Ball-Peen

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21U3hpTGlVNDJaRzg/view?usp=sharing

It was a simple ball-peen hammer. A metal head, a wooden grip, manufactured on the cheap in China for the price conscious in America. The hammer was lined with scrapes here and dents there, some from missed chisels, others from strikes right on the mark, successes and failures, all. It was a whole lot of experience in one little tool. Really, it was good that Fatima was holding something that had its mettle tested by time.

It was all she had, after all.

The Thing shifted in the shop. Slowly it stalked, along the cabinets, around the generator, an awful silhouette in front of the blazing work light. Its form was dark, its shape was slithering, a creature that went bump in the night if any ever had. Of course, Boogie Men never did such damage.

Steven could attest to that. His blood still hadn't run cold, keeping its slow, sticky spread across the concrete floor. He had been a giant in body and heart, big, bearded, more a bear than a man. Steven seemed vital, essential, key to whatever god's grand plan. His chuckle shook houses and his grin grew the hearts of all who saw it. He was larger than life.

He died without a sound. All it had taken was a single swipe of its serrated tail and he had hit the floor, never to laugh again. There would be no more bear hugs from the big man. There would be no goodbyes.

It was a fate that Fatima would share if It found her. Her hand tightened around the tool. The Thing wasn't moving anymore. No, It had better things to do. Its head was sweeping, searching, looking for something -- possibly the one that got away. It surely had seen her, heard her -- Fatima's scream had probably been heard clear to Tulsa, though no help had been forthcoming.

In this neighborhood, help never did come. Which left her alone with It. The creature slowly arced its neck, raising its long snout into the air. Its jaws parted and its nostrils flared, once, twice, a hollow rasp following each time. The sound shook Fatima.

The footfalls terrified her. She hadn't had time to cry, but the emotion was there, if still undefined. Grand, flowing, a great swell held together by a dam composed of silly string and a prayer. Panic combined with that raw emotion, that fresh hurt, swirling and mixing, developing into something more. Fatima didn't have time to be sad. But anger?

Anger she could handle.

The Thing poked its head around the corner.

Consequently, so did her hammer.

It's been a while since I did a recording. I tried to be quick with it -- about three or four takes. The quality isn't what I usually expect, but I'm trying to build up my speed on it.

Here's hoping you enjoy it.

Also, Jesus Christ, it's been forever since I updated this thing. Depression, you silken whore!