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THE HALLOWEEN TREAT

11/16/2013

2 Comments

 







                             THE HALLOWEEN TREAT
 

                                      A story by

                                    Nik Barnabee






       There are five of them. They are pink and hairless, wriggling and wrestling with each other like baby hamsters, but much too small to be that. More like hamster embryos. The man holding the magnifying glass over them watches intently as they play. Suddenly there's a squirt of bright red. Then, more. One of them has teeth disproportionately large. And pointy. And numerous. There is panic in the litter.
       The man smiles.
       Now there are four.
       Soon there will be one.



       “Mommmmmm!”
       “Oh, shush. I wiped it off. It looks fine.”
       “No, it doesn't. He ruined it!”
       Bella was nine years old. This Halloween, she hadn't been able to decide between dressing as Wonder Woman or a Transformer, so she improvised and combined them. It seemed reasonable. In her view, the Wonder Woman costume itself just didn't work for her non-bosomy self, and besides, why do female superheroes have to dress so sexy? She figured that would be fine if Batman ran around wearing only Speedo swim trunks with a Bat Signal patch on them and The Flash let his drawers hang down off his butt and his boxers show. Until they did, her version of Wonder Woman would have an armor-plated chest guard and big, clunky, robot boots to go along with the gold headband and little blue skirt.
       But there was now cocoa spilled on one of her Wonder Woman silver bracelets, which were not indestructible steel in this case, but sparkly, silver mesh. Seven-year-old brothers could be such klutzes sometimes.
       “Okay, okay, wait a sec..."
       Her mother went into the kitchen and came back with a half-empty jar from the fridge.
       “Hold still.” She tilted it.
       “What?! Are you crazy, Mom? That's Ragu!”
       “Well, you have two basic choices in life. You can either whine because you're not happy with what life hands you, or you can take control. So. Do you want to be a wimpy, whiny half super-hero/half robot, or do you want to be a wounded and bloody superhero-robot who valiantly keeps battling?”
       “Holy shit, Mom, that's freakin' brilliant.” This was fifteen-year-old Branson, who was merely fourteen yesterday.
       “Stick a buck in the curse jar, birthday boy.”
       “Oh, come on. It's not only my birthday, it's a holiday. Cut me a break.”
       “All right, you get one gimme. One. You're lucky I adore zombies.”
       She gave him a big, loud smooch on the forehead, then wiped the grey make-up off her lips. His costume had been much easier to create than Bella's. Cruddy, fraying clothes, dollar store horror make-up, and a rubber, dangling eyeball.
       “I still say, if Wonder Woman was half robot, that would make her a Borg, not half Transformer.” Branson said.
       “And I still say Borgs are from a zillion-year-old TV show and nobody who isn't old would even know what that is. Or care. Doofus,” his sister answered.
       “Yeah? Say that at a Star Trek convention someday, wise-ass, and see what happens.”
       He could feel his mother's stare.
       “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and stuffed it into the ceramic smiley face on top of the kitchen counter. “Someday you'll be able to buy a Ferrari, on me.”
       “I don't doubt it. Now, hold still, Wonder Robot Woman.”
       Bella scrunched up her face, expecting the worst.
       “What, you think I didn't warm it in the microwave first?” Her mother laughed. Bella relaxed and smiled.
       The Stephenson household was nearly ready for Halloween. An hour or so more and the kids would go out the door to haunt the neighborhood, and little ones would start ringing the bell. Halloween was a shared experience in this family; a time to be creepy, silly, scary, and most of all, inventive. No store-bought costumes in this house. You made your own and helped with each other's, or you stayed home. And although they ate healthy the rest of the year—not fanatically so, but within reason—tonight was the night to have a blast, Food Police be damned.
       Treats were welcomed, treats were given, and fun was had by all.
      


       “Hmmmm,” the man hummed. “Dumteedumdumdum.”
       He was busy wrapping. The foil had to be just right, sealed completely. Oh yes, absolutely. It MUST be sealed. Perfectly. Perfection was crucial.
       The package—the TREAT—sat in the center of the workbench now, looking as normal as could be. Shiny orange foil with cartoon spiders and witches on it, and the name Mama Carla's Chocolatey Caramel Delight in silver, reflected light from the bare bulb hanging overhead.
       It is perfect, isn't it?
       Yes.
       Just like the others...
       He glanced over at the laundry basket full of foil-covered treats that looked exactly like it.
       ...only better. This chewy caramel center is special.
       In his head, he says “carmel,” as his family always said it when he was a kid. But aloud he would say “car-a-mel” like everybody else around here, so as not to stand out, not to be noticed as the one who was different. Before the night was over, anyone “different” would be on a list of suspects. He knew that.
       Within the center of this treat, there was more. A wee bit of warmth. A soft, almost imperceptible tha-dub, tha-dub. If one held it up to their ear, they might hear that tiny heartbeat, might feel the slight thump in their palm, through the package.
       There was nothing he could do about that.
       Mammals tha-dub their way through life. Humans. Ferrets. Puppy dogs. And creatures much more interesting.


        The witch cackled so loudly, two toddlers across the street clutched their daddy's legs and looked like they might cry, and the golden retriever in a front yard near the end of the block started barking. Then the witchy voice cracked and she coughed a little and thumped her chest over her heart.
       “Ackk! That hurt.”
       Eight year old Lily looked up at her, bored with all this waiting and not the least bit impressed by her mother's greenish skin, long, crooked nose (with a wart on the end, of course), purple lips, or pointy hat.
       “Can we leave now? Pleeeeease?”
       “Okay, okay, don't get your princess-y panties in an uproar.”
       Down the steps they went. Lily's eleven year old twin brothers (one in vampire costume, the other a mish-mash of non-specific goriness) had gone on ahead. They'd headed toward Grover Avenue, where everyone knew the best candy was, even if some of the homeowners' decorations were so spooky they just about made you pee your pants. But, hey, we're talking full-sized candy bars. A little sacrifice was worth it.



       The man loaded the basket of treats into the back of his SUV. They were to be shared, every last one, but not ever to be traced back to this house.



       Niklas was shy, his eyes instantly downcast whenever he caught anyone's attention. He was nine years old and had been in the U.S. for only a few months. His father had some kind of government job that was a mystery to Niklas. For as far back as he could remember, they'd traveled so often that, if he'd stopped to think about it, he wouldn't really be sure which government that was, which country had given birth to him. Not that he ever did stop to think about it. Discussing it was even less likely. Grown-up subjects were not his business, he'd been told. And his father's scowl was something he preferred to avoid. It saddened him. That you've-disappointed-me-again dark stare.
       That's why Niklas' English was flawless, his school grades were perfect, and his bedroom was immaculate, with everything in its correct place. He liked it here in the U.S.A., and wanted to stay. It seemed like every time he did something wrong, his father bounced them to a new country; a new continent, even. Or maybe it was just coincidence. Niklas preferred not to risk it.
       Consequently, his Halloween costume was innocuous—his father couldn't be angry about a doctor's outfit, complete with plastic stethoscope, right?—and he would make sure to be in the house long before his curfew.
       He'd heard so much about American holidays, and he wanted to experience them all.



       They strode along 12th Street with all the yeah-we're-bad they could muster. All four boys were fourteen years old, best friends and troublemakers for as far back as anyone could remember, although this was surely the last Halloween when they would be a foursome. Two had recently started entertaining thoughts of college and careers, one had a new stepfather who was not going to put up with any bullshit, and the fourth—Ronald Freeman aka Blade—had been teetering on the brink of true criminality and finally tipped over the edge.
       Their costumes were only vaguely interesting, nothing to brag about. There was purpose in this. Later, they would trade portions of those costumes—masks, make-up, shirts, etc.— and hit the same houses (especially the ones on Grover Avenue) again, separately, thus doubling their goodies intake.
       Blade also made sure to eyeball the lawns and side yards. Much later, after all good little boys and girls were in bed, he would return to the houses that had bikes and scooters and other easy-to-sell items lying about, and toss them into the van his ex-con uncle would drive slowly down the street.



        It slept. Tiny, curled up comfortably, enshrouded in caramel.



        A whole gaggle of girls made their way along Oak Lane, heading for the Halloween party at the PAL center. They ranged in age from twelve to fourteen and considered themselves far too cool and mature to go trick-or-treating. Well, the older ones felt that way. The younger ones secretly missed going door to door, but they desperately wanted to be permanently accepted by the more glamorous 14-year-olds. Thus, no ringing of doorbells and no costumes. Besides, there would be plenty of candy at the party.
       When Blade and friends sauntered by on the other side of the street, there was whispering and giggling among the girls as they eyed them, especially Blade. He had that whole bad boy thing going on, which made him nearly irresistible to any girl (and an occasional boy) who'd hit puberty.
       As late afternoon became early evening, the last of the adult-accompanied little ones walked or toddled up walks and up steps, their sing-songy “Trick or Treat!” a little off-key, but their adorableness making up for it. Some nervously held out their treat bags, others boldly snatched what was offered, with only a few forgetting to say "Thank you" until prodded by a parent.
       'Tweens came and went, and they were all about the costume. Not so much coolness as an homage to whichever celebrity (yes, there were more than a few Miley Cyruses, but fortunately they kept their clothes on), superhero, or cartoon character they loved (Bart Simpson was still hanging in there in popularity). One group of giggly girls went as New Direction, although most adults would probably have no clue which boy each was supposed to be—not that there was ever a 10-year-old who was trying to impress the old geezers who handed out treats anyway.
       Last was the early-to-mid-teens, who were more about hanging out, running into friends, making fun of dweeby costumes, and sticking to the houses with the biggest payoffs.



        The creature awoke to hunger and an odd swaying sensation. Its little caramel world was in motion.



        As it got later, the air took on a damp chill, curfews approached, and the parade of costumed bell-ringers became more of a trickle.



       “We're not supposed to eat anything till Mom checks it first.”
       “Shit, what a baby you are. Luckily, I'm the older son, so I can eat when and what I want.”
       “Older by, like, three lousy hours.”
       “It still counts.”
       This I-was-born-first conversation by Lily's brothers was a rerun of a rerun of a rerun.
       “Mom'll be pissed.”
       “If Mom knew half of what I do, her head would explode. Now, shut up. I can't decide between the Nestle's Crunch and the Mama What's-her-face caramel thing,” Brent said.
       Younger brother Beau hesitated, then said, “Okay, screw it. I'm starting with the Milky Way bar. Then the caramel thing. Then the Gummi Bears. Mom can check out the crappier stuff.”
       Brent laughed.
       “Welcome to the Dark Side, little bro.”
       They weren't the only trick-or-treaters who'd promised parents they'd hold off eating their goodies till they got home. Despite being faced with enormous temptation, one or two probably even stuck to that promise.



        Teeth bit through chocolate and into the caramel center. The creature skittered out of the way of this sharp wall which had come down upon it's sweet, gooey world. This was after the crinkly sound, seconds ago, which had frightened it. Now it scrambled across a soft, wet surface (enticing many taste buds as it touched them), and slid downward.
       One swallow, and that mouthful was gone, joining the masticated Hershey Bars and Sour Patch Kids and other tastiness below.



        The group of girls left the PAL Center and retraced their steps down Oak Lane. It had been a fun night, even if the older ones would never dare admit it. They all carried bags of Skittles and Twizzlers and every chocolate-covered goodie known to mankind. Fourteen year old Amy had a more coveted treasure: the phone number and Twitter name of a fifteen year old boy with blazing blue eyes and the first wisps of a mustache. Thirteen year old Natalie had a stuffed bear she won in the Dunking For Apples contest (none of the older girls could believe she'd risk messing up her make-up in such a childish endeavor). The 12-year-olds were chattering amongst themselves about how much fun they'd had tonight. Evie Parker, just a week shy of her fourteenth birthday, was less enthusiastic. She felt downright pukey, in fact. She was the official chocoholic in the group, and there had been just too much temptation at the party. She felt fairly awful, both physically and when she contemplated the number of calories she'd consumed. In a few minutes she would be home. If only she could throw it all up (or “feed the porcelain monster,” as her bulimic older sister liked to put it), but she already knew from experience that she wouldn't have the nerve to do the finger-down-the-throat thing. Ugh.



        The boys sat on the grass at the top of the hill, outside the east side cemetery fence. You could see the entire town down below from this site. The almost-full moon was bright enough for them to distinguish treat types. They'd already competed to see who could fling the oranges and packs of trail mix the farthest. The amount of candy they'd collected was impressive. So was the amount they'd already consumed. The fact that they could wash it down with beer swiped from Blade's older brother and not vomit right then and there was fairly amazing. Brian Weest, the youngest of the foursome, was determined not to give in to the stomachache and nausea he felt. Let someone else be the first to puke. Then, as long as he could avoid getting any on his clothes so his stepfather wouldn't smell the beer and ground him for a month (if he was lucky), he would consider himself the victor. All he had to do was ignore that strange, slip-sloshy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It felt like about a pound of worms were wiggling around in there.



       Bella poured her bag of treats on the bed and began separating them into categories.
       The first quiver in her stomach happened as she was inspecting the pile of stickers she'd collected. She was happy to see that some of the treat hander-outers had given her both girly stickers and superhero ones that they probably wouldn't have if she hadn't customized her costume. Grown-ups could be so sexist sometimes, but maybe they learned a little something tonight.
       “What's the matter, B?” her little brother Ben (the cocoa-splasher) asked, still in his Spiderman costume, sans mask.
       “Huh? No biggie. I probably should have skipped that second bag of M&Ms, that's all. My stomach's not happy about it.”
       “You want me to take the rest, so you don't eat any more and make yourself sicker?”
       “Nice try, Spidey. You have your own stuff. You want more, go mooch off of Branson. He's got so much, he could open his own candy store.”
       Later, she snuggled in bed with a Wind In The Willows paperback, and the taste of Pepto Bysmol on her tongue.



        It was warm and wet and dark here, and there was a comforting pulsing sound. The creature, much bigger now that it had consumed the sweet and wonderful soup surrounding it, knew the sound to be blood, flowing through vessels ... everywhere. The urge to chew its way through to them was powerful. But something else drew it as well.
       Home.
       It was an ancient urge. Blood was essential, any blood would do, but to consume the blood of its own creator was always sublime.
       Home.



        It was an ordinary house, on an ordinary street, in an ordinary town.
       But it was connected to something extraordinary.
       Long after midnight, the former trick-or-treater awoke with a feeling of urgency, stomach on fire, mind racing with a blasting stream of unfamiliar thoughts and feelings and urges, all competing for attention.
       As the child shivered under the covers, knees up and arms wrapped around them, this cacophony of feelings and words and images slowly melded together and became one overriding concept:
       Home.
       All else faded away, all conscious thought.
       Ignoring the chilly floor, bare feet padded past warm slippers and stepped into the hall. The rug was more comfortable, but the child didn't notice.
       Down the hall, down the steps, and out the front door.



        It sensed its creator, smelled him, felt the very current running through his brain.
       The small human who had carried it here was no longer necessary.



        The fogginess and overwhelming urgency which had dominated Niklas' brain faded now, and he was confused. He stood in his pajamas, in this unfamiliar place (a basement, he could tell, but certainly not his own), in front of a man he didn't recognize.
       Niklas felt an upheaval below. A sick feeling, as the creature, now the size of a small chipmunk, began battering against his stomach lining. Then pain, sharp and searing, as it used its teeth and claws to rip its way out, through his abdomen.
       The little creature was still hairless, but no longer pink. More of a burnt umber color, beneath the bright red blood that covered much of it. It leapt out onto the floor.
       Father.
       The man blinked as that concept formed in his head. Not words, not quite, but the meaning was clear, the emotion strong and ... loving. He sensed that, yet stared with disbelief. What was it doing here? It shouldn't be here.
       Father.
       “Go. Go. It's out there. The whole town. Why aren't you out there doing what you were created for?”
       Father. It was you. It was always you. Didn't you know that?
       The man stared, blinking. The not-quite-legally-obtained, ancient scroll's instructions on how to create this wondrous little creature had been so clear. So easy. The rest of the writing had seemed almost like gibberish, but so what? Just the words of some show-offy ancient mystic, pontificating. Or so it had seemed.
       “You must—”
       It took but an instant. The creature skittered up the man's clothing and sank its teeth lovingly into his throat.
       Bathed in his blood, it was finally home.
       The man dropped to the floor, quivering for only a short time before becoming completely still. The creature meant to drain him of every drop of his warm, wonderful blood.
       And it would have, if it hadn't sensed something was wrong.
       A few feet away, Niklas still stood. He shouldn't have. He should have been in a heap on the floor, just as dead as the man across from him.
       Instead, his eyes were bright with excitement and an unmistakeable hunger. There was a distinct click! as his lower jaw extended downward and outward, his mouth now huge, his canines long and sharp.
       The much smaller creature stood upon its creator and watched in fascination, blood dripping from its own jaws, shreds of flesh in each hand.
       The thick, forked tongue writhing in Niklas' mouth shot out and crossed the short distance between them so quickly, the little creature didn't even have time to be startled. The tongue scooped it up and pulled it back to Niklas, holding it in mid-air as he stared at it. Its frog-like eyes stared back. There was no fear in them. It struggled, hissed with frustration, but it was wrapped up tight and had no chance at all.
       Splush!
       It was a lovely, juicy mouthful.
       Now for the main course.
       Niklas squatted over the man's body and feasted.



        Cleaned up and once again in his own bed, his body back in its original undamaged human form, Niklas felt a sense of loss, as he often did afterward. He always tried to only eat the people no one important cared about—parolees released from the private prison at the edge of this town, for instance. But ... things happened. Life happened. Death happened.
       He would see his father's disapproving scowl again. He would feel ashamed. And they would repeat the actions they had for centuries.
       Niklas wondered which country they would live in next.


THE END

Copyright ©2013 Nik Barnabee. All Rights Reserved.












2 Comments

SURVIVE

10/29/2012

7 Comments

 
                                
                                 SURVIVE


                                A Story By
                               Nik Barnabee






The silhouette of the man hulking over the small boy in the front yard of the farmhouse, as lightning flashed in the grey, stormy sky behind him, seemed intimidating even to Nasir Abboud. How must it feel to a seven-year-old, he wondered, shaking his head in disgust. With the much older, bigger, stronger brother gone now, the man could do as he pleased, with no one to stand up to him.
       Abboud stood by his mailbox, watching. The two figures were almost a quarter mile away, but there was only a meadow between the two properties, and the old man's eyes were as sharp as a hawk's. He was thousands of miles from his homeland, immersed in a different culture, a different life, but some things never changed. And so he stood there considering possibilities he hadn't considered in many years.
       Some things were not right, some men had no honor, and all little ones' pure hearts should stay that way.
       He walked up the hill toward his house, where he would sit and have tea and contemplate the world as he knew it.


       The ranting was beginning to wind down, becoming muttering. He'd apparently tired himself out again. Boone, the Evil Stepfather, as brothers Blake and Benji called him when he wasn't around.
       But Blake was gone now. And Benji was small and shivering, crouched in the dirt under the backdoor steps, his arm draped over a huge, carved Halloween pumpkin.
       He reached into his mind for a memory. A week ago? Or was it two? He couldn't remember. It seemed so much longer. Back before his big brother left on the bus that took him someplace far away, where guys in uniforms would teach him to drive tanks and fly chopters and jump out of airplanes and stuff like that (and was there any better stuff in the world, Benji wondered?).
       That day, he'd lifted Benji onto the hood of the truck as he stood beside it, big farm boy hands resting on bony 7-year-old shoulders.
       “Survive. That's your job. My job is to go get all soldiered-up, maybe go to Afghanistan and help take care of business, then use the college money to start us on the way to an awesomely cool life. And then your job can be to be a kid. But until I get back, your job is to survive. Every single day. Stay out of his way when he's looking to hurt someone, turn off your ears when he starts yelling, don't listen to the words, the filthy stuff he says. Tune it out. Stay a kid. If I get back and you're a burnt-out, old-before-your-time, trouble-making little version of him, then he'll have won. And we don't want him to win, do we?”
       With a solemn shake of his head, Benji had tried to show just how strong and brave and determined he was, deep down inside.
       Right now he wished it was back on that day, back when Blake was here, not gone.
       Shifting position, Benji silently sang to himself, making a game out of the big, mean man's ravings. (...and that rhymes with duck, which can get stuck in all the muck and that's bad luck and ...) He ran out of -uck words. But that was fun. Blake was right. The good world, the fun world, the kind world, can be in your head when the world outside of it turns bad.
       Silence.
       That meant either Boone was done and would plop himself on the couch in front of the TV and drink himself into a stupor ... or he was waiting. Sometimes he liked to pretend he was done, so he could lure Benji out and have a living, breathing human being to berate and terrify. The chickens and barn cats weren't impressed with him anymore. They just scattered and went on their merry way.
       Benji had a bad feeling this time. There seemed to be something hanging in the chilled October air, something behind the silence.
       So he stayed put. Wait it out. That's what Blake said to do. Just wait it out. Sooner or later Boone would get bored, and need a drink.
       Benji hugged the pumpkin, rested his cheek against it, swore he heard a heart beating in there. Okay, it was probably his own heart, he knew that. He'd scooped out pumpkin guts himself, after all. Still. Tha-dub, tha-dub. Wouldn't that be cool?
       He'd lugged the huge, rotund Jack O'Lantern home in his wagon only yesterday, too big and too heavy, even emptied out, for him to carry. It was a gift from his favorite ... and only ... neighbor, Mr. Abboud, who always wore a knit cap with odd, colorful shapes all over it, and spoke with an accent that sounded wise and mysterious and playful, all at the same time. Benji liked him a lot, and stopped to buy an orange from his fruit stand after school at least a couple times a week. He'd listen to Mr. Abboud talk about the date trees his family grew back home when he was little, or the donkey he once had, or how in some parts of the world water was a luxury. The fruit stand was right by his gate, and although his house was set back a long ways, up on a hill, you could still hear the tinkling of a couple dozen wind chimes that hung from the porch roof. Sometimes, standing there listening to the melodic chiming and Mr. Abboud's soft voice, Benji would feel himself start to drift away, off to a calm place of sand dunes and gentle winds and indecipherable voices. Then a truck would rumble by, or a customer would drive up and ask about melons or some such, and Benji would snap out of it and look at Mr. Abboud, who would nod and smile as if he knew that place and went there often himself.
       Benji suspected Mr. Abboud didn't quite get the point of Halloween, but he was a nice man, so last year he gave out candy to any kids who came by, costumed or not, and this year ... wow. He'd presented Benji with the biggest pumpkin he'd ever seen. Using a knife with a curved blade and a dark wooden handle with magnificent lions carved into it, he swiftly sliced open the top and gave Benji the job of emptying it of seeds and pulp. Afterward, between waiting on customers, he used that same knife to create a ferocious face — a creature Benji could not identify, but which was so life-like, he would not have been surprised if it had roared.
       A small, sharp snap brought the little boy back to the present-day world now. A twig snapping? Under muddy, size 12 boots?
       Benji could barely breathe, his heart pounding so forcefully he was afraid it was loud, so loud that whoever, whatever, was in the backyard would hear it, and discover his hiding place.
       He hugged the pumpkin, his head against it, his tears flowing down its side, dripping into one of the eye holes.
       Please don't let him find me, please don't let him find me, please don't let him find me ...
       At the very instant that he realized he smelled Evil Stepfather breath, stinking of cigar smoke and pepperoni, he turned and saw beefy fingers swipe at him, less than an inch away from his face. Boone couldn't fit through the opening at the side of the steps, but as he knelt in the dirt, his long arm and thick, strong fingers brought him close, so close, to his quarry.
       Benji wanted to back away even farther, well beyond his reach, but he was frozen in place, big brown eyes staring, lips forming a silent, “Nooooooo ...”
       “I gotcha now. Oh, I gotcha now. Nowhere to go, boy."
       Boone was right. Each side of the steps had boards nailed vertically, a few inches apart. On this side, Blake had removed the nails at the bottom of one, so his little brother could swing it aside and squeeze in when he needed to hide. Benji's mind told him to kick out a board on the other side, so he could escape. Would his little legs have the strength? It didn't matter. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. Fear had hold of him; icy fingers that clutched at him as cruelly as Boone was trying to do.
       Warmth emanated from the side of the huge pumpkin, and he leaned harder against it, wishing it could melt the iciness inside of him.
       There was raspy breathing now, and Evil Stepfather cussing, as the big man shoved against one of the slats, bringing himself closer, his fingers just a hairsbreadth away as he grasped at the air in front of Benji's tear-streaked face.
       Let me.
       Benji frowned in confusion.
       Who said that? Not out loud, there hadn't been a voice, not even a whisper. But he'd heard it.
       Let me.
       It was in his head. A voice. A comforting voice.
       “What? Who are you? What do you mean?” Benji asked.
       And then jumped back, as Boone took another swipe.
       “Who am I? Are you blind, you little retard?” Boone snarled, as he rammed his shoulder against the slats. The steps shook.
       Let me.
       The warmth of the pumpkin had increased, and there were soft patches of amber light glowing across from it, on the underside of the steps. Now they sharpened, jagged gold.
       Benji knew the light had to be shining from within the pumpkin. Yet there was no candle in there, no glow stick, no flashlight.
       Let me.
       Benji felt a painful tug. Boone had snatched a few wayward tufts of his hair and yanked. Benji pulled free and scrambled around behind the pumpkin, pushed it closer to the opening, turning it so the fearsome face would look the Evil Stepfather in the eye and scare him away. As he did, the beams of golden light from within played across the underside of the steps, across the slats, and the hidey-hole that had seemed so protective now just seemed tiny, suffocating.
       “What the—?!”
       Boone had seen the pumpkin, but had also seen more than that. He hesitated, his hand no longer reaching for the little boy. In fact, he began to pull his arm back.
       But not fast enough.
       Teeth that had been jagged orange pumpkin rind had transformed and were now as enamel and smooth as Boone's, although much longer, cruelly pointed and curved. With one swift, smooth motion, they latched onto the big man's hand, up to the wrist.
       It wasn't so much a scream that followed; more of a gagging sound, a pained grunt that expressed utter confusion.
       Then the pumpkin leaped upward and Boone's arm was inside, past his elbow, halfway up to his shoulder. There was the crunch of bone, and a sound not unlike the slurp of a dog gobbling up a bowl of Alpo.
       At the same time, a shrill screech emanated from Boone, so loud and sharp in this small, enclosed area that Benji slammed both hands over his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut as blood spattered onto Boone and the wooden slats that now trapped him, instantly coating them with crimson, running down into the dirt.
       Boone tried to pull himself free, howled in pain, but pulled again and again, panicked. He couldn't get loose
 -- the pumpkin was attached to his arm, chewing its way upward, and it was much too wide to fit through the opening.
       More crunching sounds, more blood splattering. The underside of the steps was now dripping with it.
       Benji spun around on his backside, his feet kicking frantically at the slats on his side of the steps, kicking more forcefully than he would have believed possible. Behind him, he heard thudding, then wood splintering, and the screams became high-pitched, the sounds accompanying them, wet and horrific.
       Another kick, and two of the slats broke free and fell outward. Benji opened his eyes and scrambled over them, stumbling as he tried to get to his feet and run; run somewhere, anywhere.
       Spread across the backyard on the other side of the steps was something he knew he shouldn't see, sounds he knew he shouldn't hear. The smacking of strange, gore-covered lips, the tearing of flesh, splashing of blood. And beneath that, a sound that may have been a moan. Or a plea. Or part of a prayer. Then, low gurgling. And silence.
       Benji gained his feet and raced for the house, toward the things he wanted most at this moment. A door. A lock. To crawl under his bed and stay there until the world seemed real again.


       The two brothers walked toward the dark sedan parked by the cemetery gate, the older one in full dress uniform and the younger in his Sunday best.
       “Bigfoot?” Blake asked.
       “Yep.” Benji answered, having decided that some secrets were meant to remain secrets.
       “Bigfoot? You're sure?”
       A nod.
       "'Cause, you know, the sheriff said mountain lion.”
       Little boy shoulders shrugged.
       It had been a short service. There wasn't much point in going on and on when only five people showed up for a funeral, the pastor had decided, knowing, as he did, that virtually no one was heartbroken over the loss. The two brothers, their neighbor, and two of Boone Freeman's drinking buddies stood there with no pretenses — attending the burial service of this wretched, abusive man was the proper thing to do, so they were here. Now it was over and they would go on their way. By tomorrow, Blake would be back at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio and Benji would be staying with their late mother's sister, Naomi Harris, in Tuscon.
       As the car pulled out past a grey Buick LaCrosse, the little boy looked over at the driver and smiled.
       Mr. Abboud nodded and smiled back.
       Benji leaned back against the seat, contented.
       Both cars drove away.


       THE END

       Copyright ©2012 Nik Barnabee. All Rights Reserved.





7 Comments

MERRY MASSACRE

12/22/2011

4 Comments

 

                                 MERRY MASSACRE

                          a short story by

                                          Nik Barnabee





Deep-set, yellow eyes stared with impressive concentration. Snowflakes drifted down, one after another, tickling long, lupine ears and dampening fur, but there was not a flick of one of those ears, not the slightest movement. Though ravenous, lips were not licked at the sight of its potential prey—the torso so bulky, so full of precious meat.

He had been staying one step ahead of this creature that was, in its own way, capable of flight yet was anything but graceful on foot. No wonder the creature preferred height, to be above the treetops, flying and landing and flying again.

It ran in a pack, flew in a flock … however one wanted to view it. Multiple pack-mates that would no doubt fight fiercely to protect their alpha male, using sharp hooves as weapons, combined with the enormous strength they obviously possessed. He would not take down his prey without some sacrifice of his own, he was sure; blood, pain. But it would be worth it.

So much meat.

He would rip through its red fur, lay open its abdomen, and bury his snout deep in its blood and entrails. And he would feast like he hadn’t in many nights, satiating himself.

The pack led the way, their leader safely behind them, and they were either arrogant or unintelligent. They traveled in a straight, predictable line, announcing themselves with a constant jingling sound. Did it never occur to them that someone … or something … might lie in wait?

And wait, he did, watching them as they approached and descended, preparing to land. He could smell them now, the pack, a scent musky and exciting. But not appetizing. No, it was the leader who gave off a tantalizing aroma, one that beckoned him and made his mouth water.

The incline was very steep up here, and he hid behind a small tower of rough, squared-off bricks from which the scent of wood smoke rose, his claws dug into the surface, his powerful legs ready to spring forward and into their midst.

The four-legged members of the pack touched down and skidded on the snowy surface, their leader sliding along behind them, not on foot, but seated squarely upon a sledge, surrounded by overstuffed bags. There was a faint aroma of gingerbread and peppermint. The metallic jingling tapered off as the vehicle slowed down, then stopped. Impatient, and too hungry to wait a second longer, their stalker leapt out into the starlit night, fangs bared, claws extended.

Instantly, the chilled air was filled with the smell of blood and the sounds of sheer terror and brutal death.

Awakened by those sounds overhead—thumps and clattering, the clinking of small objects tumbling downward, then terrified screeches, and finally, agonizing screams—a much tinier version of that now-dead prey rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he arose and padded quietly in pajamas with feet in them, toward a window closed tightly to keep out the frigid night air. Climbing up on a broad box that was brightly colored in daylight but merely a bulky shadow by Mickey Mouse nightlight, he reached up and tugged at the lock, then shoved the window up with all the strength a 5-year-old could muster.

On the porch roof just below him, huge splotches of bright red had splattered and dripped from above, sinking into the snow. Clumps of white hair lay here and there, as smaller strands danced about on gusts of wind. A narrow band of black leather, jagged on one end, a large, shiny metal square on the other, stuck up out of the snow. Scattered about were oddly-shaped objects covered in gaudy wrappings. One in particular caught the wee one’s eye. He leaned out, shivering from the cold night air, yet too excited to care. He stretched as far as he could, his fingers barely touching the end of the long object he desired, then catching a corner and slowly sliding it over the snow, toward him. At last it was close enough to snatch it with both hands and pull it inside.

The wet snow had soaked through portions of the colorful wrapping, and it peeled away easily as the little one’s fingers tore at it, tossing bits onto the floor. Tugging open the box inside, he gripped his prize, hefted it in his hand, and grinned. He pressed one end, and suddenly it glowed brightly, a long, golden cylinder cutting through the darkness.

“Ooooh, a light saber! Cool!” the boy said, swishing it through the air as if in a sword fight with an enemy invisible in the darkness of his bedroom.

And then, remembering his manners, he scuffed back over to the window.

Sticking his head out, he caught a few snowflakes on his tongue, then shouted, “Thanks, Santa!”


THE END

Copyright © 2011 Nik Barnabee. All Rights Reserved.



4 Comments

    Author

    East-coaster, writer of horror, sci-fi, and other genres. I knew that creepy childhood would come in handy someday. These days, life is covered in cat fur. Contact me at: GargoylePhanNB@gmail.com

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