Leer

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Shroom Man 777
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Leer

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

The Leer

It happened a long time ago. I was just a kid back then, around nine or ten, heading back home from school. The bus dropped us over at the stop, and while the others got picked up by their parents, I decided to walk home by myself. It was still early, wasn’t raining or anything, and my home wasn’t too far away. I thought I was a big boy then, and big boys didn‘t need to be picked up by their parents.

So I walked down the sidewalk, by the local Lemon Spoon, past the bakeshop and the meat store, crossed the pedestrian lane while the policewoman blew her whistle and stopped traffic for us, since there were other kids with me along with their bigger brothers and sisters or their mommies and daddies. Their homes were closer than mine, which was at the end of the block, so I waved them goodbye as they reached their destinations and headed out for myself. I was smiling, I thought they were all jealous of me since I could take care of myself and walk home by my lonesome while they couldn’t, and that thought made me quite proud of myself. I shouldered my Archwind backpack and walked on to the end of the block where my house was.

Somewhere along the way was an alley, which I‘d pass by everyday. Now my mommy always told me never to go down the alleys, since they were dirty and there were homeless people there, and it turned out that there was a person in the alley, and he was probably homeless, or so I thought. If he wasn’t homeless, then why would he be in the alley? My mommy also taught me never to talk to strangers. But the man in the alley was bent over a dumpster, and he made a sobbing sound, as if he was crying. Why would a homeless person cry, I wondered. Somehow, curiosity got the better of me and I neared the homeless man. I couldn’t see his face, only his back, since he was bent over a dumpster like he was sick or something. If he was, then maybe he needed help. That’s what they taught us in the Reagan Youth, after all.

“Hey, mister, are you okay?” I asked. “Do you need help?”

The man made a sound, an answer, but I didn’t hear what it was so I went closer. I went into the alley, which was like a concrete valley of shadows, where none of the other kids or parents could see me even if they were still outside. The ground was covered in broken glass, I noticed.

“Mister…” I started again. “Need any help? Are you sick?”

“Yes… I do. Yes, I am.” the man said, and his voice had a sick, wet sound to it. It was like he was struggling to speak, struggling to breathe through a layer of something liquid. He wasn’t sobbing anymore, he was gurgling, choking, his body wracked with spasms as he hunched over that garbage can as though to heave.

I went closer. I would’ve patted his back, help him let out whatever it was that was choking him, but I stopped. He was wet, his raggedy tattered clothes soaked in dark liquid that oozed at his feet, flowing down slowly like draining pus. I stepped back, I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t want to touch it or even go near the man anymore.

“I’m sorry mister,” I tried to say as I tried to leave the alley. I wanted to go, I was becoming scared. “I…”

Wasn’t able to finish the sentence. The man slowly straightened himself up, his breathing labored even more as he did so, and he turned to me. I could see his face, it was melting like candle wax. His eyes were flowing out of their sockets, sagging near the flaring nostrils that had no nose, and his mouth was… it was…
smiling at me, making a big grin since his lips and cheeks had sloughed off, peeled off to show the razor sharp fangs of whatever it was underneath that melting face.

It was no longer human. It beckoned to me, and with it‘s gaping mouth and sagging jaw, it called out:

“Such a helpful little child, such a good boy. Come… I need
you.”

It reached out for me. I screamed and I ran, ran like I never did before, literally ran for my life. With what little brains I had left, I knocked over a nearby garbage can, a cat jumped out screeching as the bin fell and spilled its contents all over the glass-ridden ground, but I didn’t look back at the homeless man monster. I knew that if I did, it would catch me, and somehow I knew what it wanted to do to me, what its intentions were, that it didn’t just want to eat me but wanted more - that it wanted to do to me just like what it had done to that poor homeless man, since its face was melting off now I knew it wanted to wear mine. So I was screaming and running for my life and my face, and in my head I was praying to Jesus so hard and crying for my mommy and I ran out of that alley and into the light and the sidewalk, ran to my house at the end of the block, crying and not looking back at the monster that I knew was right behind me, and I went into my house and slammed the door shut behind me and locked it and shouted for mom. She came running over, since I was shouting so loud, maybe she was afraid that the neighbors would hear me screaming my head off, I don’t know, and when she came I cried and told her everything.

She held me and told me to stop crying and to stop screaming, since there was nothing out there after me and that if I didn’t stop then the neighbors would get mad at us. But I didn’t care, since I knew the monster was right out there, and I didn’t care if the neighbors would get mad at us. So my mommy moved me aside, and to my horror she unlocked the door and opened it




The Leer is nothing, a nobody born from nowhere and neverwhen. It is a creature that has no true identity of its own, and must thus take the identities and personas of others in order to gain one of its own. These identities it consumes are not merely physical ones, not just flesh or form, but are intangible and more metaphysical properties that determine what a person, or any being, truly is. It’s a quintessential substance possessed by all beings, not quite a soul but something still essential to the identity of anything or anyone, that can be found in memories, in recollections of things that were, as well as what they are now and what they will be, something that is immaterial and experienced in human warmth, in feeling, and in existence.

These quintessential identities are what sustains the Leer, for it is a creature of the abstract, without its own identity, without its own being, an empty thing that can only make something of itself by consuming everything that another person was, is, and may never be. In doing so, it becomes the being it has robbed, stealing away his past, present, and future, all the memories of others have had of him and all of his own memories, everything in his life that made him himself - and feeding on it.

But this is not enough. The Leer’s hunger is insatiable, and when it finishes consuming its stolen identities, then its mask, its disguise, its false flesh and form, will begin to decay as it too is consumed by the Leer’s voracious appetite. And it can’t let others see its disguise melt away, lest it be discovered for what it truly is - nothing - so it flees, and searches for more prey.

Yet the Leer is a weak and pitiful thing. Its hunger may be great, but it is still a parasite, one that is no one, and thus it is limited. The greater an identity a person has, the more difficult it is for the Leer to consume him - the stronger the memories others have of that person, the more intense and numerous they are, the more challenging it is for the Leer for it is not a strong thing. Thus it chooses those who are less remembered, those who are forgotten or cast off. The vagrants, vagabonds, those long gone and unmissed, or those who are young and have merely been a few years into their lives, these are the easiest for the Leer to overcome and consume. But their identities, their existence, is never enough to slake the Leer’s unending thirst.

Sometimes, though, when the time is right, the Leer can consume even those with great identities, those whom others remember fondly and strongly, because sometimes some people have more than one identity, and when a person casts on a weaker, more forgettable one, then even he may be consumed by the Leer‘s appetite. The Leer will feed on everything he‘s got, and everything he‘s ever going to have.

But as the Leer becomes stronger, as it consumes more and more identities and beings and persons, as it erases their existence and assumes their form, none of these respites can last for it - and always, as always, after the façade decays and peels off, the alleviation it feels at assuming an identity, at being something and someone for a fleeting time, will again be replaced by the pain of its true form. In the end, it will always be nothing, no one, a nobody born from nowhere and neverwhen.



I threw the roll of newspaper into the fire in the barrel. It wouldn’t last long, but it was the only thing I had left. The only thing I could do to keep warm as I huddled by myself, alone in the alley. Almost the only thing. I took another gulp from the bottle I had in my hand, one of those wrapped in brown paper, and with my other hand moved some rags to cover me from the cold biting wind.

I shivered and wondered when morning would come, hoped sunrise would come soon.

I heard a sound, something bumping into one of the dumpsters, scaring one of the cats, which scurried off somewhere unseen.

“Who’s out there?” I shouted into the dark. It was probably no one, goddamn cats. It reminded me to pick the cans tomorrow, see if there was anything left for breakfast -

That sound again. This time, there were no cats. Much closer too.

I wondered if I should get up. Someone or something was coming my way, though what they’d want, I didn’t know.

“Go get your own fire,” I muttered. I raised myself, trying to get a good look at what was out there in the dark. I couldn’t see much, I was too close to the fire‘s light.

I cursed and got up, moved towards the dark, away from the fire in the barrel. I asked who was there, but got no reply.

I heard the sound one more time. It was very close now.

A form resolved itself from the dark. It wasn’t much, small, clothed and, yeah, human. Worries about having to try and keep the fire for myself disappeared. It was a child, lost in the dark, probably scared out of his wits out alone in the night, looking for some light and…

“What’s the matter? You lost?” I asked.

“Yes,” a small voice replied. I tried to get closer, to get a good look, but the kid backed off, scared. Couldn’t blame him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” I reassured.

Worked, the child walked towards me now.

“Are you looking for your mommy and daddy?”

The child shook his head. No.

“Who you looking for then?” I asked.

“You,” came the reply, except the voice wasn’t so small anymore. It stepped into the light, and I could see that it wasn’t a kid anymore either. Small, yes. Clothed, yes. But its face, I’d never forget that face… melting, eyes coming out all misshapen and wrong and the mouth so crooked with the lips and cheeks peeling off, oh god. It smiled again.

My newspaper ran out.

The fire in the barrel died.

And so did the light.


- Patient records, Arkham Sanatorium, Arkham, Massachusets
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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Ford Prefect
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Re: Leer

Post by Ford Prefect »

Such a cool idea, with atmospheric handling. Lurking in hobo-corners and orphanages, Leer.
FEEL THESE GUNS ARCHWIND THESE ARE THE GUNS OF THE FLESHY MESSIAH THE TOOLS OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION THAT WILL ENACT THE LAW OF MAN ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
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Malchus
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Re: Leer

Post by Malchus »

That is one seriously creepy profile, Shroom. I love it when you do these supernatural and/or cosmic horror-type characters.

I like how you went with a bare bones description bookended by two snaps from the point-of-view of its horrified victims. Very horror-novel-like. But what I really like is that, in the end, the Leer isn't some all powerful semi-deity hellbent on EVIL SCHEMES FOR EVIL. It's just a lonely nothing desperately trying to find some identity, any identity, in its semi-existence.
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I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
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Shroom Man 777
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Re: Leer

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Thanks. The article itself is pretty bare bones since the idea was a very spur of the moment thing (just ask FROD, who I pitched it to and exchanged with) and I needed something more as filler, and I remembered a Stephen King short I read once (where this kid goes fishing and meets the devil, and runs home to his mommy). The Leer has a very cool inspiration though. ;)

Also thanks to Dakarne for helping me with writing the first part with the whole italics thing, not easy writing after not writing for months. :P
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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Re: Leer

Post by Peregrin »

He's existential anxiety given shape... or lack thereof. I think he's a pretty interesting concept sounds like the kind of metaphor mid-century existentialist philosophers would come up with stoned. It helps that his name means "empty" in German!
"You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you." - Heraclitus
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