Wailer makes an accidental public debut
This prompt stems from the Create a Cryptid Challenge led by Labyrinthia Mythweaver and John Watson - Horror Author. Thank you for including me!
The Summer People are still lingering near Mosquito Bridge after Labor Day. They’re supposed to have gone, but they remain.
One of them saw me.
I am to start my second semester at Winni Community College this week, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen…
•••
September 14, 1998—
That’s a photo of me in the woods, caught unawares.
It looks like I’m mid-primal gesticulation, but I’m not.
Go on and laugh.
I’m sure I would if I had a sense of humor about all this, but I haven’t found it yet.
Unfortunately, that photo made the paper.
I managed to keep myself hidden for three days before some rube with a Kodak set out to “find the bellowing in the woods.” His words, not mine.
The bastard found me mid-shriek. That’s what I get for howling Misery.
The Walkman’s batteries died after hours of playing Alek’s tape, so all I had playing in my head was the last song I heard. On repeat.
And my only goal, the moment that dumb townie saw me, was to keep up with Dave Pirner’s perfect voice-cracking whine, because when he sings, it’s like a forgotten longing is found and tucked safely inside desperation—I just can’t part with it.
Anyway, once the batteries petered out, all I had was my demonic yowl, which in my defense, I didn’t know sounded so terrifying until I tried to sing.
My voice isn’t my voice anymore, but I wouldn’t know it because neither is my hearing. There’s a constant ringing so I’ve no idea what sounds I’m making.
My skin, my nails, my eyes, my back, my legs, my voice, these horns, and this weird-ass, stubby tail I’ve sprouted…not mine. And what was mine sure isn’t mine anymore.
And now everyone in this shit town knows my attempt to sing was a “woeful mourn” some dolt in camouflage just “had to find.”
He took off once I growled, then he and his manic panic caused enough of a stir to get my likeness on the front page of the Sunday paper beside the headline:
CREATURE FOUND WAILING
NEAR MOSQUITO BRIDGE!
Idiot.
I know I could’ve hurt him if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t.
I have enough problems.
•••
I’ve been thinking a lot about My Side of the Mountain.
I read it in middle school and I’ve never forgotten Frightful the Falcon, the tree hollow, or anything Sam Gribley did in the woods of the Catskill Mountains.
I looked but couldn’t find a tree hollow big enough for me and these damned batwings. Not to mention, I couldn’t bring myself to crash another creature’s house—the squirrel family looked too cozy to bother.
I found a dilapidated shack—no doors or windows, just an empty space with four walls—and made a nest of leaves and soft peat moss. The walls are painted hot pink and filled with the nonsensical graffiti of a three-year-old. All I can make out is “…something… something…on Tuesday.”
Whatever that means.
The silence is killing me. You’d think hunger would be doing that, but it isn’t. I think my sudden hunger in the emergency room was just a deep pang I could’t name. I’m not really hungry. I haven’t needed food or water in this state.
Whatever “this state” is.
•••
To kill time, I’ve taken to examining the thick scales along my arms. They’re like the layers of tough skin Swamp Thing has—big, rounded leaf shapes in a downward pattern toward my talons. They’re blood red, but when the sun hits them, they look iridescent, so I’m shiny. Which is kind of cool, I guess.
I’ve counted 99 scales so far…
Both “99 Red Balloons” and “99 Luftballons,” are on Alek’s tape. He knows I love them. I’ve been rearranging the lyrics in my head to suit my new look.
“Ninety-nine reddened scales…pulsin’ in the lingerin’ heat… Panic bells, it’s weird, it hurts… There’s someone here from somewhere else… The Mad Machine springs to life… Opens up two demon eyes…”
Anyway… It’s passing the time.
My legs don’t have scales, which I find odd, but whatever. They have reddish brown, coarse fur growing from what seems like toughened skin, though I’m not sure.
I can’t see my tail, really. It’s short. The wings get in my way, but I have somewhat figured out how to tuck them in weird positions so I can get in and out of the shack.
I think if Pan were lurking in these woods, he’d find me sexy enough for a romp in my moss bed.
Oddly enough, I’m fine here?
Sort of? I don’t know.
I miss Alek.
Maybe Sunday’s front page news will lead him here.
•••
“They say misery loves company
We could start a company and make misery
Frustrated, Incorporated
I know just what you need
I might just have the thing
I know what you’d pay to see…”
Soul Asylum, Misery
For more of the nameless cryptid, start here…
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Ah the days when the batteries on our music players mattered.
Very cool story mixed with humor and mystery. "the squirrel family looked too cozy to bother." Tells you so much about the character in such a short line.
Oh I love how this is going. Sure she's becoming a monster, but the her that's her is still in there, not monstrous at all... well... maybe a bit like when she knows she could've hurt the guy.
I love the attention to the world around her, especially to the other animals. She seems to value them far more than the people around... and she herself seems more of a fascination than anything else. Like, "ooh what's this?" or "how do I manage that now?"