I hate being sick. I can’t do what I want. I have been sitting in my room bored out of my skull. Then a horrific image came, and it distracted me awhile. I mean to involve this story with The Bureau of Clandestine Affairs, but am too tired now to put the finishing touches on it. Please enjoy this rather rough short story.
Confession
It had a human body, whether by nature, perversion, or theft gained I know not, the atrophied arms and legs of which dangled uselessly, horribly pallid, white as death, like a giant spider with some corpse caught up in its mouth, like it was trying to swallow headfirst a man but in taking too long the flesh of the two had grown over each other. And that is the part of it which resembles a man.
Separate but for four boney joints, each somewhat smaller than a skull, which joined the back and shoulders of the man to four corresponding great limbs, the succeeding joints of which numbered around two or three. These legs were thus segmented into differing lengths: on any distinct leg the largest segment seemed the middle, and closest and farthest from the body were the smaller segments.
Its standing height is various, as it can lift itself above a house, or comfortably crouch, coming face to face with you. The legs, though in shape resembling a spider, are sewn of some flesh not unlike the other demons, which is in color inky, perpetually glossy with some slick sweat.
The thing of true note is that it speaks. It revels in its tongue.
I’d had it in my power before, but securing the demon permanently proved impossible. I settled on its destruction. When last we had parted, it had secured in its web the Jocunds, had devoured their insides slowly, I can only surmise over a month eating them one by one, and upon discovering this, knowing it was my failure, I was afterwards of such determination toward vengeance that I meditated constantly upon the day I would destroy this creature.
From the Jocunds’ garage I had procured my instrument, a small, easily started chainsaw; I found it fitting to use such against this monster, to involve the victims in some small way in the creature’s death.
It rained the night I caught the demon deep within the city under the streetlamp. It had feasted, and was drowsy with the blood of its victims. It laughed, joking that it would escape within a week when it saw me. I knew the monster was helpless. It lay there exposed to the weather, drenched in the putrid muck which ran to the sewers.
The chainsaw had no trouble dismembering the fiend, victoriously tearing away its sick flesh, and grinding the bones beneath. I cut from it those four spidery legs, bits of black gore splattering into my face, blinding me as the monster screamed. The rain washed it all away.
I remember its face when it saw the chainsaw, and in some way, it was worth it.
Tale Told 
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