Tatzelwurm

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go feed worms… I hum to myself as I slip beneath the old man’s door, the half inch crack more than enough for me to filter through. I can hear the rustling of movement in the darkness, but I’m not afraid.

Just patient.

James Hosenberg, age seventy three as of this last weekend. Lives on the second floor just off of Broadway in Lower Manhattan, acting as the Superintendent for the whole building. I can hear the distant cries of a newborn through the thin walls, as well as a siren in the distance. As I drift across the room, I hear the muttered cursing in Hebrew, and chuckle to myself. The best insults always come from the cultures that have faced oppression, and none have seen it in the same way as Abraham’s Children.

Another person rustles deeper in the apartment, his attempts at stealth almost laughable to me. But that’s not really fair, as you can’t really hide from me for long.

That’s because I’m patient.

I can feel the saliva building in my mouth as I can sense the impending meal about to appear, my long tongue whipping past my rows of black serrated teeth. I lower my head to allow one of my short arms to scratch behind my beautiful ears, the other one rotating as I track the noises within the home.

The ticking of an old clock.

The steady, low whistle of the heater.

The rhythmic beating of two hearts, one just before me while the other is slowly approaching.

I float higher, coiling my long tail beneath me, granting me an excellent position to pounce once my meal is available, allowing my to use all six claws and my mouth to bring it down before it can get away.

I can’t afford to let it get away. Not this time.

Used to be I got to eat almost three or four times a day, my keen nose picking up the scent of the impending meals before they even realized what their fate was to become.

Now I’m lucky if I get one meal a week, with how fast the move onward.

My eyes gleam in the dark as a sudden bang and a flash of light erupt from the muzzle of a loaded shotgun, blasting a hole through the stomach of a much younger man. I whip my tongue out to catch his scent.

Ahhh… Ernie Hosenberg, age sixteen. James’s grandson that apparently was either trying to rob the old man of his prescription pain pills, or just trying to find a place to sleep for the night. I don’t care either way.

I watch as the light flicks on and James sees who he’s just shot, his wrinkled features going pale at his grandson’s prone form and the bubbling pool of blood seeping past his two handed attempt to hold his stomach together. The boy is crying.

I slowly drift over him, waiting for my chance to claim my much-needed prize.

There! The spark of life leaves his eyes as his heartbeat slows to a stop. His grandfather wails, holding his grandson’s body as if he could do something to save it. I watch with glee as smoke begins to rise from the boys opened mouth and eyes, drifting and coalescing as I drift beside the weeping elder until young Ernie is now staring at the scene in shock, his ghostly form carrying the fatal wound with it into the afterlife, where he would be treated and judged by his God for his life before moving onto a better (or worse) place.

That is, he would if I wasn’t here. I let loose a low growl as I spring onto him, knocking him into the air with a yelp as I sink my oversized mouth over his shoulder, biting into his smoky form and ripping away his vital essence with glee. He punches at me in a vain attempt to dislodge me, but my lower half coils around his legs as my claws begin to rip long wounds across his frame, the wounds bleeding out smoke at a slow pace. I finish him quickly by engulfing his head and tearing it free, a great puff of smog erupting from the wound before his soul settles, allowing me to eat it at my own pace, to the tune of a weeping murderer.

I begin to hum to myself when his wailing bores me. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll feed the worms…