White Animal

White Animal

A Story by Graham Swanson

This is a story I wrote a few years ago, the hour before I had to go off to work, I typed it up. The idea came to me while I was passing a dark stretch of road.


McCormic's feet weren't as quick as his eyes were, so when the animal was quickly eaten by the hood of the speeding car. He couldn't do much but close his eyes and exclaim S**t as loud as he could before his ride came to a screeching halt. The moonlight glimmered through the fog like a silver gas, and the moist, sweet honey scented aroma of decay permeated through the savory air of late November. McCormic's flesh prickled as he opened the door and exposed himself to the night. Silence had resumed as he let the engine die, but the two brilliant headlights sliced through the dark mist like an edged razor. Carefully McCormic rubbed his weary face, and peeled the Hawkeyes cap from his head, checking behind him at the small dark house on the end of the road, but he ignored it. McCormic only concentrated on the slow pulse of his blood, and of the alcohol still swimming through his body. McCormic pulled his hands away from his face to his pockets to reassure himself that he still had his wallet and phone, that lint still lined his pockets. Without the doubt scraping at his conscience, he began to edge toward the headlights.

            Red patches adhered to the steaming lights, and chunks of meat and hair sizzled on the grill. McCormic took a step around, and he heard a faint noise, a gurgling, like a feral scowl, or starving beast. Than his eyes adjusted to the mass laying before him. Had McCormic taken his Chevy instead of a freind's Honda he would've ran the mass flat down, and not even noticed, for the thing was no bigger than a dog, but it was gangly, composed of white tumors that clumped together like child’s clay, and from its body sprouted four limbs that stretched out like fleshy stems of fractured bones, and bloody-cream colored skin. The limbs twisted and bent in unnatural angles, and slowly began to twitch like a shocked heap of broken vectors. McCormic felt his organs tense, and his genitals retreat, for from the dark fog beneath the car he saw a humanish head clearing, and the agony-filled gurgling cutting into the nigth’s silence. McCormic couldn't breathe, and his muscles began to shake and ripple as a cleaved- open, and mashed-in face began to become apparent, with bright blue eyes and a gaping hole of a mouth.

            No Curiosity, no yearning for discovery could've kept McCormic where he stood. Before his mind could even catch up to his body he was running towards the house hoping that someone- anyone- was there. The owner of the house was woken up at 2:23 am by the copious banging on his door, and to the urgent pleads for help. Frustrated, he assured his dozed wife that it was a nobody who got lost on their way back to the city. When he opened the front door, The Owner met the pale, cold face of McCormic  rambling incoherently about the white animal. The owner was led away from his door step to the Honda that sat alone on the road in the moonlight, where McCormic exclaimed and swore that a creature was laying... but the only thing there was a car that was growing as cold as night, and a small pool of red water below the front bumper.

            There was something here, McCormic appealed to The Owner, his voice caught in his throat.

Nothing here at all, boy. What do you think you hit?

            I- I d-don't know...

Well, whatever it was, it's gone now. Are you feelign alright, kid? What're you doing out this late anyway?

            McCormic didn't answer, he just stood in place, watching the pool of blood as if he were praying to it.


The next day, McCormic awoke from his sleep at the sound of knocking. He chose to sleep naked, and without bathing, but in the light of the hangover he could perceive that it was an unwise choice. Outside of his door waited a man in a black suit, face stern and cold as marble above a black tie. Of course the man at the farm house would call the cops. The stranger was no dumb old man, he probably knew an intoxicated driver when he saw one, and waking him up to check out road kill was not normal behavior besides. McCormic hollered out, Give me a minute, I'm not decent. The man in the suit gave no replay, but began to stride along the porch, and inspect the curiosities that McCormic thought were quaint enough to place on his porch. He'll work his way to my car if he's smart, McCormic thought as he threw on dirty pair of jeans from the floor and a stained T-shirt with a faded Alice In Chains logo.

            When he got to door and opened it, the Suit's inspection was over, for he stood at attention by the door step.

Good Morning sir, is this the residence of Linus McCormic?

            Yes, sir. I'm him.

We've gotten a call from a concerned denizen, may I come in?

            No, I'd prefer it if we stayed out.

Very well. I'm agent Maurice, FBI. The suit said, reaching into a breast pocket to retrieve a case holding a shining- golden badge and certificate with the bold letters FBI across the top. Is that your car sitting out on the driveway?

            No sir, the Honda belong to a friend of mine. My car is in the garage.

Is your friend here? We'd very much like to ask him a few questions.

            McCormic's stomach began to twist. I'm sorry, he's not. He's not here. He was, but that was last night.

How late last night?

            Must've been around two or three AM. He was plastered drunk, just got done driving around in the country. I told him he couldn't drive, and I made him walk home.

Very well, Mr. McCormic. Can we have a name of this friend?

            Yeah, his name is Mitchel Perrot.

The Suit pulled out a notepad and began to scribble stuff down. Does Mr. Perrot have an address?

            Yes. 256 on North 23rd street. It's a green house.

Will he be home?

            I don't think he's gonna go anywhere too soon. He was very drunk.

The agent finished his scratchings and folded the note book back up and hid it in his pocket. Very well, he said. You have a nice morning, Mr. McCormic. before striding off.


            McCormic was nervous, but as the daylight was being spent the fake address and fake name seemed to hold up as the Suit didn't return. Not while McCormic ate breakfast, not while he was at work, not after, and not after night had fallen again. McCormic went to bed that night after warming up a supper of leftovers, and watching an hour of TV, feeling much more sober than he did the night before, and he embraced that sleep warmly.


            It was pitch black out when McCormic awoke from a startling bang coming from outside. His first thoughts were of the Suit coming to the door, only there'd be more, and they'd want answers from him. The only thought he could conjure was what the Suit wanted from him? FBI? All he did was hit an animal... maybe it wasn't an animal, he wondered suddenly as a wet, slithering became noticeable. S**t, the dog-door McCormic realized as the slithering was followed by a clud, and then another clud, as the noises only grew closer, and closer. Than the gurgling began... the agonizing gurgling that impregnated the silence of his bedroom. McCormic slowly peeked from under his sheets to see two bright blue eyes at the foot of the bed.

            I see you, it said.  

© 2015 Graham Swanson

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All in all a thriller of a story that pushes all the proper fear buttons. Plenty of room for improvement, but at least something very much worth re-writing into a more perfect shape.

Posted 9 Years Ago

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1 Review
Added on February 23, 2015
Last Updated on February 23, 2015
Tags: horror, mystery, suspense, dark humor, paranoia, deceit, shame, guilt, monster, Gothic, short fiction, short story, flash fiction


Graham Swanson
Graham Swanson

Lincoln, NE

I'm going to school at University of Nebraska. I like to write horror, and I've recently been looking into Gothic Fiction, and music because I find it kindling, but I also have an interest in mysticis.. more..

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