The World of Myth Magazine

I called the creature, "Billy", and after a while he learned to respond to the sound of that name. Over the next five years I spent as much time at the house as I could, and on my eighteenth birthday I claimed my inheritance, the house, its grounds, and moved in. I was a wealthy, respected, figure in town with money to buy whatever I wanted.

Over the years I had come to realize the creature was neither completely human nor completely animal, but rather, a hybrid. This suspicion was confirmed when I happened upon the late Mr. Fairweather's diaries moldering in the attics.

"Billy" had indeed been spawned in a bizarre experiment abroad, and secretly transported to England in a trunk, hidden under a pile of petticoats. He showed some intelligence, but he never learned to speak language, despite my best efforts to teach him. However, he came to enjoy picture books, pointing to the objects, as I enunciated their names. Over the years I improved his toilet habits and his cleanliness. I cut his hair, dressed him in velvet jackets and pantaloons, brushed his teeth and taught him basic manners.

I decided to introduce my protégée to Nora when she turned sixteen-years-old. By then both our parents had died, victims of TB like so many. I had kept Nora separate from my life with "Billy", paying for her to live in a room in town with the landlady as chaperone. It was a dream of mine that Nora would, in time, live with me and "Billy" in the Fairweather mansion. Although I had kept my life there as private as possible from her, the older she became the more questions she asked.

I brought her to the house, one October afternoon, just as dusk was falling. The gas lamps were lit and the amber glow from the windows made the mansion look almost cozy, especially if you were unaware of who lived inside its walls.

"I have someone I'd like you to meet, Nora," I'd told her. "It is a surprise and I hope it will be a source of happiness for you."

I remember how she wore her best dress, a wonderful red satin concoction I'd bought for her, which clashed with her glorious red hair. I also recall her 'Lily of the Valley' perfume, which tickled my senses as we walked up the stoop. A memory prodded me. I knew something of 'women's affairs' by now and I recalled Nora only wore that scent during her 'monthly'. It was a little quirk of hers. I thought nothing more of this as I unlocked the door and shouted, "Hello," as I walked in. Nora stared oddly at me.

I'd made sure "Billy" was dressed in a clean blue suit, with a cap, necktie, and shoes. He looked, I believed, most presentable, except for the fur peeking out. Indeed, he could, in a dim light, have passed for an elderly child.

I threw open the parlor door with a flourish. "Nora, here is er - my friend, Billy. I've been looking after him for the last few years. He lives here with me."

Billy rocked forward, with his loping gait, hand outstretched as I'd taught him, his mouth stretched in a wide grimace, which was his way of smiling. Then he stopped a few feet away from Nora. He sniffed the air, his eyes rolled back, and his tongue shot out. His body went rigid. I had never before witnessed this behavior from him. I tensed at Nora's side. What did it mean? Nora was frozen to the spot. I could hear her panting fast with fright. In a moment Billy jerked forward and leapt, agile as ever, grabbing Nora by her long red hair, dragging her down to the carpet and leaping onto her chest.

He pummeled Nora with both his furry fists, and I heard her bones crack. He scratched her face with those sharp nails of his, and all the time he kept screaming in this queer high-pitched tone. The sound appalled and stunned me. Then with his canines he fastened onto her beautiful face, ripping off her lips and chewing them. The speed of the assault was astonishing. Only a minute or two had passed, as I watched unmoving, unable to believe what I was seeing. I prayed Nora lost consciousness fast and did not feel much pain. I am certain she was dead by the time he feasted on her face.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them, Billy was gnawing on one of Nora's shell-like ears, now stained bright red, like her dress.

"Billy," I gasped, "drop that."

And he did, again obedient and child-like. He gazed up at me with his dark eyes from which any traces of anger and fury had, as if by magic, vanished. He sidled up to me and tried to take my hand, but I pushed him away from me with some force. He whimpered as he rolled backwards, wrapping his arms around his body, and rocking himself for comfort.

At that moment hatred flooded me, and I looked around for a weapon with which to beat the creature to a pulp. Unlike him, I did not think to use my bare fists. I picked up a silver letter tray and flung it at him. He ducked with his usual agility and the tray smashed the antique mirror hanging on the wall. A thousand images shimmered showing my figure standing beside my sister's dead body. I looked as guilty as the real culprit. I realized then that in giving up Billy I could not avoid implicating myself too. Prison, or worse, awaited us both.

Billy leapt for the banister and clambered up it, pausing near the landing, where he sat, thumb wedged in the gash-like mouth, head cocked on one side, tears falling silently.

I surveyed the scene in the hallway - Nora's lush hair lay scattered in gaudy strands around her body, her dress was shredded, her flesh gouged, and her skirts were high above the knee, revealing her pantaloons. I shuddered at the sight and pulled them down for the sake of propriety.

"What have you done?" I asked, of myself as well as of Billy? I dropped to the floor and sobbed for what might have been hours. After a while Billy crept down the stairs and cuddled up next to me, putting a short furry arm around me, making a crooning noise. It was strangely comforting. He smelt familiar and I rubbed his fur.

"Oh, my boy, what are we to do?" I asked over and over.

I averted my gaze from Nora, or rather the wreckage of what she had once been. She barely resembled a person now, let alone my beloved sister. I picked up one of her shoes and placed it on the side table. Billy watched me, then he did the same with the other shoe. We both stared at the red leather footwear in silence, whilst I pondered my options and my future.

"I'm so sorry, Nora. I have to do this. I hope you can forgive me."

I wasn't sure I could forgive myself, nor did I fully understand why Billy had attacked her, but then I remembered Nora's perfume and what her wearing of it meant. Had this triggered Billy's feral and brutal response; one which was hard-wired into his DNA? I told myself that, if so, it was not his fault, if anything the hideous Fairweather's, his creators and captors, were to blame. Billy, like my dear late brother of the same name, was an innocent in this dreadful affair. I would not make the same mistake again. From now on he and I would have to live reclusive lives. I must never bring anyone home with me again. If I wanted a relationship or a woman's company I would have to partake of it far away from the Fairweather house.

Billy and I buried Nora in the spacious backyard, where she still rests. My little brother was of great assistance to me that night, carrying the body and digging efficiently with his bare hands in the dirt. He showed adeptness at the task. I congratulated him and he seemed pleased. After it was done and I had spoken the words of our childhood prayer over Nora's unmarked grave, we walked, hand-in-hand, to the house.

We ate a simple supper of bread, served on a silver plate with a selection of cold meats and several expensive cheeses, washed down with a fine red wine from the cellar. Afterwards I played the pianoforte and sang, whilst Billy danced, his strange little capering steps.

And so, to bed.

As I write these words, nearing the end of my own lengthy life, in the same parlor where I first met Billy so many decades ago, I consider the sacrifices I have made and the solitary nature of the life I have lived. No wife, no children, no friends, but also no need to struggle for paid employment nor concern myself with money.

I can barely lift the pistol, my hands ache with rheumatism. I have one last task to perform. An act of mercy. Billy will outlive me, and that cannot be allowed to happen. There is no one to take my place at the mansion.

The door creaks open and my little brother peers in at me, waving and beaming. He beckons me with his furry hand, and, as I take aim I feel both sadder and freer than I ever thought I would.

"One for you, Billy, and the last for me. God bless us both."

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