Skinwalker Stories from Reddit

Story 1 (Part 3 - Final)

I've heard that hatred weakens the heart, ironic how it feels like it's the only thing keeping mine pumping. I hate that creature, hate it for taking his life. But I hate myself even more, I should have told James no that night, we shouldn't have been walking around at night intoxicated in the first place. I hate myself for running away, for doing nothing for so long.

I sat in my car, arms folded over the steering wheel, head resting on top. A light rain began to tap on the roof of my car. I didn't leave the parking lot until about an hour had passed, like the rain, I let all the memories wash over me. Then I made my way back to the apartment.

I opened the door, dripping water all over the carpet, but it was the least of my concerns. It didn't keep the cat away though, he jumped from his cat tower and made his way towards me, rubbing up against my soaked pant legs, he always knew when I was upset. I bent down to pet him on the neck, his eyes closing in a moment of bliss.

I had it set in my mind and soul that I would go back there and end that thing, or it end me. I needed to prepare though, I didn't have any experience killing ancient shapeshifting beings, but I knew just going out there with a knife was a brainless idea. Odds are I was going to die either way, but I didn't want to go down without giving a good fight.

I recalled the gift my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday, it was an older model, a Browning 12-gauge shotgun from the 1960's. Originally owned by my grandfather, was given to my mother, and then passed on to me. In the past I had shot it multiple times, only at non-living and non-moving targets though. It was a semi-automatic shotgun, so no pumping needed. You would load the shells in from the bottom, pull back the slide, and it was ready to fire, and as fast as you could pull the trigger.

I had kept it under my bed for years with the intent of it being a self-defense weapon, but completely forgot about it. I knelt beside the bed and bending down, I reached under and grabbed a hold of the case handle. A nice layer of dust had accumulated on the top, unlatching the locks I lifted the lid up, and behold, there it lay.

I don't really care for vintage things, but I had to admit there was an undeniable attraction to this weapon. The stock was made of a fine grain mahogany, and the steel was black with a blue sheen. Despite the years it hadn't sustained much damage, save for a few scrapes on the metal and scratches in the wood. I reached in and picked it up, mindful to grab it by the wooden parts, a habit deeply rooted inside my brain thanks to my old man. I brought the stock up to my shoulder, widening my stance I raised the barrel up and took aim, this would do fine.

I kept it unloaded because a loaded gun in the house just made me nervous, but I pulled the slide back to check, and with a metallic ka-chink sound, it was empty. As for ammunition I only had a box of 12-gauge slugs, but there was no way I could open the shells and pour the ash in. I ended up buying an entire shell manufacturing kit, which would come in early Friday.

I spent Saturday watching countless tutorials on how to build shotgun shells, how to mix the powder correctly and practiced making the ammunition. Sunday I even visited a friend who had a large plot of land and allowed me to assess my ammo, I didn't add any ash, I just wanted to make sure I could make a round that wouldn't blow up on me. Once I verified I could indeed fashion 12-gauge buckshot, I returned home to make the ash-laced slugs.

The gun can hold eight slugs max, so I made the first eight and loaded them in, then an additional sixteen with the supplies I had left. I had bought a utility belt and a couple of satchels as well to hold my ammunition, and a bag of the ash mixture for the knife. I had a sheathe for the knife on the back of the belt, satchel of ammunition on my left, and ash on my right.

I hoped I didn't have to get close enough to use the knife.

I decided Monday that I would head out during the night, even though I would have much preferred going during the day. The issue was being *seen* armed to the teeth, and people don't take kindly to that sort of behavior nowadays. I had left a note for my mom in the apartment, surely after not returning her calls for a few days she'd be over to see if I were okay. It was a farewell note, I told her everything regarding how I felt, and that I planned to take my life. I didn't mention the creature, she wouldn't believe that part anyway.