It’s In His Hiss (Monster Between the Sheets: Screaming Woods)
1. Gordy
Chapter 1
Gordy
A chill swirls in the air as I walk along the sidewalk in Screaming Woods, barely noticing anyone else who crosses my path as I make my way to the bookshop. With every step, I remind myself why I take this solitary route, avoiding the main street where the townsfolk and their curious eyes roam. It’s for their safety as much as mine. Who knew that Halloween punch would turn my life upside down? Note to self: avoid sugar and mad scientists offering free drinks.
My snakes, an unmanageable mass of hissing tendrils atop my head, writhe restlessly as if sensing my discomfort. They’re a constant reminder of what I’ve become, a gorgon thanks to Dr. Emmett Karloff’s ill-fated concoction. I try to tame them into a stylish mohawk each morning, to control the power that comes with their presence, but it’s like trying to calm a toddler with teething pain.
They’re the main reason I now spend so much time reading. After all, I can’t turn people to stone if I lose myself in books. Not that I need an excuse to read more. I love diving headfirst into a book. You might even say I’m not all that mad about this being my life now, reading through the hours, devouring books before sliding them back onto the shelves. There’s no risk of petrifying paper.
Last week, though, I wasn’t so lucky with a flock of geese at the park. One look, and they were statues, sinking into the pond without so much as a honk. I still wake up at night wondering if they resurfaced. Yes, it’s safer in my world of words and solitude.
“Safe and sound,” I whisper as the keys jingle in my hand, the lock giving way with a satisfying click.
The door creaks open to reveal the sanctuary of my bookstore, a labyrinth of shelves that hold more worlds than I can visit in a lifetime. As I step inside, I can’t help but glance at the pond across the street through the window, its surface still and calm. A shiver runs down my spine, not from the cold but from the memory of stone feathers sinking beneath the water’s surface.
“Come on, Gordon,” I mutter, pulling the door to the bookshop closed behind me with a soft jingle of the bell overhead. “Another day, another dollar, another chance not to turn someone into lawn decor.”
I shrug off the guilt over the geese, letting the familiar smell of old books wash over me. The quiet hum of the store is a balm to my frazzled nerves. This is where I belong, hidden from prying eyes, surrounded by stories that can take me anywhere, let me be anyone. Anyone but a monster with a snake mohawk and a stony gaze.
“Never again,” I promise the quiet room, the shame of the geese incident burning low in my gut.
I head straight for the counter, flipping the sign in the window to “Open” with a flick of my wrist. I doubt many will brave the weather today, a small mercy for a man whose gaze is best avoided.
I pull off my jacket, hanging it on a hook behind the counter, the serpentine residents on my scalp unfurling to survey their domain. They hiss softly, a sound I’ve come to find oddly comforting. They’re part of me now, unruly, unpredictable, but mine. Are they hard to tame? Let’s just say I’ve become adept at snake-whispering. Or, I’ve tried to be, anyway.
Books are simpler companions. They don’t judge, scream, or turn into garden statues. Or stare at your green skin. I understand the staring—it took me ages to stop staring at myself in horror when I first turned into a gorgon, but it gets old. Books simply whisper tales of love, adventure, and mystery from their pages, asking nothing in return. I’ve always loved books, but now they’re more than a pastime; they’re my lifeline.
“Let’s see how long we can go without any incidents today, shall we?” I address the room, half-expecting the books to nod their agreement. I chuckle to myself, the sound muffled by the rows and rows of books. Humor is a solid defense against dwelling on what I’ve lost, or rather, what has been added to my life without my consent.
I pace the length of my bookstore, tracing the familiar spines with my fingertips. Each book is a world I’ve already lived, an escape route I’ve memorized. I suppose that’s what comes from being a scholar with too much time and not enough human contact. It’s not like I haven’t been curious about love before, but these days, the thought alone sends a shiver down my spine—a shiver that isn’t entirely fear. The idea of turning someone to stone with a mere glance is enough to keep any sane man celibate.
“Ah, ‘The Odyssey,’” I muse, pulling out the well-worn tome. “Odysseus had it easy. At least he could look at his Penelope.”
But as much as I love Homer’s epics or Dante’s journeys through the afterlife, they can’t keep the loneliness at bay forever. Intellectual pursuits have always been my go-to distraction, yet now they serve as a reminder of the connection I crave but dare not seek.
“Human interaction is overrated, anyway,” I say to no one in particular, allowing myself a small grin. “ Who needs conversation when you’ve got Shakespeare’s sonnets? They’re like the original text messages of unrequited love.”
I slide a familiar tome back onto the shelf, my fingers trailing over the worn cover of Medusa and Other Gorgons .
The book shudders.
I jerk my hand away. “Nope. Not dealing with haunted books today.”
The cover flutters slightly as if exhaling, and I scowl. The last thing I need is sentient literature. I poke it cautiously. Nothing. Maybe I imagined it.
I navigate through the aisles, slipping my dark sunglasses into the pocket of my plaid shirt as I go. The glasses aren’t simply a fashion statement; they’re a necessity. A barrier between me and anyone who might wander in, seeking more than a good read. I put them on as soon as I’m near another person but take them off when I’m alone. The glasses allow me to hide in plain sight, a monster masquerading as a bookseller.
“Imagine that, a gorgon afraid of geese,” I say, chuckling under my breath as I recall last week’s unfortunate park incident again. “Feathers and beaks everywhere, and now they’re part of the pond’s permanent decor.”
My fingers stop on a new thriller that promises a plot as twisted as my serpentine locks. I allow myself a momentary thrill at the prospect of diving into another mystery, one where the stakes are merely life and death, not eternal stoniness.
“Here’s to a day without petrifying anything but boredom,” I declare, flipping open the book to begin my daily ritual of reading, hiding, and waiting for nightfall to come again.
The bell over the door jingles, and I turn, expecting the usual—a sleepy college student or an old-timer searching for something “not too fancy.” Instead, a figure in a dark cloak stands in the doorway, the scent of damp earth and burning sage wafting behind them.
I cross my arms. “We’re open, but we don’t do seances.”
The figure—I see it’s a man now as he steps inside—hesitates, his gaze lingering on my head. I resist the urge to adjust my sunglasses .
“You’ve got the look of a man cursed,” he says, voice smooth and knowing.
I stiffen. “And you’ve got the look of someone about to buy a book or leave.”
He chuckles, low and amused, before drifting toward the mythology section. I watch him carefully. Most people pretend not to notice my hair. This one? He’stoo aware.
He selects a book— Ancient Curses and Their Undoings —and sets it on the counter, waving a bony finger at my snakes. “Ever consider finding a way back?”
I swallow, fingers tightening on the register. “No refunds on existential crises.”
He merely smirks, hands over the exact change, and disappears as quietly as he arrived. I exhale, only realizing then that my snakes were as still as me, listening intently.
As I rearrange a stack of books, a scrap of parchment flutters to the ground.
Frowning, I pick it up. The ink is jagged, almost frantic:
A storm is coming.
A prickle crawls down my spine. I glance at the door, but the cloaked stranger is long gone.
I chuckle and shake my head, folding the note and slipping it into my pocket. “Welcome to Screaming Woods. Where cryptic warnings come with every book purchase.”
The distant rumble of thunder rolls through the town, a low grumble that seems to shake the dusty tomes on my shelves.
I glance up from my task, acknowledging the storm with a dismissive nod before returning to my work. “Huh. Maybe not so cryptic after all,” I mutter, feeling a kinship with the broody weather but knowing it won’t breach the sanctuary of my bookshop.
I walk over to the thermostat and twist the dial, coaxing the old heater into action. The comforting hum fills the room, and warmth seeps into the cool air. It is a small pleasure, that sound, a reminder of life chugging along, even in the quietude of my self-imposed exile.