The Hunter Inside by David McGowan

room.
    Paul began to think of what
he would have to face when he did arrive home. Thinking about it, he reasoned
with himself that this could be even worse than the pain that spread through
his face from his nose, which he suspected was broken. He mused upon the fact
that this probably meant a black eye come tomorrow, but this didn’t seem too
important in the grand scheme of things according to Paul Wayans.
    It was to more worrying
matters that he turned his attention. He thought back through his life, trying
to think of somebody who might hold a grudge against him. But as much as he
thought about it, he couldn’t think of anybody that he thought capable of
committing such a barbaric act. It was only when he thought back to his
childhood that something came into his mind.
    But surely that was absurd?
    He thought about the
stories his grandmother had told him when he was a child. He remembered the
dreams that plagued him as a result of those stories. His grandmother had died
when he was seven, but he had researched the legend of Shimasou when he was old
enough to understand what had caused the dreams. Surely, it couldn’t be that?
But what if it was?
    Paul felt the absurdity of
his situation again plainly. It was surely madness to put these happenings down
to an old legend, but he couldn’t think of anything else. He would have to tell
someone. But who? He couldn’t tell these cops. Hell, O’Neill would probably
beat him to death and Jim Brown, as good an attorney as he was, couldn’t be
expected to believe such a fantastic story as the one he had to tell.
    He would have to wait for
his ordeal in Atlantic Beach to be over. Then he would go back home and talk to
Todd Mayhew. He would believe him. Good old Todd would believe him. He was a
good friend.
    Yes. He would tell Todd –
before it was too late.
     

8
    Bill Arnold’s Wednesday morning was
not as traumatic as Paul Wayans’. It was, however, filled with the same
turbulent feelings as the ones that Paul Wayans was experiencing.
    He awoke at 8:30 AM, with a
mouth that felt as dry as the Sahara Desert. Groaning, he lifted up his head to
realize that he was still on the sofa, the TV blaring out MTV, a corkscrew
turning through his head.
    He wondered just how much
he’d drunk, and was answered by looking at the table in front of him. Three
quarters of the whiskey was gone and nine bottles of Bud stood empty, not
looking anywhere near as gloriously appealing as they had the night before.
Bill wondered why on earth he poisoned himself so badly, and decided that he
would never drink again. Worms tunneled deeper and further into his brain as
the room swirled in a haze of grogginess that was half-hangover, half-sleep.
    The haze departed
gradually, and he remembered why he had decided to fill his veins with ethanol:
the letter, no: the photograph. That was when he felt even more nauseous. He
ran into the bathroom and threw up the seat of the toilet, just in time to
catch a torrent of liquid vomit. Not the sort of vomit one gets after
overeating; full of stomach lining that looks like carrots and bits of meat,
but the sort of vomit that wrenches the guts of its victim, even after its
contents have been regurgitated. Pure liquid alcohol followed by bile.
    Despite feeling that there
was still another gallon of the noxious fluid churning inside him that needed
to be purged, he gave up heaving and slid onto the floor of the bathroom; his
clammy, sweat covered face resting against the cool porcelain as he struggled
to get his breath, his eyes closed and colors dancing in the recess that
divided his hangover from the real world outside.
    ‘Why is this happening to
me?’ he wondered feebly and out loud to himself. He was a mess.
    He stepped into the shower
and turned on the taps. As he felt the warm water massaging his shoulders, part
of the weight of his predicament subsided and his hangover began to fade. He
fought a desire to stay behind the curtain under the water that