Cw: body horror, blood, description of injury, major character death
The cool earth tumbled off of Whumpee in chunks as they sat up, sputtering and spitting. A disgusting combination of blood and mud dribbled down Whumpee's chin.
They wiped dirt from their eyes and face. They were cold. So cold. Their insides even felt cold. But their lap was warm. And.. wet?
Looking down, Whumpee saw the blood pooling and realized that there was a slash leaving their torso open to the cool night air. Struggling to remember how they got to where they were, they pressed a hand to their stomach to keep their guts inside.
Recognizing where they were, Whumpee managed to stand and walk while holding their abdomen shut. This was a field out past town where Whumpee often went to paint. They had gone.. they had gone there today hadn't they? They usually painted alone. No, today was different. Why was it different.. oh. They had walked farther than usual into the woods and ended up at a house. Someone was there when they were painting. Who was it?
Walking down the hill, they found their painting supplies had all been tossed down a ravine. Who would do that?
Something sparked their memory. The owner of the house came out yelling and waving their hands as Whumpee painted the dilapidated house. The sun, highlighting its heavenly downfall as nature took over.
Blood seeped through Whumpee's fingers as they stumbled along. The lights of the town were up ahead. What direction was the hospital?
The owner of the house was waving their hands at Whumpee, what were they upset about? "-et away get away get away!"
Whumpee tried to give them the painting as an apology for being where they shouldn't. Feeling confused. That's what they remember. Usually people are happy when they receive a painting. They usually forgive Whumpee. This person didn't. It made them angrier? They grabbed Whumpee by the hair and dragged them to the back of the house.
As the memory passed, Whumpee gently carded their dirty fingers through their hair with their free hand to feel patches missing. Ouch. Very tender.
The street lamps buzzed with life as every single moth in the world obsessed over each one. Whumpee passed by storefront after storefront, closed for the night.
The owner of the house ripped out hair and hit Whumpee over and over while shouting incoherently. They were older than Whumpee by many years.
Looking at the police station, Whumpee decided to keep walking to the hospital. They would get there eventually to make a report but not now.
The owner of the house pulled out a wicked looking knife and with a swift motion, dug it deep into Whumpee's stomach, and pulling downward to the right. Whumpee remembered falling backwards and hitting their head.
That's probably why their head hurt so much. They gingerly investigated a knot on the back of their head, it felt crusty. They kept walking down the empty street.
Whumpe remembered being wheeled down the bumpy driveway in a wheelbarrow stained dark with blood. Blood that wasn't theirs. The sun hurt their eyes so they kept them shut. They could hear the older person muttering angrily in a language only they understood.
Whumpee walked past the decorative shrubbery next to the sign for the hospital.
Whumpee felt the wheelbarrow stop abruptly and the sounds of a shovel breaking ground ensued. In and out of consciousness, Whumpee felt themselves being picked up and dropped into a shallow, Whumpee-sized hole. As the sun-drenched soil was tossed over them, they heard gruff laughter.
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room were so bright, it hurt Whumpee's eyes. As they walked through the waiting room to the reception desk, all eyes were on them.
The receptionist watched in concern as a young person, covered in dirt and blood approached. "Honey, wait right there, I'm getting someone for you - can I get some help at reception right now? I have a code blue!" Their voice rang down the hall as two nurses and a doctor trotted over.
In a state of haze, Whumpee took their hand away from their stomach to wave, forgetting what that hand was supposed to be doing. Staff and patients waiting to be seen screamed as Whumpee's intestines poured out onto the floor in a wet heap. Whumpee followed a second after, to the same spot.
A week passed after Whumpee's death and with the town still in shock, Detective took on the case. This was a quiet town. A small town. Things like this weren't supposed to happen. At least, that's what was advertised about the town since it was established. That's why Detective took this job in the first place. Although, looking into the town's history, there was a history of people going up in the woods and not returning, which would likely be a good lead.
"It's nothing," said the sheriff. "They're up there doing drugs, overdosing, waste of time in my opinion."
"Then why have no bodies been recovered until now, in the condition that Whumpee was in when they walked into the hospital in?"
"Bears."
"You can't be serious," scoffed Detective.
The sheriff merely looked up over his glasses and took a long swig of their coffee.
"Listen. You're new here. You don't know how things work in this town. It's a small town. A nice town. And we don't go in the woods to the North. Whumpee was new in town, they pushed their luck after we told them not to go to the North woods. Now they're dead. Take my advice and close the case."
"Well now I HAVE to check it out."
"No, you don't."
"Will you stop me?"
"No, I just," the sheriff sighed deeply, "would really rather you didn't."
"Then it's settled."
The sheriff sighed. After Detective left their office, they made a private call.
Night fell and Detective packed a rucksack with water, food, and medical supplies along with their gun at their hip, badge in their pocket, and they were on their way.
They walked up the hill to find a long, shallow ditch with blood soaked soil. This must have been where Whumpee was.. buried alive? That would explain how they were covered in dirt.
Detective took pictures and noticed tire marks and footprints leading further into the dark. They found their way to a run-down house and immediately shut their flashlight off when they heard signs of life from inside. Creeping onto the porch, Detective attempted to peer into the dirty windows, illuminated only by moonlight.
Focused on what was inside, they missed what was encroaching behind. Only seeing the shadow of a shovel swinging behind them tore their focus away from the house and they were subsequently knocked out.
Waking to the flicker of candlelight, Detective's head pounded. A concussion most likely. Great. Attempting to get up, Detective only made it so far before handcuffs halted their movement. Handcuffs? Why handcuffs?
"You shouldn't have come here." Sheriff stepped into the light.
"Wh-huh? Sheriff? What're y-"
"I TOLD you. I TOLD you not to come. You didn't listen. Dad? You can come out now."
An older man, dirty and disheveled shuffled into the light as well. He grumbled to himself and wrung his hands uncontrollably.
"That's your dad? Sheriff, he needs help."
"SHUT UP!" The sheriff backhanded Detective so hard they tasted blood.
"I think I know what my dad needs. He NEEDS to be left ALONE. No one ever listens. They can't just let him be."
"That's why everyone who ventured too far out from town never returned," Detective gathered. "Sheriff, how long has your dad been killing?" Detective was gentle with their approach knowing they were likely going to be next.
Angry tears streamed from the sheriff's red face. "He just moved up here because he wanted to be left alone. Nosy people get what they deserve."
Turning towards Detective, the sheriff pulled out their pistol.
"Nosy people get what they deserve."
The woods silenced themselves as gunshots rang out.