I emerged from the network of tunnels and carefully lowered the manhole cover back to its resting place. I straightened up, taking in the topside world, still veiled in the darkness of night. The first sight that greeted me was familiar: the old, abandoned factory I had come to call home. Well, perhaps "home" was too generous a term. It was a place to escape the world, an area the city had long forgotten, where I could be invisible. It was secluded, and few people ventured near, sparing me from unwanted attention. Occasionally, a hobo might stray too far from their usual hideout, but they were easy enough to scare off.

The factory lay on the outer edges of industrial St. Louis, tucked away in its oldest section. The steel and brick structure stood right against the Mississippi River, providing multiple points of entry and exit via sewer, river, or street, depending on the time of day. Most of the large, multi-level facility was overgrown and crumbling. Tree branches had burst through windows and cracks in the walls, and vines and ivy had wrapped their tentacles around half of the building's exterior. It was an eyesore no one cared about, too troublesome to demolish and clear out. Thus, it remained empty and mine.

I had claimed a room that was less degraded than the rest. It was a decent size and mostly empty, perfect for a bed or a chair. Only one wall had a section where the bricks opened to the elements, but I liked to think of it as a window. For the average person, it might have been less than ideal, but I had come to appreciate it. It was a quiet sanctuary from the chaos of the world.

Inside, the room had a certain rugged charm. The floor was a mix of cracked concrete and patches of moss, giving it an almost ancient feel. The remnants of old machinery lay scattered about, rusted and forgotten, adding to the room's desolate atmosphere. I had dragged in a mattress and a few pieces of worn furniture, creating a semblance of comfort amidst the decay.

At night, the moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, casting eerie patterns on the floor. The sounds of the river provided a constant, soothing background noise, blending with the occasional creaks and groans of the aging structure. Here, I could rest, think, and prepare. It was my refuge, a place where I could let down my guard and let the beast inside me slumber until it was needed again.

The life I lived was hard, and being around people made it harder. My senses picked up on everything: blood, heartbeats, scents, noises. It could be overwhelming, and if I hadn’t killed anyone in a while, it was harder to resist the pull. Seclusion was the first thing I learned.

The second thing I learned was that I had to kill. It wasn’t a question of if I would kill someone; it was a question of when. I could last about a week, maybe two, if I stayed inside the factory. In the beginning, it was hard to accept what I was doing. Hell, it still is. I’ve just gotten better at justifying it to myself. But I was also getting better at lasting longer between kills. I knew I would always have to do it, but I hoped that maybe one day, it wouldn’t be as often, or I’d find a way out of this life.

I was always learning. Over time, I figured out how to be around people again. I never thought I would be able to control the thoughts and urges that plagued me at first, but it got easier with time. Before, I just wanted to rip people’s throats out every day. Now, if I had killed recently, I could be in public, around others. I could feel normal for a while—at least, what I remembered normal feeling like. It only lasted a few days until I had to seclude myself again, and the urges returned.

I made my way through the pitch-black corridors of the factory to my room. I had found an old mattress left on the curb after a garage sale and carried it miles back to the factory. It had some stains, but all in all, it was comfortable. On days when I could feel the thing inside of me clawing to get out, I would hole up on that bed and sleep as much as possible. It was an escape.

I put my hand in the bloodied pocket of my coat and pulled out the silver cross. Emily’s cross. I stared at it for a few minutes as I sat on the end of my bed. I thought about her life, what she could have been, who she was, and her family. Now she was gone, and this necklace might be the only thing her family had left of her.

I set the necklace down on my old three-legged table, which I had fixed up with spare parts from around the factory. I needed to figure out a way to get that necklace back to her family, or to the cops. They could return the jewelry, but it couldn’t link back to me. I had some thinking to do.

I went to the side of the room and shed the bloodied clothes. Shockingly there was still running water in the factory. I’m not sure exactly where it came from, but I used it. It felt clean, and I could smell everything, so I knew it was good. Ultimately, I guess it really didn’t matter for me. I got some soap, towels, clothes, and other little things I needed whenever I came across money, or a way to make some. I had a comfortable setup. Well… it worked anyways. It was everything I needed to survive.

I took a shower underneath the old rusty pipes that supplied the water and washed off all the blood. I was covered almost head to toe after slaughtering all those murderous assholes. I cleaned up and got rid of my bloody shirt and pants. My black hoodie and jacket were destroyed. I actually liked those two items, so I always did my best to clean them. Sometimes I’d tie them off in the river so the current would wash through and clean them. Now I’d have to steal another set from a store. I liked the hood. It helped keep my face hidden when I was out. The jacket was just for warmth. I didn’t think I could die of frostbite or pneumonia anymore, but I could still get cold and uncomfortable.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

After killing Emily Smith’s murderers, I knew I wouldn’t have to hunt for a while. I still didn’t know precisely how all of this worked since I didn’t have anyone to teach or tell me these things. I had learned everything I knew on my own, and I knew there was a lot that I still had to learn.

Since I was changed that night two years ago, I learned many things about what I was. When I relinquish control to the thing inside, I undergo a horrifying transformation. I go from being a normal looking man to something more primal. Something that defies easy description. It might not be the most original name, but I truly am a "monster." My transformation involves more than just a change in appearance; it’s a complete overhaul of my physical being. If anyone were to witness this process, I would probably haunt their dreams until the day they died.

My hands morph into deadly tools, my fingers elongating into bone-like talons that extend from my knuckles. These talons are razor-sharp, capable of slicing through flesh and bone with ease. My teeth transform as well, growing into a set of wicked fangs on both my upper and lower jaws. My senses reach an almost unbearable height, every sound, scent, and movement amplified to a level that can be overwhelming. My strength becomes monstrous, even in my human form, but it’s when I’m fully transformed that I truly become unstoppable.

My skin turns a dark, ashen grey and toughens to an almost impenetrable armor. It’s a substance so resilient that I can’t even begin to understand the physics or science behind it. When I’m in this state, weapons become useless against me. Bullets bounce off, knives snap, and flames have little effect. My body is a fortress, and if something does manage to pierce my skin, the wounds heal with astonishing speed. I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned, and beaten, yet nothing can fatally harm me once I’m transformed. Not yet at least.

Speed is another advantage. My legs are incredibly strong, allowing me to run with a ferocity that makes me a blur to anyone who might try to follow. Running is my primary mode of transportation. I can traverse the city with ease, often using the sewers to cover ground quickly and remain unseen. I tear through the underground like a bat out of hell, moving back and forth across the city in no time at all.

When I hit St. Louis, it didn’t take me long to figure out the best way to navigate the city, and more importantly, how to slip away after a kill. The answer lay beneath the surface: the labyrinthine sewers and storm drains that snake through the city like veins. These aren't just simple pipes; they’re part of an ancient network of tunnels and caverns that stretch everywhere.

The sewers lead into old underground passages that were once used to store beer back in the day. Old breweries would stash barrels in these shadowy caverns to keep the liquid chilled in the darkness. Now, they’re a sprawling maze of decay and forgotten history. I've stumbled across remnants of old trolley lines, cobblestone streets swallowed by time, and layers of grime-encrusted brickwork. The network is vast, a twisted underworld that intertwines beneath the city like a spider's web.

At first, I only used the sewers, but one day I found a crack in a sewer wall that led to something deeper. It was a cave. I smashed through the brittle bricks, nearly causing the tunnel to collapse on top of me, but I pressed on. It turns out that almost all the caves and tunnels are connected in some way. If you know how to navigate them, you can use them to get around undetected by the eyes above.

I've been mapping these tunnels since I first discovered them, but the deeper I go, the more elusive they become. I find myself looping back on previously walked paths. It is confusing the deeper you go and that is what intrigues me. It almost like that place doesn’t want me to discover its secrets. There’s still so much I haven’t seen. Sometimes, I think I hear something moving in the darkness, or catch a scent that doesn’t belong. Even for someone like me, who’s used to the weird and twisted, there’s something unsettling about these depths. They hold secrets, and sometimes, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone down there.

I decided to lie down on my bed after I finished showering. It was still dark out, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about getting Emily’s necklace back to her family. I figured I would sleep on it and figure it out in the morning. So, I kicked back on my bed and made the best of my bad situation, as I always did.

Sleep was the best escape from this life that I never wanted; the life that was forced upon me by the one that attacked me that night, back in Dallas. The monster that I had never run into again since that fateful night, where everything I loved was taken from me. I hoped I would have another encounter because I would do everything in my own monstrous power to kill it… him… whatever it was. I was going to kill it, or it was going to kill me. That was Plan B.

I tried killing myself a couple of times when I first left Dallas. I hated what I had become, what I had to do to my wife Vicky, my brother, and my family. I tried guns, fires, poisons, blades, but nothing worked. I even tried jumping in front of an eighteen-wheeler on the interstate. Tried being the keyword since it also had little effect. My tissues were too dense and tough, and any injuries I sustained healed too fast. I prayed for death, but death never came. It was kind of funny afterwards though. The look on the truck driver’s face when the mangled body he had run down just stood back up, looked at his panicking face, and then walked away into the woods. That poor bastard was standing there on the phone with the police, but his mouth just hung open. I definitely ruined his truck, and probably the rest of his day. At least he’d have a story to tell his buddies for the rest of his life.

I tried to stop thinking of it all and pass out for the night. I prayed that I would dream of Vicky, and the life I used to have. I always dreamed of her face. I’d see her body lying beside my own in our bed. I’d revisit every moment I had with her in my unconscious visions. I missed her, and I missed my life.