Monster Girl in My Closet, page 1
part #1 of Master of the Monsterverse Series
Monster Girl in My Closet
Masters of the Monsterverse Book 1
Jamie Hawke
Copyright © 2020 by Jamie Hawke
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Welcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Meet the Ladies
Author Notes
About the Author
Welcome
Be Part of the Group!
Want to never miss one of my releases? Join my newsletter and you’ll also get an EXCLUSIVE BOXSET, which includes several stories from my series that you can’t find anywhere else, along with the free novels, CHARM SCHOOL OUTCASTS and SUPERS: EX SUCCUBUS.
SIGN UP HERE
www.subscribepage.com/AuthorJamieHawke
Join the FB group
www.facebook.com/JamieHawkeAuthor
Find me on Patreon
https://www.patreon.com/JamieHawke
1
“Monsters are nothing more than our way of trying to comprehend humanity’s shortcomings,” Alex said, leaning back in his large recliner, talking with a mouth full of brisket.
“I don’t know,” I countered, leaning in for another serving of macaroni and another rib. Thursday night was usually pizza night for me and my boys, but since it was my birthday, we’d gone all out with an order from my favorite barbecue joint—Gus’s. Alex owned the condo across from the one I rented, and lived there with my buddy Arturo. As always in these kinds of conversations, Arturo was leaning back with a silly grin on his face, working on his third or fourth beer. It was hard to keep track.
“You don’t know?” Alex took a swig of his beer. “What’s not to know, we’re talking reality versus not reality.”
“I’m just saying, in my work I’ve come across some legends that make me wonder.” I took a bite of my rib, loving the St. Louis style. I followed it with a swig of root beer. As much as I could enjoy a good beer from time to time, I had big plans to put some finishing touches on my work after our little get-together. Alcohol was best saved for drinking while working.
“Work.” Alex scoffed, and Arturo laughed.
“Hey, I get paid.”
“You do. But, come on—you make clicking image thingies and call that work.”
I rolled my eyes. “Visual novels, jackass.” As if he didn’t know the difference. “You try making one, see how hard it is.”
A moment of silence followed. We’d had this conversation enough times that we knew it got us nowhere. His job as a backend developer or some bullshit at some firm seemed so very important to him, while I thought his coding wasn’t so different from what I had to do in Ren’Py—the program I used for my visual novels. Basically, I had to code them, get all the art, music, all of that, and then of course do the marketing. I was a one-stop shop, making it happen on my own, while he worked to make someone else richer. Arturo, on the other hand, worked at a shop that sold mostly board games and miniatures for tabletop gaming, which was where I met him in the first place. I introduced him to Alex, and sometimes felt a bit guilty for that.
“What about the movie?” I said, breaking the silence. “I’m telling you, it’s not often they do a showing of The Princess Bride at the theater here, and if we miss it…”
“Not for me,” Alex said, frowning.
Arturo avoided the question by taking a drink. “All I know is that I could definitely go for some cake.”
I frowned, annoyed that nobody wanted to go see the old movie at the theater with me. “Still waiting on Vincent.”
My older brother was supposed to have stopped by an hour ago, but L.A. traffic could be a bitch. Since he was taking the 134 during rush hour, we had to give him some leeway.
“Vincino,” Arturo said with a laugh, then held up his beer in salute before chugging it. “Fucking hilarious.”
“That’s not his name,” I pointed out.
“But… isn’t it?”
Both guys grinned at me. They loved poking fun at the fact that my parents were super big film nerds, especially regarding films from the 1980s and ‘90s. They had named me Ferris, as in the one who had a day off. Middle name, Westley. My older brother had at least received a cover name—Vincent instead of Vincino—but by the time I came along three years later, they had apparently decided it was more fun my way. Ferris Westley Parrone. At least my last name wasn’t so out there, but the guys found a way to connect it to the Italian beer Peroni. Since my parents claimed to have consummated me in Italy—gross—I had to wonder sometimes if even the last name was made up. Changed for the point of fun.
What Does the Fox Say started blaring from my phone, and I cringed.
“Speak of the devil,” I said. Vincent had changed the ringtone once and, as smart as I was with Ren’Py and all that, I never could figure out how to change my ring tone. Maybe part of that had to do with actually enjoying the song, but I wouldn’t admit to it.
“You here?” I asked.
“Yup, coming up, but … sec … elevator … got … run.”
I held the phone away from my ear, then hit hang up and went for the door. “In the elevator, I’m guessing.”
Opening the door, I saw the elevator door opening with a ding. Vincent strolled out. He was a few inches taller than me, broader shouldered, and had thick, black locks of hair. Unlike him, I had always been a bit annoyed that I was short and, since my hair had started thinning in my early twenties, I now shaved it bald. Arturo was another half a foot shorter than me, give or take, while Alex stood a whopping six-foot seven-inches. Yeah, talk about a monster. The irony!
“Yo,” my brother said to Alex, as if the guy being taller than the rest of us meant he deserved the most respect. What was up with that? He turned to Arturo with a nod then to me with a sheepish grin. “Bro, I gotta run.”
“What?”
“We waited to have cake for him to not even be staying?” Arturo frowned, but his constant smile returned a second later. “Ah well, more for me!”
“Sorry,” Vincent said, “it’s just, this girl over this way made me promise to swing by later, and with that fucking traffic, well… it’s already later.”
“Forget about it,” I said, waving him off. At least he’d stopped by, which was more than I usually got from him. Whenever a lady was involved, anyway. It’s how he had always been, and one reason I blamed for my lack of success with ladies. No matter how nice they were, something always seemed off about them—like we were on two different wavelengths. Alex would say that’s why I made my visual novels and included all manner of crazy chicks in them. I would say he’d be right, and fuck it.
“Before I go though, I had two things for you.” Vincent had a bag at his side, but went for his phone. “First, to show you all that I’m serious and what’s waiting for me…” He held up the phone with an image of a Korean woman who I guessed was in her thirties, breasts exposed, finger at the edge of her lips, suggestively.
“Dude.” Alex stepped closer, hand to his chin as if analyzing a work of art. “You are forgiven. Go forth and spread the good word.”
Vincent laughed harder than he probably needed to. I swear he had a man-crush on Alex.
“Go, have your fun,” I said, mind off in thoughts of which lotion I would use for yet another night alone at home.
He grinned, putting the phone away, and then said, “You’re into myths and shit, right?”
“You do love me,” I replied, playing around. Honestly, I was surprised he listened—my latest visual novel was about modern-day fairy-tale characters and definitely played with myths and legends.
“Then I hope you’ll like this. It’s kinda something I stumbled upon, but that’s a long story.” Digging into his bag, he pulled out a small obsidian bat. “I’m told it holds spiritual energy for some tribe in Papua New Guinea, or maybe it was Laos… I don’t remember. Anyway, it has this whole legend about it, like that there’s a bat spirit or god or something who will protect you. Just… thought about you, so here we are.”
“Vince, this is…” I was actually dumbstruck for a moment. Not only was it strange for him to listen to me, but to get me a gift that was anywhere near being in my area of interest was unheard of. Last year, for example, he had come over with a new driver. As if I had any idea how to play golf or ever would. This though… it was epic. I took it in my hands, feeling the smooth surface.
“Glad you like it.” He clapped me on the shoulder, then said, “Got me some titties to fuck, boys. You all make sure your soggy cookie game doesn’t get out of hand, and be sure to save some for me.”
He winked, laughing as he left.
I turned to Arturo as the elevator doors closed. “Sorry.”
“Your brother’s a homophobe, bro. I get it… but I’m not gay.”
“No, I know, but with your twin brother being, and… I don’t know, I hate when my brother acts like a tool.”
“Forget about it.” Arturo grinned. “So you really like that thing?”
I held up the bat so they could see. “If it’s anything like what he said it is, it’s totally going into my next story. Maybe I’ll have it summon a horde of bats or something. Could be cool for a fight.”
“Or it’s like a pocket bat signal,” Alex said. He liked to try to bring the nerd-conversations around to superheroes, because that was at least one place he could somewhat hang.
Arturo was too focused on getting himself some cake, though, so let the conversation go and B-lined it back into the apartment to get it going. They had picked up a Bundt cake and soaked it in rum, and I was one hundred percent impressed as I bit into it. Enough moistness to be perfect, but not so much that it was like soggy bread.
“Shit, if I could get toasted on this cake, I totally would,” I said. “But I got work to do.”
“Don’t be a puss,” Alex said. “It’s your birthday! Do something wild—hit up the clubs with me, I’ll have you back here with some chick who likes to bend with her feet behind her head as you ram her. Come on.”
I frowned, not wanting to tell him that not only did I have no interest in going to a club, but that I was a virgin. By choice I should say. And because of the whole not-being-able-to-hit-it-off-with-females thing. But also by choice. I wanted it to be special, was all. And until I could talk to a girl while making eye contact, I highly doubted this pretzel fucking he was talking about was going to happen.
“Got deadlines,” I said with a shrug. “Arturo, wing man him up, will ya?”
“You know it. Twins right here,” he laughed, loudly. Apparently, the beers and cake were working their magic.
“Twins,” Alex said, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t gotten the reference to the old movie with Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger when Arturo had first made it, and for some reason never showed any sign of being amused by it since. He turned back to me, frowning. “You sure?”
“I appreciate it, but… yeah.”
With that I thanked them again, gave them each fist bumps, and said, “Good luck with the pretzels,” only to realize neither of them got the joke. I didn’t bother to elaborate, instead heading back to my apartment across the hall for an evening of chocolate-covered espresso beans, art organization, and new dialogue writing.
Working a regular job had never interested me. Imagine the choice between washing dishes or working on making stories about monster girls? Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought there was any chance of reality to these stories. Had you told me that monster girls were real, I would have flicked you in the nuts and said one had just given you a blowjob. That’s how ludicrous the idea would have seemed to me.
That was, until that night. Before finding one in my closet,.
I’d been in a bit of a dark place, in spite of so much in life going my way. The day had been going on like so many others lately. I’d put on my vampire mask to get groceries—not a full mask, of course. A simple cloth one that I had bought from a woman at the farmer’s market. Everything about the world around me in the last year had been a comfort to my way of life. From the mostly empty streets to the masks everyone was forced to wear by their government and social norms. COVID-19 had been a game changer, but it was the outbreak of the new strain of swine flu and then the unleashing of a new one that really started the pandemic.
Even though that had mostly ended a few months ago, I still wore the mask sometimes. It made me feel safer. In those days, I didn’t have to waste my time on social encounters and grabbing drinks that I didn’t want. No more fake conversations—I had been in heaven. Now life was back to normal for most, and back to an overall state of discomfort for me.
That said, I was out of chocolate-covered espresso beans, had the latest Final Fantasy remake to play between sessions of working on my visual novel, and didn’t have another delivery of groceries until the next day. So I went out at dusk, braved the city of Glendale, and grabbed myself a bottle of Irish whiskey while I was at it. Trader Joe’s had a new brand that, to my taste, was better than most Scotch that I could afford.
I went home and powered on my PS4 so that it would be ready, and powered up my laptop to get to work. My eyes started to close, so I opened my espresso beans, not yet bothering with a cup for the whiskey. Everything was going smoothly enough until the power surged. I cursed, even as it came back on. Worst part about it, I thought, was the fact that now the PS4 would have to do its slow-as-fuck reboot process, and I hadn’t even had a chance to play yet. See, I had a routine—thirty minutes of work, twenty minutes of play. I would pause the game, get more work done, then hop back and forth through the night until I passed out. It was a routine I loved.
This power spike was a hassle, though, so I took a swig of the whiskey. I leaned back to wait, and adjusted my package at the thought of Tifa soon appearing on my screen. The camera never failed to show off her tight abs and perky, huge breasts. If women like her existed in real life, I had never met any. If they had, they certainly wouldn’t have given me the time of day. The designers of this remake certainly knew what they were doing, and how to please their target audience.
I turned back to the visual novel, looking it over. It wasn’t flowing, and I wasn’t going to reward myself with play time until I had at least made some progress. Something was off—and worse, when I clicked the button to test what I had been working on, it came up with an error.
“Fuck,” I muttered, kind of wishing I had more of that rum-loaded Bundt cake. With a glance at the door, I considered going over to get some, even if it meant breaking into their apartment. But then I saw the obsidian bat on the nightstand next to my door, and realized I just needed to find my Zen. My happy place, as Adam Sandler would put it. So I picked up the bat, sat it next to my laptop, and then took out one of the black focus candles I had found on a trip to New Orleans.
While my college buddy had been on his bachelor party, I’d been going about on ghost tours and visiting voodoo shops, trying to find anything I could to help with my focus. Don’t judge me, I’d spent some time with them at the end of the night and had a nice anatomy lesson of what breasts did when a nude lady was hanging upside down on a pole, but escaping into my stories always brought me more pleasure. Something about the idea of them rubbing against me for money when I knew I couldn’t get the time of day with anyone half as attractive kind of turned me off more than on. Sorry, I’m weird.
I lit the candle, sat down at my desk, and closed my eyes. The scent was like charcoal and chocolate—reminding me of a mocha I’d had on that trip. Focusing on that moment and clearing my head, I took the bat in my hand and ran my thumb along the smooth obsidian, hoping the spirit would inspire my muse. Not that I really believed in such things, but if it could help, I’d try.
The focus was coming to me. My Zen, all of it starting to make sense. I leaned forward, about to let the scene from my head explode onto the page, when a loud crash sounded. My head spun, trying to place the noise. Shuffling, then a thump. Another crash sent me scrambling up onto the couch and holding my whiskey bottle like a weapon, even though it was open so it caused whiskey to spill over my couch.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, realizing I was spilling the whiskey and quickly taking another chug before putting the cap back on. “Hello?”
My first thought was to call the police, but then I stood there, listening, and didn’t hear any more sounds. Had I imagined it? Maybe I had left something on the dresser and it fell?
