What Price Gory?

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What Price Gory? Page 7

by West, Terry M.


  Tommy went back into his office, determined to fill that blank page up with something. A title, at least. Anything. He plopped his ass down in his office chair and stared at the computer screen like a convict looking through the glass at a visitor to the prison. He ran his hands through the prematurely grey hair on his head and his usually happy and youthful looking face took on a frown. Maybe this wasn’t his calling.

  He needed an idea. Tommy glanced around the small room which had, in fact, been his room as a boy. Signs of his childhood still lingered there. Posters. Comics. Board games neatly stacked on a shelf. Things he would bequeath to his own son one day. A child-sized bed with vintage Star Wars sheets rested there and waited for Tyler, who still slept between his parents in their bed at night. It put a strain on Tommy’s love life, but Molly wasn’t ready to give her boy up to the night yet. Tommy smiled as he took in the room. It had been a fine one to grow up in.

  He picked up a pencil and absently began to tap his forehead with it, as if he could produce ideas that way. He was trying to force something and it seemed somewhat obscene to him. He wanted a story to possess him, prompting his fingers passionately across the keyboard. He wanted the story to flow through him. He didn’t want to have to drag it kicking and screaming from the dark recesses of his brain.

  Write what you know was a rule he had run across time and time again in books on writing. But he loathed the idea of modeling his stories after his own experiences. His life just wasn’t that interesting.

  ‘Maybe the main character could be a substitute teacher like me’, he thought, deciding that at least staying with his profession might give him a foundation to build on.

  He tried to come up with an interesting or funny anecdote that he could work with.

  Nothing of note came into his mind.

  Tommy hung his head, feeling defeated. It was Monday. He had given himself a deadline of Friday night to have his story finished. One day of the precious time Molly had granted him, free of chores and responsibility from morning until she and Tyler got home, was halfway gone. And he didn’t even have a title yet. He downed the lukewarm cup of coffee and marched back into the kitchen for a last cup before lunch.

  He had just finished pouring it when his front door shook as someone desperately pounded on it. Tommy put the cup aside and quickly made his way through the living room. He navigated the maze of Tyler’s toys on the floor and reached out for the front door. Tommy anticipated some kind of emergency as he opened the door and let even colder air inside.

  Stan Whitley leaned against the door frame, catching his breath. The old man was pale and sweating. He had a beard that had kept his chin warm for a very long time; it was long, thick and uncombed. Chewing tobacco stains spotted it. He wore fatigues, complete with a winter jacket and cap that had the color and pattern of spring foliage, though the trees were naked this time of year and the undergrowth was mostly yellow and brown; he was blending into nothing. Stan’s shotgun rested on the side of the house.

  “Stan Whitley?” Tommy said, afraid that Stan was going to tip over from a heart attack. Tommy wasn’t versed in CPR.

  Stan held up a trembling hand. “Give me a second. Ran down here,” he managed through the gasps. He finally calmed his labored breathing. “Tommy Summers, I need you to come with me up to my land. There’s something up there in the hill you have to see.”

  “What is it?” Tommy asked, noting that these were the most words the two had ever exchanged. He was shocked that Stan even knew his name.

  Stan grimaced and shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. Better to show you. You’ll think I’m crazy, otherwise.”

  Too late for that, Tommy thought. He glanced up and down the quiet and lonely street they lived on. “Should we get some of the other neighbors?” Tommy asked, sort of afraid to be alone with Stan; especially on the old man’s private property where no one ever stepped foot. The old man could have been a cannibal, for all Tommy knew.

  Stan shook his head. “They ain’t neighbors,” he insisted. “They’re renters. You’re my only neighbor. Besides, they all work. None of them are home.”

  “How do you know that? Did you try them?” Tommy asked, realizing he didn’t really know any of the neighbors that well. There had been a revolving door of tenants. It didn’t seem worth it to get to know them.

  “Don’t need to. I see things. I got eyes.”

  Tommy pictured Stan leering down at the neighborhood with binoculars. It was a creepy image and probably pretty close to the truth, he thought. He made a mental note to tighten the curtains, from now on.

  “You’ve been in Lake Worth your whole life, right?” Stan asked.

  Tommy nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.” Other than an eighteen month failed stint in the Inland Empire of California when he was in his twenties, he had never left Texas. It was his home.

  “Then you have to come with me, Tommy Summers. You’re the only one around here who can appreciate this.”

  “Let me get my boots and jacket,” Tommy gave in, his curiosity getting the better of him. Stan seldom ever came down off of his hill. And he never associated with anyone on the street. Whatever it was that had prompted Stan to Tommy’s doorstep, it was important. “Do you want to come in and warm up while I get ready?” Tommy offered.

  Stan shook his head adamantly. “No, sir. I’ll wait for you right here.” Stan picked his shotgun back up.

  A few minutes later, Tommy returned to the front door, wrapped for the elements, and joined Stan outside. The temperature had to be in the twenties, Tommy guessed. Snow wasn’t falling yet, but the grey clouds in the sky looked ready to hatch some at any second.

  “You got a gun?” Stan asked, scrutinizing Tommy’s empty hands.

  “No,” Tommy said, wondering if it was information he should be sharing with anyone.

  Stan held the rifle toward Tommy. “Are you comfortable with firearms?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I’ve used them. I’m okay with them, I guess.”

  “You ever killed anything?” Stan asked further.

  Tommy shook his head. “No. I haven’t,” he admitted.

  “The chest,” Stan advised, illustrating by tapping his own. “It’s your biggest target. You always aim for it and you always aim to kill.”

  Tommy nodded quietly. He wondered why he was getting a quick sermon in gun violence.

  Stan dug a shell from his weathered jacket and handed it to Tommy. “Do you know how to feed this to it, or do I need to show you how?”

  “I know how,” Tommy said, defensively; you just tilted the damn weapon open and shoved it in. He wasn’t an expert but any moron knew that.

  Stan nodded. “Good. Put it in your pocket. If things get hairy, you might find a use for it. Otherwise, keep it as a souvenir.”

  Tommy eyed the hill, suspiciously. “Is there something dangerous up there?”

  “Precautions only, my boy,” Stan assured him. “You’ll be safe with me in the situation. You have my word.”

  Tommy wasn’t sure what that word was worth, but the mystery definitely had his curiosity stirring around. So, Tommy pocketed the shell and followed Stan toward his property. They walked in silence, until Stan finally spoke, his eyes concentrated straight ahead.

  “I knew your mama, Nina.”

  “Really?” Tommy said.

  “Yes, sir,” Stan continued, staring up into the distance at the woods around the perimeter of his house. “I hated to hear of her passing. She was a nice lady. She never aimed an unkind word toward no one. Of course, she wanted to box my kid brother’s ears a few times, ‘cause he sassed everyone on this street. But me, I gave nothing but respect to Miss Nina. She was a peach. You come from good stock, son.”

  “Thank you,” Tommy said, shocked that he was actually about to step foot on Stan Whitley’s property, urged there by Stan himself.

  And the cranky old bastard was actually being civil. Not just civil, but nice. He remembered that mineral rights fellow who ignored Stan�
��s no trespassing signs and got shot at last summer. And whether Stan had missed on purpose or his eyesight had deteriorated, making his aim piss poor, was still the subject of much debate.

  Tommy thought about sticking Stan in the story he was trying to make. A few paragraphs on the man would probably prove a sound investment. And then it hit Tommy; maybe he was walking into his own tale. It certainly made the errand even more intriguing now. He wished he had his notebook.

  Tommy looked over to the old man. He had expected Stan to be much more awkward around people than he was acting. Maybe he was being polite and making small talk because he needed Tommy to go with him and see this big mystery of his, or maybe Stan was just genuinely lonely and this was a good excuse to have some interaction with another human being. Tommy figured it might be a little bit of both.

  They marched up the slant of the slick road and onto Stan’s yellow front yard. Stan wasn’t much for the upkeep of his land. He cut the grass, but that was the end of it. Tommy hadn’t been this close to the house since he was a kid and he got near it then on a dare. He remembered Stan hollering after him to leave the property or get buckshot in the ass. He had chosen the former, and hadn’t let his shadow touch the property again until now. The place hadn’t changed at all. The wood of the old house was gray and the windows were boarded up. The no trespassing signs were everywhere, on the house itself and sprinkled on the trees that bracketed the property. There were also signs that warned against soliciting and hunting on the grounds. And one huge sign that stated, point blank that you could be shot for any of the offenses. Rusty shovels and pick axes were leaned against the house. The rusting husks of two cars were visible on the side of the property.

  “This way,” Stan said, as the ground became more level now. He walked Tommy into the woods. “Hope you got a strong stomach,” Stan warned, taking Tommy a few hundred feet out into the wild.

  Stan stopped in front of Tommy, and then moved slightly to the left. Tommy gazed down at the ground. Stan’s German shepherd, Beau, lay there. The dog was torn apart. Blood and guts painted the ground, creating a grizzly piece of abstract art.

  Stan saw the horror on Tommy’s face. “Best damned dog I ever had, too,” he said, but not with any evident sorrow; he simply spoke a fact.

  Tommy resisted the urge to puke his biscuits and gravy up and looked at Stan. “What the hell did this?”

  “Won’t say, yet,” Stan replied. “I need another pair of eyes on it before I do. But let me ask you something, before we continue with this. Do you believe in bigfoot or UFOs or the Loch Ness monster?”

  Tommy frowned curiously. “Not really.”

  “And why is that, son?” Stan asked. “You seem like an open-minded fellow.”

  “There is a lack of hard physical evidence,” Tommy replied. “I always figured somebody would have captured one of those things by now, if they existed.”

  Stan smiled. “I can’t wait to see your face when you put eyes on this thing.”

  “What did this is still here?” Tommy said, glancing around cautiously.

  “Yeah, but I got the thing handled,” Stan assured.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I came through here on my morning stroll, I ran across poor Beau. Steam was still coming off of his intestines. Then, as I am standing here looking at this nasty sight... snap!”

  Stan snapped his fingers to demonstrate. “I hear one of my bear traps in the woods come down hard. I had caught the thing,” he said with a black and predominantly toothless smile. “The thing that killed Beau was in my trap.”

  “Where is it now?” Tommy asked.

  “It’s still in the trap.”

  “It’s still in the trap?” Tommy said, not understanding.

  “It’s a foothold trap,” Stan explained. “Got it anchored good to a thick tree. The thing ain’t going nowhere.”

  “Unless it chews its leg off,” Tommy offered.

  Stan’s smile went away. “I hadn’t thought of that. We better get over to it.”

  Tommy followed Stan further into the woods, making sure to follow exactly in the old man’s footsteps, since bear traps were lying around out there.

  Stan froze, and raised a hand up. He pointed in the distance. “There,” he whispered.

  Tommy squinted. He saw a mound of brown fur hunched over in the dirt about a hundred feet or so in front of them. It was large enough to be a bear. The thing had been either too stupid or too intelligent to gnaw its limb off.

  Stan crept up on it, motioning for Tommy to follow him. Tommy complied, but kept a safe distance from both Stan and the pile of fur. Suddenly, the thing sprang up and charged at Stan. It ran at him clumsily on all fours, the bear trap still sunk in deep around its right leg. Stan trained his shotgun on it, but the thing hit the end of the chain, several feet away from him.

  Tommy turned and nudged himself back toward the house. Stan noticed.

  “No reason to be afraid,” he assured Tommy. Stan did not take his eyes off of the animal. “That thing can’t break loose.”

  Tommy fought the fear in his gut and pushed back closer to Stan. His wide eyes studied the creature. It looked like some kind of mutated goat. It stood at least five feet tall on hooves. Its body was covered with fur and dark rough patches of scales were on its knees and elbows. It sported small bony horns on top of its head. Its face had a reptilian quality to it. The scales were also there under its black eyes and on its cheeks. The thing had a mouth full of large, sharp teeth that showed bits and pieces of the dog as it growled and snapped. It paused and sized both men up. Its nostrils searched the air for their scent. It hissed suddenly and clawed toward them. It had long black talons on its paws. Its muzzle was caked with the blood and guts of Beau. Tommy had no doubt that it would tear them both to shreds given the opportunity.

  Tommy stared at it silently, trying to make better sense of it. He couldn’t. It was a dangerous, bloody and ugly mess that offended him for some reason. The goat thing looked like a complete accident to Tommy. Nature had fucked up somewhere.

  “Quite a freak show, ain’t it?” Stan said, grinning proudly at the creature. He only saw its beauty and potential.

  Stan moved a little toward it; approaching it gently and with a hand outstretched. “I’m not going to hurt you, you stupid thing,” he said to it. Stan acted like he needed to be closer to share something secret with the beast.

  “Don’t get too close,” Tommy warned, as the creature strained against the trap and chain when it saw the old man come nearer. The monster seemed oblivious to its injured leg. Thick red blood came generously from the wound. “It’s hurt and it might be feeling cornered,” Tommy added.

  Stan stopped crowding the creature and looked back over his shoulder.

  “You know what this is, son?” Stan asked.

  Tommy shook his head stupidly.

  “It’s the Lake Worth monster,” Stan announced. “It’s that thing in ’69 that terrorized the town. The Goat Man. Maybe you were too young to remember it clearly. It spooked some couples that were parked at Lake Worth.”

  Tommy remembered hearing about that incident. Most people born and raised by the lake knew about the legend.

  “You think it’s the Goat Man?” Tommy said, still guarded as the creature made no attempt to calm down. If anything, it was getting more worked up than before. It wanted Tommy and Stan both in a bad way. It frothed at its mouth; thick foam colored by dog blood flew everywhere as the thing continued to protest. It emitted a low howl that defied anything Tommy had ever heard.

  “Not necessarily,” Stan said. He moved no closer, seeing how riled the creature was getting. “This could be a straggler from a whole pack of them. Or a baby, even. I think the original Goat Man was bigger.”

  Tommy couldn’t take his eyes off of the thing. It was a living urban legend and it was breathing and raging right in front of him. There were so many questions to be asked. Tommy went with the most immediate one. “What do we do with this thi
ng? Call animal control?”

  Stan turned back to Tommy. “Maybe I should just kill it and then call the newspaper and TV folk. Or maybe we should keep it alive until the scientists get a hold of it. They’ll probably want to dissect it while it’s still breathing,” Stan said. “Do you think they might put me on the television over this? Maybe I need a new suit. And a haircut probably wouldn’t hurt.”

  Tommy finally understood Stan’s stake in this. The situation was a lottery ticket that had hit all of the numbers. Stan meant to make money and/or fame off of this creature. Tommy was surprised that a recluse like Stan Whitley would crave the attention.

 

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