Published by Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Jim Bronyaur
This stuff is free… but that doesn’t mean you can use it or steal it without talking to me first.
Come on now, you’re creative enough to think of scary shit on your own… go do it.
This one is dedicated to the people who stuck by me in 2010… it was a long year that went by too fast.
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
A headless Santa… and if that weren’t creepy enough, the person took the beard but not the hat. Johnnie Hartley stared at the corpse and sighed. He heard the backup sirens in the distance along with the random chiming of bells. He turned and saw more Santa’s lined up in front of stores and on corners ringing their bells.
“One of yours is fallen,” he whispered as his breath clouded his face.
It was the first of four headless Santa’s Johnnie would be called to. Someone sick enough to murder around Christmas time now took it to a new level – killing Santa’s collecting change for donation. And of course the murderer took the change.
“But why the head?” Stevie Paulsen asked at the second killing. “Just take the change and run…”
“Why the head?” Johnnie asked. “Why even kill him? If they wanted change just knock him out.”
“Can’t identify him dead, right?”
Or headless, Johnnie thought.
People were worried but it didn’t deter their shopping. And more so, as odd as it was, they donated more money. Johnnie had never seen so many people stopping to drop change and bills into the red buckets. It pissed him off though just proving that people were willing to pay whatever it takes to make things go away.
The Santa’s didn’t care that much either, but then again they were hiding behind beards. Who knew what they were thinking. All Johnnie could do was cruise the town checking and hoping that maybe he’d find something.
It was Paulsen who suggested that maybe that “something” was already visible…
“What the hell do you mean?” Johnnie spat after taking a bite of a double cheeseburger. They were at the corner of Marsh and Kersh Streets, a busy intersection that saw a lot of foot traffic. Johnnie wanted to see if there was anything he could find, something suspicious on anyone; the Chief had been breathing down his back looking for anything.
“Well, why are these guys still dressing up?” Stevie asked.
Johnnie stopped chewing at looked at Stevie, confused.
“Okay, look Johnnie, there are four Santa’s dead, right? If that were me, I’d hang my beard up and run like hell. Sure, some have done that, but look at this guy out here for example… he’s damn near chasing people down with his bell. The question is why?”
“And you know that answer?” Johnnie asked. He took a long drink from his cold soda and then burped. Onions and Coke.
“I made some calls…”
“Oh yeah?” Johnnie asked. “And…”
“They get paid shit wages. But there’s a bonus this year. First time ever.”
“Pardon?”
“A bonus. Whoever collects the most change gets a bonus.”
Johnnie laughed. “Wait a minute… are you saying this is an inside job?”
Stevie smirked. “Don’t need a high school diploma to ring a bell, do ya? And they’re waving close to two thousand big ones for the winner…”
Johnnie coughed on his next burger bite. “Two thousand dollars?! For collecting change?”
Stevie nodded.
“That more than I’m gonna make this month.”
Stevie nodded again.
“Son of a bitch,” Johnnie said. “You’re right. It’s an inside job. They’re stealing the change to add to their own. And the head thing…”
“Don’t need a high school diploma to kill, do ya? Probably some sick asshole looking to kill two birds with one stone.”
Johnnie just nodded. He finished his burger and Coke and let twilight begin to take over. Then he looked at Stevie and said, “I’m going in rough cop style. Fuck it. I’ll start with this guy. We’ll shake ‘em all down.”
Stevie nodded and then smiled. “You may not have to do that. Look.”
The Santa at the corner was looking around. His motions were suspicious. Then he grabbed the red handles on his bucket of change and fought with them. He struggled to get the bucket on the ground. Johnnie and Stevie looked at each other and nodded.
Johnnie got out first. Stevie was close behind.
“Heavy there, eh Santa?” Johnnie asked.
“Oh!” the man yelled. “Well… HO-HO-HO officer!” The Santa rang his bell and pointed to the bucket. “Always more room for a donation.”
Johnnie scoffed and reached down and grabbed the handles. “Let’s walk Santa.”
“Now wait a damn minute!” the Santa yelled.
“I’m just walking it to your car,” Johnnie said smiling. “You seem nervous.”
“HO-HO-HO! Just a long day.”
Stevie was on Santa’s left and Johnnie on his right. The sidewalks were mostly quiet with the exception of a few last minute shoppers. Santa walked them to an alley. His hands were buried deep in his pockets. Stevie took notice and stopped them and drew his gun. He made Santa empty his pockets. A set of keys and a cell phone.
“What do you think I am?” Santa asked.
“We’ll find out,” Johnnie said.
There was one car in the alley. Johnnie walked up to it and dropped the bucket. The change shifted with a hard thud.
“Pop the trunk.”
“I’ll put it in the back seat. Easier to carry inside.”
“Open the trunk,” Stevie said.
“No,” Santa replied.
Johnnie elbowed the trunk and the latched clicked. “One more smack and it’ll open…”
The Santa turned and tried to run. Stevie tripped the man and he tumbled to the ground screaming in pain.
“Look at Santa go!” Stevie yelled.
Johnnie laughed and punched the trunk again. It shot open. Johnnie let out a scream that if he and Stevie ending up living Stevie would have picked on him forever – you sounded like a four year old girl, man.
The trunk had four severed Santa heads. All had their beards attached but the bottoms were soaked red.
Stevie looked into the trunk as the first shotgun blast went off. It tore through Johnnie’s stomach and sent him flying back. Stevie looked at his best friend, already dead, when the second shot hit his shoulder and face. He wasn’t dead when he hit the ground but the pain was great enough that he wished he was. The back door to the car opened and out came another Santa with a cigarette between his lips and a shotgun in his hand. He pumped and shot, Stevie was dead too.
The first Santa pushed himself off the ground, adjusting his beard. “Those shots echoed loud.”
“Oh well,” the second Santa said spitting his cigarette from his mouth.
“Not here,” the first Santa said picking it back up. “Evidence. We’re already screwed… these are cops, man.”
“Fuck ‘em,” the second Santa said. “We’ve collected enough change to win that bonus, no?”
The first Santa nodded. The idea seemed so easy – rob the other Santa’s to win. Then this guy, this second Santa that called himself “Jerry – and that’s all you need to know”, hacked one of their heads off as a joke.
Some joke.
“Let’s just finish this,” the first Santa said. “Or maybe we can count the change… maybe it’s worth more than two thousand. But, you know, that’s stealing from charity…”
The first Santa heard the shotgun pump again, before he could think or say “oh, shit” shotgun pellets tore his back and head to pieces.
“HO-HO-HO,” the second Santa whispered. He grabbed the bucket of change and walked down the alley…
The Gate
“Whatever you do, don’t go beyond the gate… those trees are, uh, bad…”
X
John shook the gate with both hands. Its bark was much more than its bite, for sure. The gate looked menacing; the tips pointed, bent and rusted like something from a horror novel. But the gate was loose and weak. He put hit foot on it and pulled himself up.
“Stop it,” Sarah whispered to him. “Please… you heard what that man said…”
“That old bat?” John yelled back. “You see him wobbling along? He’s probably drunk.”
Sarah looked back, there wasn’t a person in sight. They were in the middle of the trees. Shady’s Tree Farm to be exact. Where you pick and cut your own tree. John insisted on it every year; Sarah preferred to just buy one at a store and be done with it. And now, of course, John has to go against what the old man said…
“Look at those trees over there!” John yelled. “Twelve footers if not bigger.”
Who needs a twelve foot tree? Sarah asked herself.
John jumped off the gate and landed face first in the snow.
Apparently my twenty six going on nine boyfriend, she thought and smiled.
“Come on Sarah!” John said. “I’ll help you over…”
“But that man said not to,” Sarah said again. “I’ll just wait here.”
John kicked the snow and cursed. Sarah sighed and gave in. She made it over the gate easier than John did. She felt like she was breaking the law, but that wasn’t the case at all – she climbed over a gate. She figured the trees were probably being saved for special customers or maybe to use their seeds to grow more trees. They were massive trees – tall, thick, and smelled so good. Sarah wanted all of them.
“How do we pick just one?” she asked John.
“I don’t know,” John replied, “these are all so beautiful…”
A stick cracked near them.
John looked, Sarah couldn’t keep her eyes off the trees.
A swooshing sound echoed around them.
“What the hell is that noise?” John asked.
“I don’t… know,” Sarah said. Her eyes were locked on a tree. She looked at it – so full, its branches so perfect. The base of it wide and planting into the ground with just enough snow contrasting the dark brown color of it… it was like looking at a living picture.
“Look at the arms on this one,” Sarah said.
“What did you say?” John asked. He was still trying to find the source of the noise.
“Look…”
“No, why did you say arms?”
“What?”
“You said look at the arms on this one…”
“I did?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, yes,” a voice called out.
Sarah turned and there was a bright flash of light. Then the branches – arms – of the tree came alive. They wrapped around her and pulled her in. She tried to scream but it was muffled.
“Sarah!” John yelled. He tried to grab her waist but heard a voice that sounded like it was inches from his head…
“Next, yes? Next, next…”
John turned and there was a flash of light. He was blinded and could only feel needles digging through his jacket and into his skin… pine needles.
X
It was cold. Bitter cold. The dawn gusts pushed them all over, bending, screaming in pain with the ripping wind. The sun came up and took the wind with it. It was another beautiful December day.
Sarah watched as people walked along the gate, some daring enough to touch, but nobody dumb enough to cross it.
They listened, she thought.
Next to her John was stiff, still trying to understand everything. He remembered in the night seeing a small shadow walking around him; a little man. That was about it.
The sun moved across the sky. Birds called out and flew by. Life was moving around them. Sure, they were alive themselves… but not like they were yesterday.
Two people approached the gate. Man and woman. Sarah thought they kind of looked like her and John. Well, what they used to look like.
“Hey, look at that tree,” the man said. That’s when Sarah saw the chainsaw in his hand.
No, no, Sarah thought. She couldn’t speak anymore.
“Stop it,” the woman said. “You heard that old man…”
“Screw him,” the man said.
Then just like John, he scaled the gate.
NO, no, no, Sarah thought.
The man ran up to Sarah and touched her. She could feel it.
John rustled a bit next to her. The woman at the gate screamed.
“Bobby! That tree just tried to grab you!”
The man, Bobby, waved his hand. He started the chainsaw and put it to Sarah.
The chainsaw whined as it ripped through Sarah’s body. She tried to scream but the only sound was that of wood cracking and splintering. She crashed to ground with no blood splatter but thick sap. John tried to reach for Bobby but couldn’t get him.
“Bobby, look!” the woman yelled.
The chainsaw rumbled as he saw a small black figure standing in front of him.
Sarah was still writhing in pain when she saw the flash of light… soon Bobby would join the forest…
X
“Whatever you do, don’t go beyond the gate… those trees are, uh, bad…”
The Buried House
I heard it was a blizzard like no other we’d ever seen. I also heard it was because the house was built on an old coal dump and was never really sturdy to begin with. Someone else once told me it was a combination of the two. Either way, in the field behind my house, there is a house in the ground.
No, not underground… IN THE GROUND.
Strange, I know. But it’s true.
When the snow melts in the late spring and the summer rains really come in, sometime the roof of the house is visible – tattered, ugly colors.
I only got the idea to try and go into the house after this kid at school told everyone that the people that used to live there were in the house when it fell into the ground. In was on Friday – our last show and tell before Halkloween. I brought in this really cool looking spider that hissed and eyes lit up when you walked by it. But of course, I had to be out done.
I figured if I got into the house, took a picture or two to prove it, I’d be the top dog again at school. Plus, it was behind my house… almost calling me. AND, what if it was true? About people being in there?
It was a perfect Saturday when I did it. There was only about a foot of snow on the ground – that was nothing in these parts. Talk to me when there are four or five feet… that’s when we start to worry. I could see the tip of the chimney – that metal piece that supposedly Santa squeezes through to get to your house. Give me a break… every kid knows the truth – your parents leave the back door open and Santa walks in.
In my bag I had a flashlight and a hammer. Just in case.
I pushed through the field whistling – it really was a nice day. The kind of day that I guess you say was a gift because you knew bad weather would follow it soon enough. I was used to moving through the snow, just pushing one leg and then the next, making a path that would be easy to walk back in.
When I finally made it to the house, I wasn’t sure where to stand or what to really do. I never ventured out to the house before – never really had a purpose. I did the most logical thing to me… I walked to the chimney and started to dig out the snow. And wouldn’t you know it, about five minutes later, I hit something. The freaking roof to the house! I was standing on it. It was almost too easy. I began to push and fight the snow down the roof. It was a heavy slant, just like a roof would be. Once I was able to visualize a roof, I went back to the chimney for a second. I looked towards my house, the faint silhouette it was. The roof pointed at the chimney – of course – but then on the front of the house was a window. The attic window…
I dug there again and there it was. A window. I didn’t want to do what I did next, but I had to. I broke the window with the hammer. The opening was big enough for me to crawl into. I was in the attic of the buried house. It was dark, cramped, and smelled like… well, shit. It was a dark smell, if that makes sense. Not so much mold and must… but… dark. Something that crawled up my nose and really hurt my eyes and head.
I balanced on the skinny boards knowing the ill effects of stepping on the cotton colored insulation – I did that once at home and fell into my little brother’s room. My father was so pissed.
I recognized the door to the attic but wasn’t sure if it would open from the inside. There wasn’t a ladder or anything attached, just a square block. Luck for me I was able to get my small fingers under it and lift. The damn thing broke into two pieces and fell to the upstairs floor. It hit with an echoing boom… and that’s when my problems really started.
The boom stopped but the noise didn’t. And trust me, it wasn’t an echo. I heard a scratching sound – actually it was more a scraping sound. Like something being dragged – something rough, wet…
I leaned over the opening and for whatever reason I will never know, I kept my strength. The rest of my body weakened and I felt like I was going to puke or pass out. At the end of the hall there were bodies. Real bodies. Five of them. Two were actually bones inside clothing but three remained with some flesh. Wrinkled, rotted flesh. Hollowed out eyes. Straggly hair.
The first thought – it had to be the family that lived there when the house fell. But that was just a story, right?
I started to push myself back up when the dragging sound echoed louder and closer. Then I saw the shadow growing, something coming towards the bodies.
When I saw it I had to push myself all the way up. I lost all strength. I don’t know what it was… some kind of monster or ghost or demon. I only peeked on more time and it was sliding towards the opening. It had two hands but no legs. Just strings of clothing, muscle, and skin. Its head was down but it kept dragging itself along leaving a wet trail behind it.
I ran. I had to get out of that house. I climbed out the window and kicked as much snow to cover up what I had done. I ran home and locked myself in my bedroom watching. I waited for something to come out… it had to come out, right? I mean there was something there, I saw it.
I waited all day. Then night came. Of course it was too dark to see anything but I still waited. My mother came into my room to tell me the good news – school was already cancelled for the next day because of a major snowfall coming that very night. Remember, major snowfall meant at least 3 feet. And at least 3 feet meant the house would be fully covered.
FULLY COVERED.
I smiled. Mom thought it was because of no school. I was smiling because I knew that whatever was in that house wouldn’t have much of a chance to get out.
That was two months ago. I haven’t seen a thing since. But now my worries are coming back… tomorrow is the first day of spring and the weatherman is calling for “an unusual high temperature”. The snow’s going to melt. And whatever is inside the buried house is going to come out…
Another Night, Another Year
Another night, another year.
It was an old saying in the Claus house and what had become a tradition turned into a ritual. The big guy couldn’t climb into his sleigh without saying it.
Another night, another year.
Only this year felt different right from the go. Usually the first letters came in around late Summer, right about the time the stores started to stock Back-to-School items. That’s when most kids minds shifted from Summer to Christmas. The hell with fall and Halloween and Thanksgiving – they were just time points to countdown to Christmas.
This year the letters started a little early. And they were sad. He was used to sad letters because of the rough economy, but these were different. A lot of kids wanted their parents to get better. It seemed every other letter talked about Mommy and Daddy being sick. Having a bug. Coughing up blood. Some mentioned growling but Santa Claus figured it was the childhood innocence equivalent of hearing someone throwing up.
Then the letters stopped by December 15. Now that was really strange. Sure, by then he had a list (and yes, he had checked it twice) and knew what was being packed up to go, but there were always last minute requests. Little Johnnie willing to negotiate his new gaming system for a good grade in Mrs. Parker’s English class. Besty Sue promising she doesn’t need that pony after all… just as long as Santa could find a way to get the nickel she just swallowed out of her belly before Mommy and Daddy find out.
You know, that kind of thing.
But this year, the letters stopped. Done.
The factory forged on and the sleigh was all packed, on time. Santa didn’t think much of it – he was far too busy checking maps, weather, jet stream patterns, among other things. This isn’t fantasy here, it’s calculated strategy. We’ve all heard a kid crying when he/she doesn’t get what they want… could you imagine a billion?
A smack of the leather straps against the metal rail off the sleigh and he was off.
Another night, another year.
Santa made good time – it was a calm night and not a single plane in the sky. He made his rounds quick. There weren’t any snooping kids, hungry dogs, or still lit fire places. It was quiet. Too quiet. As Santa made his way across the Atlantic, he thought to himself: where is everyone?
The outline of America grew from the dark ocean and the lights were overwhelming. Santa always smiled when he saw the lights – the patches of bright lights in the big cities like New York and then the darkness of the small areas like central Pennsylvania. But this, this was different. There were lights everywhere. As he got closer, he realized something – fire. There was fire. Lots of it.
As he came closer, it was apocalyptic. Houses were on fire. Cars were hollowed out shells of charred metal. The streets were littered with papers, garbage, and… blood?
“Blood,” Santa whispered through his white fluffy whiskers.
Blood in the streets. Blood everywhere.
Santa moved fast and the town became a blur. He slowed down in the next town but it was the same. Emptiness. Blood. Destruction. But all the Christmas lights were lit. Some were burnt out or broken and some of the Christmas trees were knocked over or dead, but Christmas was in full swing.
Santa turned and looked at the bag of toys in his sleigh.
What am I supposed to do with these? he thought.
One of the reindeer started to makes noises. According to the kids song, it would have been Dancer. The animal started to go crazy, throwing its head and grunting.
Santa looked around and then saw it. And that is exactly what it was – an IT.
Maybe a few weeks ago it was a person, but now it wasn’t. The once-person-now-creature was running down the street after the sleigh. Its arms floated with ease and its face was mangled. Chunks of flesh dangled like war scars, its eyes were a dark yellow with green veins. Its clothing ripped and it started to let out a gruesome howl.
Then came the others.
Hundreds of them. They appeared from under smashed up cars, out of broken windows – out of nowhere really. Like a dead mass, they moved towards the sleigh. As they got closer, Santa began to recognize some of them. The kids. The list.
There was Billy Thompson – he wanted the new H15 remote controlled helicopter with realistic noises. Next to him, Sarah Marks – she wanted the “My First Register” complete with pop out change drawer and slider for credit cards. When Sarah wouldn’t out of Billy’s way, Billy bit Sarah’s neck. Green ooze shot from it and Sarah screamed. She turned and the two kids started to fight. Clawing and grabbing at each other, chewing, swallowing flesh and blood.
Santa slapped the leather straps and the sleigh moved forward.
To the next town. And the next. And the next…
It was the same thing. These vile looking creatures, once people, coming out of hiding. Hungry. Predatory.
Then it all came together…
Dear Santa,
My Mommy is sick…
Dear Santa,
I don’t want toys this year. Just for Daddy to not be sick.
Dear Santa…
Santa commanded his reindeer one last time – back home to the North Pole.
“Another night, another year…” he whispered. “Not so much anymore I guess.”
Santa hoped and wished more than anything in the world that zombies didn’t like really cold, snowy weather.
On cue as if the reindeer could read his mind, the one that would have been Vixen turned its heart. Santa screamed. The animal’s eyes were dark yellow with pulsating green veins…
11 Heaven
December 31, 2010 -
They kept saying this was the year. The time. The moment. The end.
But they’ve said that for how long now, right? Remember Y2K? Yea, me too. I was fourteen and on the phone with my girlfriend telling her I loved her waiting for all communications to go down. They never did. Then I broke up with the girl two weeks later. Dodged that one I guess. Imagine spending an eternity in heaven or hell or as a mushroom with someone you don’t really like?
Anyway, this year they’re calling it “11 Heaven”. They claim there’s a rare sunspot or something that’s going to ignite and flare up at midnight sending a white fireball straight at the earth charring it to nothing but ground.
Blah, blah is what I hear.
They keep pushing this shit on us. You know, first it water conservation, telling us there wasn’t enough water in the world. Making me feel bad that if I left the water on while brushing my teeth some other kid in ragged clothes wouldn’t have water to drink for a month. That was before I realized there was more blue than green on a map if you get my idea. Then it was global warming. Convincing me that if I didn’t convince my parents to spend $15 on a special light bulb, polar bears will go extinct forever. Of course in that mix there’s the usual computer-machine takeover and terrorism.
But this one came new. Suddenly you think about it. They announced it December 5. Hello? In the middle of Christmas season shopping? Lame. They didn’t give retailers enough time to stock up on sunscreen and sunglasses and all that crap that most people would probably buy. You know, just in case. Because fear is power.
Me? I say fuck it. I’m writing this because I know I’ll look at it in ten years with my kids and show them how insane the world was then.
The end of the world.
I just don’t get it. Why are we so obsessed with it? Is it our way of getting out of life without the ‘ol suicide option rolling in? Why? If you don’t want to live, then don’t. No sweat off my back, right?
11 Heaven.
They say the sky will light up so white it’ll be like heaven. But what I don’t get is if we are all going to die so quick, then how would we see it? But that’s what they do, they find a way to spin it so you’re afraid but not too afraid. And I’m sure on January 1, 2011 at 12:01am we’ll all be laughing about it. Just like with Y2K. Nobody’s phones shut off. TV’s stayed on to watch the people in New York celebrate (and piss on each other).
11 Heaven will become 11 DUD.
If the world was going to end, I prefer zombies or something cool. Something to fight off for a while before giving in and calling it an existence. But just to stop it all? After all we’ve done? Not a chance. And for that matter, what about the 2012 nonsense? The world is supposed to end next year when the calendar or something stops. Or the poles shift. Or something happens.
Oh, here we go… ready to countdown?
Ten…
Nine…
Eight…
Seven…
Six…
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
See… nothing. We made it to 2011! And nothing bad hap-
THUMP
THUMP.
Harold opened his crusted eyes and sighed. It was another present. Another gift he’d have to stare at, think about, and then get rid of. That time of the year when the weather fought between cool and cold and rain and snow, when people flocked to stores like hordes of zombies looking for that material love to give…
“Christmas,” Harold whispered. He kicked the blanket off himself and walked to the fireplace. The clock above the mantel had died at 3:17am. Harold knew there was no way he was going into town any time soon; not until Christmas was over. He’d have to make do with his old Timex up on his dresser.
The fire was out too. The flaky ash sat in clumps. Harold sighed again.
He stumbled into the kitchen and poured a cup of mud-like coffee. He checked the calendar – December 14.
“Not much longer,” he said flicking the date with his finger. “Then I can get back to normal.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the back porch. It was slightly cracked, letting in the horrid odor of all gifts so far.
“Let’s add another one.”
Harold walked to the front door and opened it. His mind already knew what to expect but when his eyes saw something different, he collapsed.
__
It started four years ago. December 1, Harold opened his front door and found a dead bird at his foot. The bird was a fat crow. It had a large cut from its back to its belly and was bleeding on the porch. On the newspaper of all things.
Harold didn’t have a cat or a dog… or anything that would be loyal enough to bring a dead animal to his porch. He kicked the bird off the porch and left the paper there for the paperboy to see the next morning. The next morning there was a thump on his porch. He ran to the door hoping to see the paperboy but instead there was another bird. Another crow. Half of its body missing.
And the pattern continued right up until Christmas morning. That morning there was no thump but a large pool of blood.
Then it stopped.
Until the following December.
Harold reported the occurrences to the authorities but they had nothing to go by. They told him it was probably a bear or something… or maybe kids messing around. To them twenty some dead birds weren’t really that important.
The second time it happened in December, Harold began to be afraid. The thump, the birds, the blood… twenty five straight days of it. But on December 26 the porch was clear. No sounds – no blood. He noticed too that as the years went on, the objects changed a bit. The birds got bigger, more mutilated. A few times there were cats and dogs left at the door too. Whatever was doing it always kept trying to outdo itself.
For the third year Harold tried to stay up and wait. He wanted to catch the person doing this. He never got his chance at it; he fell asleep every night. Some nights he swore to himself it was more of a black out than actual sleep.
He did have a nightmare one night, one with a massive shadow hovering over his entire house. Pressure built inside his house and all the windows and mirrors began to crack. Something came flying down his chimney and squashed his fire in a second. Then a long black arm – or maybe claw – came out of the fireplace and reached for him. He was awakened by the thump of the next day’s bird on his porch.
__
Harold pulled himself up and it took all his will to not scream or vomit. In that moment he wished more than anything that it was a bird on his porch. But it wasn’t. It was a head, a human head. Harold didn’t know who the person was but that didn’t really matter at that point.
There was more blood than ever on his porch. But this time, it left a trail. His eyes followed it and it went to a tree. The blood then climbed the tree. And finally, after four years, Harold saw it and that’s what it was, an it. Not a person, but an it.
The creature in the tree was black and resemble something like a bird out of a dinosaur book except it had muscular front arms, like a gorilla. It was a horrid looking creature but its yellow eyes stared right at Harold. Its mouth was beak shaped too but had criss-crossed jagged teeth coming from the sides.
It blinked and then pushed its one arm. The rest of the person fell to the ground with a bouncing thud. The creature nodded at Harold. Harold stepped back inside and closed the door. He turned and fell against the door. He heard a tree branch snap and a massive black shadow fell over his house.
“What the hell is that?” Harold asked.
He smiled, trying to joke with himself in his last few moments of life… all he could come up with was a line from a song he hated… on the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree…
If you’re here and you’ve read the entire book, I cannot thank you enough.
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