Dead Man's Tales: HSOTD

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Driving through the winding roads of Hokkaido early in the morning, the world around me felt as if it had just been created, untouched and serene. The mist hung low, blurring the edges of the fields and the still-cooling asphalt, bathed in the nacreous light of dawn. 

I, now, possessed an appearance that seemed lifted from the pages of traditional Japanese folklore. My sleek black hair, cut neatly at the shoulders, framed a face marked by delicate, aristocratic features. 

Human form of lady (Image):

As I drove, my dark eyes were constantly drawn to the sides of the road where the occasional carcass of some unfortunate creature lay. 

I had passed the hitchhiker initially, giving myself a chance to assess him from a distance. 

I couldn't afford to pick up just anyone. 

I needed strong, capable individuals—real hunks on legs, as I liked to think of them. The scrawny ones, the weaklings, they were no use to me or my 'army'. 

From a distance, every hitchhiker looked like a mere smudge against the vastness of Hokkaido's landscape. But as I drew closer, my eyes sharpened, dissecting the figure with the precision of a surgeon. 

Was he strong? 

Was his build suitable? 

The A9, despite its beauty, was a treacherous road, demanding more attention than one might assume. And then there was the other traffic, which seemed to emerge out of nowhere. Despite the apparent emptiness of the road, I was never alone for long. 

I hated and loved that about humanity. They would never leave you alone.

When I circled back, the hitchhiker was standing almost exactly where I had first passed him. Perhaps his arm was a little less erect, his posture slightly deflated by the waiting, or his clothing a bit more dampened by the creeping rain, making him appear more disheveled than when I first spotted him. 

Driving past again, this time from the opposite direction, I might catch a glimpse of his physique from a different angle—his buttocks, his thighs, or how his shoulders stretched the fabric of his shirt. 

I would drive slowly, my gaze deliberate and assessing. The mind plays tricks when you want something badly enough; it can turn a molehill into a mountain, a scrawny hitchhiker into a Herculean figure.

If he truly did make the grade after my rigorous scrutiny, I wouldn't hesitate. I would stop the car and invite him in. This process had become almost ritualistic over the past year, a part of my daily routine that I both revered and dreaded. 

I had to do this, especially since the day was coming closer and closer.

Driving across the railway overpass near the sleepy village, the day had already begun to feel strained. Before I even reached the highway, I noticed a disturbing rattle above the passenger side wheel. 

I strained, hoping to understand what my trusty but temperamental red Corolla was attempting to communicate. 

This wasn't the first car I'd owned; I still had fond memories of the grey Nissan estate where I had learned to drive—smooth, quiet, and spacious enough for a bed in the back. But that was history now, and the smaller, stiffer Corolla I drove today was a far cry from the Nissan's compliant handling.

Only a few hundred meters from the junction with the highway, my thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a hairy youngster ambling along the roadside, his thumb lazily outstretched for a lift. Instinctively, I sped past him, his hand raising in a half-hearted gesture—two fingers flicking up in what could be frustration or resignation. I noticed, but not before I was already past him, narrowly missing his extended hand which seemed dangerously close to my speeding car. Slowing down wasn't an option; I never disrupted the flow of traffic for a hitchhiker, not abruptly anyway. I kept my foot steady on the accelerator, aligned with the flow of other cars, and allowed myself only a mental snapshot of the figure I passed.

As I drove on, I processed the mental image I had captured—a ritual of mine—and realized the hitchhiker was a female. 

I wasn't looking for females; they weren't part of my plan, not for what I needed. 

They could be picked up by someone else. 

If the hitcher was male and had made a decent first impression, I'd usually consider going back for another look, unless he was clearly not what I was looking for. I'd execute a U-turn as soon as it was safe—and of course, well out of his sight. I didn't want him to know he had caught my interest. Circling back, I'd drive past him on the other side of the road, sizing him up a second time, all while pretending to be just another car on the road.

Very occasionally, when I returned, I'd find him gone. In those moments, my heart would sink as I imagined some less discerning motorist might have stopped for him in my absence. I'd squint at the spot where I thought he'd been standing, only to see a vacant stretch of gravel. My eyes would then wander to the fields or the undergrowth, half-expecting to see him there, perhaps taking a leak—they were prone to do that. It seemed inconceivable that he could have disappeared so quickly; his physique had been so striking—so perfect. Why had I hesitated? Why hadn't I just stopped the first time I passed him?

Sometimes the regret was overwhelming. I would find myself driving on, mile after mile, fueled by a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, whoever had picked him up would drop him off again. Deers grazing by the roadside would look up and blink at me, their eyes seeming to question my pace.

Driving past the usual spots where hitchhikers might be dropped off yielded nothing but more emptiness. Just the road stretching endlessly ahead, the world around it seemingly vacant. As a few stray raindrops began to spatter against the windshield, I activated the wipers, only to have them smear grimy, monochrome rainbows across my view. Annoyed, I squirted bottled water from the washer fluid reservoir inside the bonnet, the jet of water hitting the glass in an attempt to clear my vision. 

In a futile attempt to distract myself from the emptiness of the road and the weight of my missed opportunities, I let my mind wander to a fantasy. I pictured myself parked somewhere quiet, with a hunky young hitchhiker sitting beside me. 

In my mind's eye, I breathed heavily against him, my hands running through his hair, my arm wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. 

Just as I was considering finding a place to pull in and doze for a while, a silhouetted figure emerged just below the horizon. Instantly, I roused myself, dilating my eyelids attentively and adjusting my glasses to sit perfectly straight on my nose. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I checked my face and hair, ensuring everything was in place. Experimentally, I pouted my lips, tinted red as freshly applied lipstick, assessing the impact.

Driving past the hitcher for the first time, I took in his details: male, quite tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually. He signaled for a ride using both thumb and forefinger, but his gesture was slack, as if he'd been waiting for ages or perhaps he didn't want to seem too eager.

Circling back, I noted more details. He was quite young, sporting a very short haircut in the stark, penal Japanese style. His clothes were as drab as mud, yet the way his jacket strained slightly suggested something impressive beneath, though it was hard to tell from this distance whether it was muscle or merely bulk.

Approaching him for the final time, I realized just how uncommonly tall he was. He stared at me, possibly recognizing my car from when I'd passed by earlier, considering there wasn't much other traffic on this stretch. Yet, he didn't wave or beckon more urgently; his hand remained lazily extended. Begging clearly wasn't his style.

I slowed down, and with a calculated smoothness, brought my car to a standstill right in front of him. Opening the window, I leaned out slightly, sizing him up one last time. 

"Hop in," I called out to him, my voice calm and inviting. 

"Cheers," he said breezily as he swung into the passenger seat. His voice carried a casual nonchalance, but there was no smile to accompany the tone—just the mechanical use of smiley facial muscles. Immediately, I discerned something about him: he was the type to dodge the very notion of expressing gratitude, as if saying thanks was a trap. In his world, nothing I could offer would place him in my debt; everything was just expected as if due.

"No problem," I responded smoothly, pretending he had offered a sincere thank you. "Where are you heading?"

"South," he said, his gaze drifting in that direction.

A lengthy second ticked by. He then pulled the seatbelt across his torso, the action seemingly reluctant, as if acknowledging this was the only way we could commence our journey together.

"Just south?" I probed gently as I eased the car away from the curb, making sure to flick the indicator toggle—not the headlights or the windscreen wipers, a mistake I'd made more times than I cared to admit.

"Well… it depends," he mused. "Where are you heading?"

I paused, evaluating my plans against his ambiguous response. "I haven't decided yet," I replied after a moment. "Sapporo, to begin with."

"Sapporo is fine with me," he agreed quickly.

"But you'd like to go further?" 

"I'll go as far as I can get," he said with an enigmatic shrug.

Just then, another car flashed into view in my rear-view mirror, demanding my attention. I assessed its speed and trajectory, ensuring it wasn't a threat to our merging onto the road. By the time I turned back to my hitchhiker, his expression had settled into an unreadable mask. Was his remark a display of impish arrogance? A hint of sexual innuendo? Or merely a dull, matter-of-fact statement? It was hard to tell.

"Waiting long?" 

"Pardon?" He blinked at me, seemingly caught off guard while in the middle of unzipping his jacket. I couldn't help but wonder: was the simple act of managing a zipper while responding to a straightforward question too taxing for him? There was a thin black scab etched across his right eyebrow, possibly a relic from a drunken stumble, I mused. His eyes, though, were clear, and his hair seemed recently washed. He didn't carry any unpleasant odor—was he just not very sharp?

"Where I picked you up," I elaborated with a slight tone of impatience, "had you been standing there long?"

"I don't know," he muttered, a bit defensively. "I don't have a watch."

I glanced down at his wrist; it was robust, adorned with fine golden hairs and marked by two bluish veins that ran over onto the backs of his hands. It was a strong hand, capable-looking, but that was only part of what I needed to know.

"Well, did it feel long?" 

He paused, considering the question as if it required deep thought. "Yeah," he finally answered with a grin that revealed less-than-perfect teeth.

Outside, the sun's rays seemed to intensify suddenly, as though someone had just cranked up their brightness. The windscreen lit up, flooding the car with ultraviolet rays and pure heat, the coolness of the breeze entirely filtered out. I had the car's heater running full blast as well, and soon enough, the hitcher began to squirm uncomfortably in his seat, ultimately stripping off his jacket entirely.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to make it obvious. I observed the mechanics of his biceps and triceps as he moved, the way his shoulders rolled with each motion.

"OK if I put this on the back seat?" he asked, bundling the jacket up in his large hands.

"Sure."

"Sure," I replied casually, my eyes briefly catching the ripple of muscles on his back as he twisted to toss his jacket atop mine. Despite the faint layer of softness around his abdomen—more beer than muscle—it was nothing repulsive. The bulge in his jeans was noticeable, although I reminded myself pragmatically that appearances could be deceiving.

Now more comfortable, he settled back into his seat, offering me a smile that seemed to have been toughened by a lifetime of consuming less-than-stellar japanese fare. His teeth weren't great, but then, how much did that really matter?

I could feel myself edging closer to a decision. He was appealing, yes, and I did want him, but I needed to know more. The last thing I wanted was to commit to this only to discover he had significant attachments elsewhere.

That was a problem I didn't want to deal with. Humanity, weak as individuals, morphed into a formidable threat when unified. And then there were the other monsters—creatures far stronger than myself, lurking around corners of the world I dared not probe too deeply. 

That's why I was doing all this—collecting these "men" for my army. Each hitchhiker was a potential soldier, a piece to fortify my ranks against the day when no man or monster would dare challenge my dominion. 

When THAT day comes, I mused, feeling the weight of my own ambition settle around me like a cloak, I would be ready. I

Pushing these sprawling, ambitious thoughts to the back of my mind, I refocused on the task at hand—my latest prey. 

Why was it always the most desirable ones who sat in silence, offering nothing but their physical presence, while the less appealing ones felt no compunction about unloading their life stories within minutes of getting into the car? Just once, it had been a man in a voluminous parka who, upon shedding his outer layer, revealed a body as insubstantial as his incessant chatter.

Minutes ticked by, and this hitchhiker seemed content to remain silent, yet he wasn't entirely inactive. Every so often, he would steal glances at me, particularly at my chest. I caught his furtive eyes just as they darted away, confirming his interest. It was almost as if he was waiting for me to turn fully forward so he could examine me without my notice.

Deciding to test his reaction, I leaned slightly forward, feigning intense focus on the road ahead. This posture exaggerated my profile, giving him ample opportunity to take in the view. The sensation of his gaze was like another form of ultraviolet radiation, intense and hard to ignore.

I wondered, with a mix of curiosity and a dash of vanity, what I looked like to him in his so-called innocent appraisal. Did he see the effort I had put into my appearance today? Did he understand the signals I was subtly sending? I straightened my back against the seat, intentionally pushing my chest out slightly.

He noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed.

Fantastic tits on this one, but God, there wasn't much of her otherwise. She's tiny—like a kid peering up over the steering wheel. How tall would she be? Five foot one, maybe, standing up. Funny how a lot of women with the best tits are really, really short. This girl obviously knows she's got a couple of ripe ones, the way she has them sitting pretty on the scoop of that low-cut top. That's why this car is heated like an oven, of course: so she can wear a skimpy black top and air her boobs for all to see—for me to see.

The rest of her is in a funny shape, though. Long skinny arms with big knobby elbows—no wonder her top is long-sleeved. Knobbly wrists too, and big hands. Still, with tits like that…

Those hands are really odd, actually. Bigger than you'd think they'd be, looking at the rest of her, but narrow too, like… chicken feet. And tough, like she's done hard labor with them, maybe worked in a factory. I can't see her legs properly; she's wearing those horrible flared seventies trousers that are back in fashion—shiny green, for Christ's sake—but there's no disguising how short her legs are. Still, those tits… They're like… I don't even know what to compare them to. 

I tried not to laugh when I read the guy's mind. 

It was amusing how many times I had heard these lines before.

I slammed down on the brake, the sudden deceleration threw both of us forward. The man, caught completely off guard, slammed his face into the dashboard, his hand shooting up to clutch a now bleeding nose. I briefly glanced at him, registering the sudden shock and pain etched on his face, but I quickly redirected my focus. My mind was churning, distracted by a nagging sensation—one that felt as if invisible eyes were watching my every move.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?" he screamed, his voice edged with pain and surprise. 

I continued to drive, albeit slowly now, my thoughts spiraling. Was it just paranoia, or was there really someone, something, out there monitoring me? But who or what?

I turned to look around and blinked when I saw a deer.

Oh, great my senses are getting duller, I need a new body, I thought to myself.

Glancing to the side, I saw him still looking out the window, his fingers pressing against his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Sorry, I don't know what came over me back there," I offered with a smile, a mask of concern painted over my indifference.

"Hmm," he grunted, not even looking at me. I nearly rolled my eyes at his sullen demeanor. I could almost read his thoughts; he was likely planning to use this incident to guilt-trip me into sleeping with him. Wow… this was easier than I thought.

It had been so easy to get this man to follow me like a loyal dog. Within just a few conversations, he had spilled his life story—a divorced father on a spiritual journey to 'find himself' after life had seemingly gone wrong. All it had taken was a display of fake sympathy paired with his underlying desire, and he was practically eating out of my hand.

Pulling up to the old apartment complex, the sight was eerie, to say the least. The building's facade was a palette of neglect—paint peeling off in large, curling strips, like the skin of some long-forgotten creature. Windows, dusty and cracked, offered a glimpse into the shadowy, uninhabited spaces within. 

Weeds had claimed the small front garden, growing unchecked and wild, their tendrils creeping up the sides of the building as if trying to pull the structure back into the earth. 

"You live here."

"Well, it's cheap, I'll say that much." 

As I opened the door to the pitch-black darkness of the hallway, I slipped off my jacket with a practiced seductiveness, letting it slide from my shoulders and drop to the ground. The fabric made a soft sound as it met the dusty floor. 

"I like a chase… Let's see you catch me," I whispered, stepping into the shadows. My voice was husky, inviting, as I moved away from him, my silhouette briefly illuminated by the light from the door before merging with the darkness.

He eagerly shed his clothes, pursuing me into the deepening darkness, I continued to peel off my own with calculated allure. Each garment slipped from my shoulders, trailing to the ground like shadows merging with the night. He advanced with every piece I dropped, drawn in like a moth to flame, yet unaware of the abyss opening beneath him.

The chase felt intoxicatingly primal; his fixation on my form only heightened the thrill. But as he stepped forward, I gracefully retreated, maintaining a tantalizing distance. It was a dance of seduction, with one fatal twist—the floor beneath him was an illusion, a trapdoor of shadows waiting to swallow him whole.

As he finally succumbed to the engulfing darkness, a silent chuckle almost escaped me. He was so captivated by the promise of his prize that he failed to see the danger until it was too late.

There I stood, unclad in the dim light, the cool air brushing against my skin, yet feeling nothing of the vulnerability such a state might evoke in a woman—I wasn't human, after all, and had long since shed any pretense of being so. 

"It's time we meet face to face," I called into the void, my voice echoing, commanding the shadows. 

In the shadowed thicket of man's dominion  

Fangs of industry, claws of ambition.  

Apex of predators, crowned in deceit,  

Devouring the weak with insatiable greed.

A specter now rises from nature's own heart,  

A reckoning clothed in the dark.  

Whispers of vengeance, a ghostly chant,  

Humanity's hour to cower and pant.

Beneath moonlit whispers and crimson sky,  

The hunted now hunt, their hunger wry.  

With spectral grace and silent dread,  

It's time for the apex to bow its head.

Beware, oh man, of what lurks unseen,  

In the darkness, your sins convene.  

For those you consumed without fear or thought,  

Rise as hunters of the night, uncaught.

This eerie poem was being sung as it came into the room.

Hoves on the sea of darkness, the deer she saw earlier. 

As the eerie melody filled the air, sung by a voice that distorted and shifted towards humanity, the familiar sound of hooves clattered on the floor. 

My eyes widened in shock as the deer I had seen just an hour before entered my field of vision. 

The creature's eyes, once on the side of its head, were slowly rotating to the front as it began shedding its disguise.

"You are a monster," I muttered under my breath, watching in disbelief as the deer stood on its hind legs, discarding its hooves like discarded gloves to reveal human-like hands with five fingers.

"It doesn't matter what I am, puppet," the deer retorted, its voice chillingly calm. 

In that moment, I tried to probe its mind, to grasp some understanding of what it was, but a sharp pain pierced my head suddenly. Shocked, I touched my head and felt the cold steel of a knife embedded there. I watched, detached and oddly curious, as my reflection in the sea of darkness showed no blood, only a black mannequin-like figure in a human skin suit pulling the knife out.

Skin Lady true form (Image):

"Rude," I commented dryly, tossing the knife aside as if it were no more than an annoyance.

"Says the one who wants to read my mind," the deer countered sharply.

"What do you want?" 

"Well, I think we can create some beautiful chaos together," the deer suggested, squatting down casually, its attention seemingly diverted away from me as if I were a mere afterthought in its broader schemes.

So, it knows, I realized. It understands what I am, and perhaps even what I'm capable of. This realization sent a shiver down my spine, not of fear, but of the possibilities that such a being could represent.

"And what if I say no?" 

"Then you have no use for me," it responded coolly, its gaze fixed on the shifting darkness that was my true form—the sea of shadows beneath our feet.

"You will die here, deer," I warned. Could I indeed craft a soldier, something potent and terrible, from the corpse of this monster?

"Then go ahead, kill me," the deer challenged, his tone laced with an almost ecstatic anticipation as he wanted to die.

Activating my army, I summoned them from the depths of the sea of darkness. A hundred men materialized around me, each one transformed into a humanoid creature clad in a greyish exoskeleton. Their faces had morphed into sharp, helmet-like structures, their mouths mere slits revealing rows of serrated teeth.

"Beneath the skin, women's legion, you shall fall," I declared, my voice echoing across the dark expanse.

"May chaos claim the world," the deer retorted, undeterred by the menacing assembly before him.

…

As the two formidable beings faced each other, a battle loomed on the horizon—a confrontation so severe that it promised to leave a deep scar upon the earth. Unbeknownst to them, their clash would set off a chain of events, a domino effect that would irreversibly prepare humanity for an impending cataclysm known as the Day of the Black Sun. This was not merely a fight between two monsters; it was the unwitting genesis of a new, darker epoch for the world.