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Shawn Oetzel

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Member Since: May, 2006

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Dying Moon
by Shawn Oetzel   

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Copyright:  Feb 17, 2006

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What if the series of grisly murders you have been seeing on the news were actually committed by a Fairy creature that is thought to only exist in books or movies, and even more fantastic, the only person that can stop this killer is also of the Fey race and comes from an entirely different realm than our own? This is the essence of Dying Moon.


Joseph Stanfield stood looking out his 43rd floor office suite window watching the humid summer night light up with the angry flashes of lightening as the storm released its fury on the unsuspecting populace of Los Angeles. He stood motionless like a stone gargoyle perched high atop an old Gothic structure as he watched evening stragglers scurrying about like ants trying to gain cover from the falling rain.

“Disgusting little peons,” he muttered under his breath.

A new wave of thunder rolled across the dark L.A. sky, when the intercom on his desk buzzed. He smiled with a predatory glint in his eye knowing that it was his new secretary. She was pretty young, pretty dumb, and had a pretty nice body in his self inflated opinion.

“Mr. Stanfield, your wife is on line one for you,” a soft timid voice said as it came through the intercom.

The smile quickly vanished from his face as he turned from the window and glared at the box on his desk.

“What could that worthless woman want now?” he uttered to himself in disgust.

He paused a minute before crossing the office to find out the answer to his question. In the distance another crash of lightening and roll of thunder hit so hard that the windows rattled.

“That can’t be a good sign,” he muttered under his breath.

He hit the button to the intercom, and barked out a quick thanks to his young secretary. He decided to stand there and intentionally make his wife wait out of spite. Jessica, his wife of 12 years, had become nothing more than a continuing annoyance to him. She was a rather mousey woman who had never shown any sign of a backbone, and he had grown to resent her because of it. He hated weakness period, and Jessica had become a constant reminder of that miserable trait. After a couple of minutes of stewing in his loathing for the woman, he decided to answer.

“Yeah,” he spit out in anger.

“We’re through,” the voice on the other end said without any hesitation.

Stanfield perked up. This was just what he had been waiting for. As a newly promoted Senior Vice-President for a major corporation, he had an image to uphold. That of an emotionally cold bastard who would leave his supposed loving wife was not the picture he wanted to project, but if she left him, the possibilities could be manipulated. He would be the grieving, heart broken husband who could not save his marriage. Yes, that was exactly the spin he could put on it. This might even win him some points with his nice bodied secretary.

“What are you talking about?” he asked smiling. He was proud of himself as he actually managed to sound surprised.

“You know exactly what I am talking about! Don’t play that surprised game with me you smug bastard! You’ve wanted this for awhile, and I am tired of fighting. You win,” she finished knowing that she was beaten.

Stanfield laughed as he said, “Its about time.”

“I hate you,” she whispered back through clenched teeth. Then, in a voice filled with a confidence he had not heard her use in months, she added, “I want it all, the house, the cars, the money everything. You will get your divorce, but you are going to pay for it or I am not signing any papers!”

He had known those threats were coming, but it still ticked him off to be challenged, especially here in his own office where he was in charge.

“Fine,” he said, his jaws clenched so tight, it felt like his teeth might shatter from the pressure.

At this point he would agree to anything to get this pathetic excuse of a woman out of his life. With the money he was going to get from his promotion, he could replace everything anyway. Knowing he was still going to come out on top, he was able to regain control of his growing anger.

“I’ll be out of your life tonight,” he said with fierce determination.

There was a slight pause, and then a loud voice said, “There’s one more thing I have to say…Screw you Joe!”

He actually winced as the phone on the other end was slammed back into the receiver. Thunder rumbled again as if in emphasis bringing him out of his momentary reverie.

“Well what ya know, she had some balls after all,” he said laughing at his own joke.

He hung up the phone and then turned back to the window. He felt younger and happier than he could remember. Finally his life was his own again. A new promotion, no attachments, and thank God he never allowed his soon to be ex-wife to have kids. Ex-wife, he liked the sound of that.

“This calls for a celebration,” he said to no one in particular as he walked over to the bar and filled a glass with ice and Jack Daniels. He liked the potent whiskey; it was strong and powerful just like he was.

He took his drink and stood in front of the window to watch the fury of the storm. The rain was pouring down. It sounded like pellets as it bounced off the glass of his office window. There was a tiny knock at the door, and when he turned, he saw his young secretary standing in the doorway to his office. He smiled the smile of a hunter knowing that it has its prey cornered.

“Mr. Stanfield, I am leaving for the night. Is there anything I can get you before I go?” the young secretary asked hesitantly.

Oh, my dear if you only knew Stanfield thought to himself, but to her he said, “No, that’s fine you go home. Try to stay dry out there. It’s coming down pretty hard.”

“I will. See you tomorrow Mr. Stanfield,” she replied.

“Oh by the way, I am starting a new project so be prepared to work some late nights,” he said with just a hint of luridness.
It was enough to put his secretary on guard, but so much the better. He liked to intimidate people, and that especially included women he planned on seducing.

“Sure Mr. Stanfield. I understand,” she said timidly.

There was hesitation in her voice, but she turned and walked down the hallway to catch the elevator. He watched lasciviously as her hips swayed as she made her way out of his office. Once his pretty, soon to be plaything left, he returned to his inner thoughts as the storm raged on.
He finished his drink and made another. He watched the lightening blast across the night sky and took a sip of his whiskey. The ice tinkled against his glass. He liked that sound. It reminded him of power.

After the drink, watching the storm, and still feeling good about the events of the last hour, he decided he had the courage to go to his house, pack his things, and walk out a free man. He grabbed his brief case and coat, then headed down the hall.

“This is ridiculous. There should be a VIP elevator. Now that I have some stroke around here, I think there will be,” he muttered as he walked to the elevator.

When the doors opened, he stepped in, turned and hit the button that would send the elevator down to the parking garage where his Mercedes awaited him. God how he loved that car.

“Damn, I told that miserable woman she could have everything,” he said out loud as if the elevator was listening.

He made a mental note to contact his lawyer in the morning to draw up the divorce papers and to also add something about him getting to keep the Mercedes. This made him smile yet again. That would be one last dig he could get on that wretched woman.

When the elevator finally reached the bottom level where the garage was located, and the doors opened, the first thing that he noticed was that some of the lights were out, and the garage was blanketed in shadows.

“Worthless maintenance,” he said in frustration. “I swear, is everyone incompetent around here?”

His car was parked the farthest away from the elevator, but that would soon change with his promotion. He began making his way down the darkened aisle to his waiting automobile when he heard a loud whistling sound. The sound was quickly followed by a thud, and then a sharp piercing sensation in his right leg. He yelled out in pain and surprise.

Again he heard the whistling sound, and then the same thud followed by white hot pain, this time in his left thigh. He toppled over like an aged oak tree that had been felled by a lumberjack. He watched as his briefcase went flying from his hand, scattering papers across the garage’s concrete floor. The pain in his legs was excruciating. He looked down, and saw what appeared to be arrows sticking out of both his thighs.

“What the …?” was all he could think to say as he scrambled to get back to his feet.

Out of the shadow by his car he saw a figure appear as if it was detaching itself from the darkness. It was almost as if part of the shadow had come to life and taken a vaguely Human form.

Stanfield watched in shock as the dark figure raised its arms and pulled something back. He heard the whistling sound once again. It reminded him of the bottle rockets he would let off with his Dad on the Fourth of July back home when he was a kid. That thought raced through his befuddled brain as the next thud hit him right in the chest and shoulder area. The impact was so hard, that he was actually thrown back into the now closed elevator doors. At that moment, all he knew was pain. It was sharp and white hot, almost tangible, like he could reach out and grab the pain and throw it away from him. He actually raised his arm to try.

The figure released the strange item that was in his hand, and it clattered loudly as it landed on the concrete of the garage floor. In the dim light, Stanfield could see that it was a fairly ornate looking bow; what would probably be referred to as a long bow.

The arrow in his chest was buried almost to the fletching. He could see that the feathers were black, but that seemed a moot point at the moment as an even bigger problem was approaching from the darkness. What was even more vital, was the fact that the pain in his legs was gone. The arrow had clipped his spine on its deadly path through his body, and he could not move or feel anything from the waist down.

Realization that he was in dire trouble finally set in, and he tried to yell out to the figure that was slowly approaching.

“Wh…Wh…Who are you? What do you want?” he asked the stranger as he slowly approached.

The figure answered with silence. Stanfield heard a slight clanging sound as if metal was being drawn against another metal. He watched in horror as the figure pulled forth a long slightly curved sword. It gleamed in what little light was left in the parking garage.

The figure waved the sword in a complex maneuver. The blade, swishing through the stale garage air, made a noise that Stanfield knew was meant to scare him. It worked. He began weeping and begging for his life.

“Please…I am a rich man….anything you want,” he hated himself for being so weak, but at the moment he was out of options.

The living shadow was close enough now, that Stanfield could see him smile. There was something odd about the assassin in the way he moved. It was with the grace of a dancer, and he made almost no sound as he stalked ever closer.

There was just enough light that Stanfield could start to make out features as his attacker drew closer. He was tall at least 6’5 and thin, but not skinny. There was a presence about the figure, an aura that gave off a sense of underlying power. His hair was a blonde that Stanfield had never seen before. It certainly could not be natural, could it?

Stanfield smelled the unmistakable odor of urine, and realized that without control his bladder had emptied. When he again raised his head, the figure was standing in front of him.

He was dressed completely in black with a black suit and overcoat. He was also wearing a matching black fedora as well.

Stanfield looked into the coldest blue grey eyes he had ever seen. He was so scared that he could not speak. The figure removed his hat, and that mesmerizing blonde hair fell down over the assassin’s well dressed shoulders. What he saw was almost as shocking as the fact that he was laying in his own urine with arrows sticking out of his body. The man’s ears were pointed!

Stanfield’s brain began to race to find the appropriate name; a word that he had not heard since his childhood. A myth, a fairy tale figure...what was the word?

“Let me introduce myself,” the figure spoke. His voice was soft, almost effeminate, but carried such an edge to it that it left no mistake as to who was in charge and what was about to happen. “I am your doom.”

With that, the shadow man raised the finely crafted scimitar and slashed. So sharp was the blade’s edge that Stanfield never actually felt the sword slice through his abdomen spilling his intestines, but he screamed never the less. The figure slashed again and again in a frenzy of blood and gore. The blood flew from the blade like the rain that was falling outside. A red mist surrounded the immediate area around Stanfield and his attacker. The smell of raw meat and bowel began permeating the garage.

Finally, the sword wielding assassin stopped. He stood shaking, and trying to regain his composure. He had a job to do, a mission to complete.

From a hidden, smaller scabbard at his back, the black clad killer pulled forth a long jagged dagger. The figure leaned in close to stare into his victim’s eyes as they slowly began to gloss over.

Amazingly, Stanfield was still alive. He stared back at the murderous stranger, and finally that word came to him. Just as the shadow assassin plunged the ornate dagger into his chest, one word rang out loudly inside Stanfield’s brain. His last thought before the darkness grabbed him and took hold. Elf!

The Elf, for that is what he truly was, looked down on the lump of flesh that was barely recognizable as human, and smiled. In his hand he held his prize. It was Stanfield’s heart. Blood dripped from the now lifeless organ onto the black clad figure’s hand. The Elf placed the heart in a bag that he pulled from his waist. He walked back through the garage clutching his trophy tightly. He whispered some words and disappeared in a flash of light. A flash so quick and bright, it was as if someone had taken a picture. The carnage that was once Joseph Stanfield, a newly promoted Senior Vice President of ChemCo, the nation’s third largest drug company, lay quietly against the elevator.

“Let me introduce myself,” the figure spoke. His voice was soft, almost effeminate, but carried such an edge to it that it left no mistake as to who was in charge and what was about to happen. “I am your doom.”

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