Short Story: “The Hunger,” Part 4

2 December 2025

An interesting detail listed below, concerning the progress on the final book of the first series. Now, we conclude the tragic and frightening tale, born of the deepest, darkest childhood nightmares: you have been warned . . . again!

8 April 2013

We progress slowly but surely to the end of Book 7, and the end of The Redemption series; we have made good progress in recent weeks, and look forward to finish this book and series, upon which we have worked for a quarter of a century. We saw this week for the first time a nearly finished cover for Book 3, which will be soon released for all of those waiting patiently. In the meantime, here is the tragic conclusion to “The Hunger.” Enjoy!

“The Hunger, Part 4″

Two weeks dragged by, guilt tormenting me, before the hunger returned to take control of my actions. Again, I tried flight. Into my shattered mind came a picture of the hut of a villager, who some claimed possessed supernatural powers. I think she was a shaman. Reflecting back on the events, I see that the picture was planted in my mind by my tormentors, placed there ensuring I take the next step on the road to demoralize me, to change me into a monster. I staggered into her hut, wild and babbling in my madness. She led me to a place by her fire, obviously expecting my appearance. I begged her to help me. She offered a drink of bitter tea, which, being out of my mind, I accepted and drank. My insides froze as if filled with ice. The hunger, delighted in the cold, grew, renewing the pain in me. The witch cackled, signaling someone out of my view. I watched, incapacitated by pain. She opened and dipped her fingers in a jar, then raked her long nails across my neck. The four parallel cuts burned, feeding the flames of guilt. My true self, what little remained, cowered in fear as the titans of guilt and hunger lashed me with fire and ice. Someone carried me back to the stone building.
For a short time, I fled and hid from the incarnations of guilt and hunger. But as before, my solace did not last. I felt something strapped around my forehead. I suddenly sat bound to a chair, the incarnations of guilt and hunger, in the forms of Rachel and Trina, stood before me. Guilt spoke first.

“Since you now have been unfaithful, and since we sinned together, I wonder how many others there were before we met and you stole my virginity?”

“None! Nor did I compromise you–it is a lie fabricated by this she-devil!” I pointed to the Trina-hunger. Neither woman seemed interested in anything I had to say.

“Let’s open some more locked doors,” Trina said.

As before, scenes from my past, altered, played before me. In each dream sequence, I drank the blood of some girl I dated in the past. In one scene, I stalked an unwilling girl, who begged me to stop. The Rachel-guilt exploded to flame, surrounding and burning me for my supposed sins. I tried to fight it, failed in my weakened condition, and drank the blood of Trina Barrett as she drank mine.

“It would be simpler if you’d just accept it,” she said, smirking as she pushed herself off me. I stiffened and screamed, watching them smoke and mumble, “Dreams,” to each other as the puffed their way into insensibility.

The hunger came again after a week. I tried to resist, gave in, and went to her. Afterwards, guilt consumed me. Three days later, it happened again. And two days later. Then, everyday. Two weeks passed with the hunger coming each day, satisfied each night by Nurse Barrett. But instead of the guilt lessening over time, it became as all consuming as the hunger. By night I would drink the blood of Trina Barrett. By day, I ran aimlessly through the jungle, screaming at the trees, seared by the fire of guilt. At the conclusion of the second week, Trina took the locket from around her neck and placed it around my neck. In less than three months, I had been broken. My high moral standards had been eroded and washed away by a flood of uncontrollable hunger. The parson, my parents, and others were fully right–once the door was cracked there was no closing it. A message was sent, the jeep came to collect me, and Nurse Barrett bid me a fond farewell.

“It has been nice tasting you.” Her smirk told me she meant something other than what she said. As the jeep carried me away, I heard Nurse Barrett whisper “dreams,” followed by the echoes of her laughter.

But those who planned and accomplished my ruin had not finished with me yet–I had not drunk the cup of bitterness to its dregs. As is normal with the military, things moved slowly. I was delayed for day while being examined at an army field hospital. When night fell, the hunger came, and with it, a vision of what I must do. I left my room and stalked the halls, seeking a victim. I found her, sitting alone at a nurse’s station, reading a magazine. I opened the locket, breathed on the insect, bringing it to life. It jumped into my hand, glowing with red light. The nurse looked up, noticing the light in my hand.

“What’s that?” she asked, trying to see what I held.

“An insect.”

“Show me.” She leaned over my hand. The glowing insect leapt onto her neck, bit her, and leapt back to my hand. I placed it back in the locket. The nurse moaned once before fainting. I caught and carried her to an empty room where I tried to satisfy the hunger by drinking her blood. As her blood touched my tongue, I knew how Nurse Barrett had duped me–I saw the pleasant, erotic dream this nurse was having. I acted in the same way the man in her dreams acted. When we finished, I left her where she lay and crept quietly back to my room. Guilt lashed me as I lay, tortured on my bed. The hunger returned after an hour, as strongly as before. I returned to the room where I left the nurse. She lay in a swoon on the bed. I drank her blood again, becoming another man in her dreams. Recalling that my first “dreams” came in trios, I waited until the hunger returned, drank her blood a third time, becoming a third man in her dreams. She sighed, the wound closed, and slept more soundly on the bed. I ran back to my room, consumed by guilt and screaming my voice raw. They sedated me, thinking I was reliving some horror of the field.

When I revived many hours later, they put me on a plane to Hawaii, where I stopped for debriefing. The hunger came and with it, the worst indignity I could possibly imagine. I was trapped in an army compound populated only by men. I tried to leave the compound and failed, turned back by a pair of grinning MPs. I did what I could to relieve the pain, but without blood, I could not satisfy the hunger. Madness at the pain took me screaming and running about the compound. No one noticed; no one came to sedate me. I stopped suddenly before the only lighted window, saw a young soldier, a clerk, working at some project. I saw what I must do, driven insane by the hunger. I breathed the insect to life and went in. The clerk looked up, boyish features, startled by my sudden entrance. Before he could protest, I held my hand to his neck. The insect, glowing more orange than red, bit him and leapt into my hand. The young clerk sighed, slumping into his chair. I put my lips to the wound, drinking his blood, and saw his dream. I shrank from what I saw, but the mad hunger forced me to fulfill his wishes. Three times I drank his blood and three times I fulfilled his perverted fantasies. I screamed at the heavens, filled with more guilt than before. My religious past, revolted by my acts, lashed and burned me more fiercely than the guilt of being unfaithful to my Rachel. I ran screaming toward the gate and the grinning MPs.

“Please!” I begged. “Shoot me! I’ll run out of the gate and you can say he was shot while trying to go AWOL!”

They grinned and laid their rifles aside. I ran at them, but was no match for even one of them. They easily held me struggling between them. A third soldier came out of the guardhouse, holding a large hypodermic. Without stopping to sterilize my shoulder, he jammed the needle in, pumping in the sedative. Blackness silenced the guilt lashing my broken mind.

When I came to, I was in a jetliner over the Pacific, on my way home. I had layovers, planned no doubt by my tormentors, in Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. In each airport, I stalked another victim, drank the blood of each and lived three of their dreams–two women and one man. Afterwards, in each place, guilt and madness followed with someone coming to sedate me and put me on my next flight.

I’m nearly home–the hunger grows within. I ache to see my Rachel, but fear what she will see in me. I cannot conceal my “illness” from her and simply feed on her each night–she hasn’t enough blood for that, nor do I possess the means of inflicting her with the same disease–at least we could satisfy each other. And what will Rachel think, when I return from my nightly feeding, howling with madness? I can hardly believe there will be agents of my tormentors on hand to sedate me, bring me home, and explain to the authorities what happened to my victim. If Rachel does not have me locked away, the authorities will. I’d be in a cell unable to stalk and feed nightly. Remembering my torment when I tried to resist the hunger, I cannot imagine what might happen if I were unable to hunt–likely I would die in great pain, leaving many questions without answers.

Someone has tapped me on the shoulder. I look up. The stewardess hands me a small package with my name on it. Opening it, I find a syringe and a bottle with a name I recognize–the coward’s way out. I look around, trying to see who sent the package. I imagine seeing the smirking face of Trina Barrett. I look again and see no one I recognize. I slip the package into my pocket and fasten my seatbelt–we are about to land. The plane taxis down the runway, coming to a stop near the air terminal. I search the crowd for the face I both long and fear to see. I leave the plane, jostled by the crowd, looking for Rachel. Perhaps they did not tell her I was coming. I dial my own number and am surprised there is no answer. A cold feeling grows in the pit of my stomach–has something happened to my sweetheart? I call for a cab and am surprised when we reach my house to see both cars in the driveway. I throw some money at the driver and run to the door. Inside, dust covers everything. I call out her name and hear no answer. On the dining room table I find a piece of paper, the only thing in the house without dust on it.

Dearest:
I’ve been through Hell. I cannot face you knowing I’ve been unfaithful to you. Please don’t hate me for what I’ve become. I love you more than words could describe. I just wish you could help me.

I notice a set of footprints in the dust going toward our bedroom. I find her, lying on the bed, looking like an angel. Yet something appears wrong. She looks pallid; I cannot see her chest moving and touch her outflung hand–it is cold. On the dresser I see a package like the one I was given on the plane just before landing. But, its bottle is empty and the spent syringe rests in her other hand. I turn her arm and find the needle mark. I check her pupils–she’s nearly gone. My screams of agony fill our empty home. When my voice is gone, I pull the package from my pocket. . . .

I embrace warm darkness, riding upon her bosom into eternity. The sound of a door closing intrudes upon my flight, coming as if down a long, echoing tunnel. My fleeing mind rouses enough to listen to high-heeled footsteps across the floor. They stop suddenly. The sound of a guitar, plucked in a mournful key, comes floating to me across the void. A deep masculine voice sings slowly–something about an end. I open my eyes, struggling to see through the haze. I focus, finally, upon the smirking face I have come to loathe. She mouths a single word, “Dreams.” I try to scream, but have sunk too far.

Her face moves close to mine. “You did this to yourself.”

The truth of her declaration crushed my failing mind–I had betrayed myself. I try again to scream, but only a gurgle escapes my lips. Her laughter echoes about the darkness into which I’m sinking. The bass voice repeats its haunting refrain; the guitar weeps for me, and for Rachel.

The End

As I said, deepest, darkest nightmare, which is why there is a rule of short stories against a protagonist existing only for destruction. Next time, we will look at something more positive and uplifting, my many posts surrounding this season, and the reason we celebrate.