#mob!gaster

Opening his gun case with a click, Murray lifted a shotgun from its wrack and weighed it in his arms. It was an intimidating weapon to be sure, and if the former cop remembered anything from his days on the streets, it was that intimidation won a lot more battles than brute force alone. Quickly, the reached inside the drawer under the case and pulled out a case of shotgun shells, loading his weapon before whoever or whatever was outside got any ideas.

With another quiet click, he closed the gun case and stepped out into the hall towards the door. Consciously, he knew there was a chance that the shadowy figure outside wasn’t related to anything he did in the precinct; that it was just some neighbor passing by or some moron would-be burglar thinking of breaking in. But with how many enemies he made as a copper, he wasn’t willing to stop and find out. If there was someone skulking around his property, he wanted them off as soon as possible.

However, as he approached the door, he couldn’t help the shiver up his spine that sent goosebumps down his arms. James gritted his teeth and pressed the butt of his firearm to his shoulder. Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t feel right, and if Harsworth were there, he’d tell him “If it don’t feel right, chances are, it ain’t.” But he pressed on. The safety of his family was at stake and he wasn’t going to let some hokey boogey man scare him out of protecting them.

Taking a breath, James undid the locks and opened the front door, checking each direction before stepping onto the front porch. The night was quiet. Even the usual sound of crickets and frogs had fallen into eerie silence. He furrowed his brow and peered into the darkness. Frogs and crickets didn’t just stop making noise in the middle of the night - especially on a hot muggy day in June. Something was definitely wrong.  

He’d only had just enough time to formulate the thought when he felt something strike him from the side. He fell to the ground with a grunt and writhed as whatever struck him ground his head harder into the beach wood porch. Startled and alarmed, Murray tried maneuver his gun to shoot whatever it was holding him down, but as he did, he could feel long, slender fingers curling around his arms and wrists, pinning him and his weapon to the ground.

‘How many people are on me?’ he thought, both terrified and astounded by their silence and stealth. But then something occurred to him. The things pressed against his face, blocking his vision… they were fingers. Long, white, slender fingers with maybe a faint amount of slime seeping onto his skin, and he could feel the same dampness slowly spreading from where his arms were being held. No human could have fingers like that. Which meant….

“W̶ell͝, ͘wel̛l, wéll. Lo͜ơks͝ li̕k͘e I ͢fin̡al̴ly̢ ͡fo̸u͡n͞d y͘où, Mr͟. ͝Mu͞rr͟ay̨.͏”

James felt his blood run cold as the monster’s low voice gurgled softly above his head. It was almost a croon really. An icy, bone chilling croon that made death look like a sweet summer dream. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed as it continued.