The Skin Title: The Skin Collector
Chapter 1: The Harvest
The barn reeked of death. Not the sharp tang of decaying animals, but something deeper, fouler—human. Martin Harker's flashlight trembled in his hand as he took hesitant steps across the sticky, blood-slicked floor. He shouldn't have come here. The dare was stupid, but he'd let his friends goad him into proving he wasn't a coward. Now, every step he took made his heart race, and the air felt thicker, suffocating. His breath quickened, every intake of air burning his lungs. The flashlight's beam barely cut through the heavy, suffocating darkness, but it was enough to reveal the horrors around him.
A foul stench of rotting flesh clung to the walls, and the dim light caught something glinting on the wooden rafters. Hooks—dozens of them—swayed gently in the breeze that shouldn't have been there. The faintest rustle of movement made Martin's skin crawl, but when he turned, there was nothing.
He felt eyes on him, and he knew he wasn't alone. It wasn't just the shadows. He was being watched.
The flashlight's beam landed on a large, rusted table in the middle of the room. Martin's stomach lurched when he saw what lay on it. A body—or what was left of one. The skin was stripped away, every inch of flesh carefully peeled, leaving only raw muscle, tendons, and exposed bone. The face, frozen in an eternal scream, was the only thing left intact. Wide, empty eyes stared back at him, unblinking, unseeing.
Martin stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet. His mind screamed for him to run, but his body refused to obey. The floor beneath him was too slick, the walls too close. Panic began to claw at his chest.
Then, he heard it.
A squelching sound, heavy and wet, like something large being dragged across the ground. Martin whipped around, his flashlight shaking uncontrollably. A hulking figure emerged from the shadows, dragging a large, blood-soaked sack behind it.
The sack leaked a steady stream of blood, pooling on the floor. The figure's face—or what should have been a face—was covered in a mask made of stretched, tattered human skin. The eyes were hollow, and the mouth was sewn shut in a twisted grin that made Martin's stomach turn.
"Who… who are you?" Martin's voice cracked as he stumbled back, but the figure didn't respond. It only moved closer, dragging the sack behind it with slow, deliberate steps.
"Please," Martin whispered, trying to back away. But his feet were stuck, cemented to the floor by terror. The figure stepped into the light, and Martin saw something that made his blood freeze—severed limbs hanging from the figure's coat, human skin stretched and stitched together, patchwork and grotesque.
The sack finally tipped over, and a severed head rolled out, lifeless eyes staring at Martin. His breath caught in his throat. He recognized it. It was Dean.
"No…" Martin gasped, stepping back in horror. "No, no, no…"
The figure stepped forward, its hand reaching out with a jagged, rusted knife. Martin's body surged with adrenaline. He turned and ran, but before he could take two steps, a chain shot out from the darkness, wrapping around his ankle and yanking him to the ground.
He hit the floor with a sickening thud, his flashlight skidding out of reach. The world around him spun, dizziness making his vision blur. The figure was on him in an instant, towering over him, its masked face leaning in close.
The knife glinted in the low light. Martin screamed as the blade plunged into his stomach, the pain shooting through him like fire. Blood poured from the wound, staining the floor beneath him, and the figure pulled the blade out, only to shove it back in again, working it slowly, savoring every moment.
"Please… stop…" Martin gasped, his voice barely a whisper.
The figure didn't listen. It didn't stop. With cold, methodical precision, it peeled away his skin, the blade carving into him like a butcher. His insides spilled out in sickening heaps, blood pooling beneath him as his screams became weaker, his body growing numb from shock.
Through the haze of pain, Martin heard another scream—faint, but unmistakable. His heart sank. It was Clara.
The figure paused, and for a moment, Martin thought he might be spared. But then the hulking figure dragged him across the floor, his body scraping against the ground as the metal chain pulled him toward the source of the scream. The barn seemed to grow colder as they moved, the very air growing heavier, suffocating.
They entered another room, the walls of which were covered in stitched-together flesh. Faces, eyes wide in terror, mouths gaping, their expressions locked in eternal suffering. Limbs hung from the ceiling, dripping with blood. The stench here was worse—thick and rancid, overpowering.