by Ron Ripley
“I was just looking for a place to sleep,” Ryan said. How the hell did he get in the room? How did he get into the closet?
“A place to sleep?” the unseen man asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said hastily. “Just seeking shelter from the weather.”
“This is my house,” the man said.
“I didn’t know anyone lived here, sir,” Ryan said, starting to sit up.
“Stay where you are,” the man snapped.
Ryan stopped.
“I live here,” the man said angrily. “I live here. This is my house!”
“I didn’t know,” Ryan said. “The place is empty.”
“I know it’s empty,” the man said. “I’m the reason it's empty. Nobody, but me, lives here. Nobody! They can sell it to as many people as they want. I’ll chase ‘em all off. You understand?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“You know you’re trespassing,” the unseen man said.
“I didn’t see any signs, sir,” Ryan said. He reached out slowly for his clothes.
“Stop moving around!” the stranger yelled. Ryan stopped. How the hell can he even see me?
“Now it’s bad enough you’re trespassing,” the man said, a moment later. “But what’s worse, is how you took my boy’s lamp.”
“What?” Ryan asked, confused.
“My son’s lamp. His bed light. The lion-tamer, you idiot,” the stranger snapped.
“I didn’t take it,” Ryan said desperately. “It’s right beside me. Look.”
He reached out, found the light and turned it on. The light, as weak as it was, momentarily blinded him. When he could see again, he turned to the closet and froze. The door was open, and the closet was empty save for a handful of wooden hangers. The sheet still hung upon the bedroom door. The towels were still stuffed around the edges.
“See,” the man said, his voice emanating from the closet. “You have my boy’s lamp.” Oh, Jesus Christ help me, Ryan prayed, suddenly terrified. This place is haunted.
A floorboard creaked, and Ryan realized the ghost had left the closet.
“You’re a thief, and a trespasser,” the unseen man snarled.
“I didn’t steal the lamp,” Ryan said weakly. “And, I just needed a place to stay. Just a warm place to stay.”
“A place to stay?” the dead man asked. The floor squealed and a cold sensation bit at Ryan’s feet through the woolen blanket and the sleeping bag. “You just needed a place to stay?”
“Yes,” Ryan whispered, trying desperately to think of a way to take his clothes and race out of the room.
“A place to stay,” the man hissed. The cold spread up Ryan’s shins and to his thighs.
“Well,” the dead man said softly. “I suppose you can stay here with me.”
Cold hands locked around Ryan’s throat and squeezed as he screamed. He flailed at the dead man, yet Ryan could do nothing. Stars exploded in front of his eyes and pressure built in his head. His lungs howled for air, and he fought desperately just to free himself of the sleeping bag. As his vision grew black and he dropped his arms to the floor, Ryan finally caught sight of the dead man. He was huge, dressed in an old flannel shirt and a pair of nearly threadbare overalls. There was a pipe clenched between his teeth, the embers of tobacco, orange and bright in the briarwood bowl. Black eyes glinted.
“Yes,” the ghost said around the stem of the pipe. “Yes. You can stay with me for a while. I won’t rob you of your shelter.”
The pressure eased up around his neck and a chill washed over Ryan.
“Shelter,” the dead man hissed-and Ryan found breath enough to scream as he was dragged into the closet.
* * *
The Shepherd
For three months, David had listened to his parents talk about the killings.
Two sheep in March. Three in April. Another pair in May. Seven sheep out of forty-three. Not much for some of the bigger farms, but for David’s family, seven was a lot.
David lay in his bed in the loft and wondered why his parents didn’t believe. At fifteen years old, David knew a lot. And yet, he understood there was a great deal more, he didn’t. A rare trait, Ms. Holmes said. He was one of the few students who didn’t sass her. She liked how he wanted to learn, and how he loved to read. And because of his politeness, she had happily gotten him the curious books he had requested. The fairy tales about the bad things, the dark things, which hunted men, as well as beasts.
David believed he knew what sought out his father’s sheep, just as he learned what had to be done to save them. He doubted Ms. Holmes would have agreed with him, though. As smart as she was, she was still an adult. And most adults didn’t believe in fairy tales or boogeymen. David thought of the sheep, the way they’d been torn apart and devoured. Little more than fur and bones had remained.
His thoughts were interrupted as his father came into the house. David peered over the side of the loft and down into the main room. His mother sat by the fire and mended a tear in his pants. He watched as his father stepped over to her, bent and kissed her swiftly. She looked up and smiled. “Did you have any luck?”
“No,” his father said, shaking his head. He put his shotgun in its corner to the left of the chimney, took off his light coat, hung it on a hook by the pantry cabinet, and sighed.
“Coffee?” his mother asked.
“I’ll get it, Love,” his father said. David watched his father get some of the strong, dark, brew the man enjoyed so much. With a grunt, his father took his chair opposite his mother, who put her mending down and looked at him.
“Are you alright?” she asked. He shook his head. “No. I’ve checked the pasture, made sure the new fence is secure and herded the sheep into one corner. Like every night, we can only hope all of our sheep will be safe when morning comes.”
“Isaac,” she said, “does anyone know what it is, yet?”
David listened carefully. “No,” his father said, “we don’t have enough tracks to go by. Some say a wolf, others say a coy-dog, some overlarge offspring of a dog and coyote. It doesn’t matter, though. I just wish we had a way to stop it.”
“Perhaps, it will move on,” his mother said. “It wasn’t here before the end of the year. We can hope it will find greener pastures.”
David’s father grunted his approval, took a clay pipe from its mug on the mantle and packed himself a full bowl. He reached out, took a match from a small shelf and struck it on the stone of the fireplace. Carefully, he lit the tobacco, exhaled and tossed the match into the fire.
“We can hope,” his father finally said. “If it happens again, I’ll have to see about hiring the Claussen boy to keep a better eye on the field.”
“Could we do it tonight?” his mother asked hopefully.
“No,” David’s father said, shaking his head. “We don’t have enough money to take him on, yet. We can only pray nothing will happen in the next month.”
No, David thought. Nothing will happen after tonight, father.
With a sigh, David closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It would be time to get up, soon enough.
His parents spoke for a little longer, mostly of concerns for the farm. Whether or not the corn would survive any early rains, if all of the apple trees would continue to produce. The last discussion he remembered was about a raise for Ms. Holmes. Her contract was to be renewed at the next Church meeting.
David awoke to the sound of his mother’s cuckoo clock as it called out two in the morning. He lay on his back and heard the steady rhythm of his father’s snores and his mother’s soft exhalations. David sat up and quietly dressed.
Fear ripped through him as he briefly thought about what he planned to do. He pushed the fear aside, pulled on his sweater and then went down his ladder and descended into the main room. He moved slowly, careful on the fifth rung down since it creaked loudly when weight was placed on its center. David avoided it successfully, saw how his mother and father still slept peacefully and crept to the door. He paused
, then silently slid the cross beam out, and unlocked the latch. Again, he risked a glance at his parents.
His father snorted, rubbed his nose in his sleep, and then he dropped his hand back to the bedside. David went to the pantry and eased the narrow door open. He felt around the dim depths until he found the hardwood case which held part of his mother’s dowry. Fine cutlery which had accompanied the cuckoo clock on the mantle all the way from Bavaria after his mother and father had married.
Carefully, David set the box on the floor and opened it. From the velvety depths, he removed a long carving knife from its place between a serving fork and a long handled ladle. The handle was dark and smooth, made from the antler of a great stag. The blade caught a faint bit of light thrown by the dulled embers of the fire and shined. For a moment, he felt as though he were a soldier, sword ready, prepared to battle the British. David smiled, and his thoughts fell away.
He returned the case to the pantry with the same care and caution with which he had removed it. Then, he closed and latched the pantry door. David grinned nervously and let himself out and into the night. In spite of it being May, there was still a chill in the air. The sky was cloudless and bright. The stars shined and the full moon illuminated the whole of their land.
In the paddock, the sheep were still on their feet. Their mutters and bleats told him they were still awake, and afraid. David could smell their fear. They knew something was wrong.
Silently, he climbed over the fence, and made his way to them. They were all gathered beneath the tall ash tree which stood in the left corner, and they parted to let him pass through. He whispered soft words to them and ran his free hand through their rough wool. His presence soothed those nearest to him, and the calm they radiated, spread out through the remainder of the small flock.
Soon, he found himself beneath the widespread branches of the ash, and he sat down. The chill of the earth seeped through his trousers, and the cold peace of the tree settled into his back. David sat cross-legged and Indian style, his arms in his lap, the antler handle warm in his hand.
And he waited.
The moon shined brightly and David felt fear and uncertainty burrow into his stomach. It gnawed at the remnants of his meal and sought to eat his courage and determination. The wind shifted and a rank, foul odor filled his nose while the sheep bleated in renewed terror.
It was coming.
And they all knew it.
The sheep pressed close to him and their bodies threw off a level of heat only fear could produce. David tightened his grip on the knife and shifted his position. He unfolded his legs, kept himself low amongst the frightened animals, and crouched down. The moonlight illuminated the pasture, outlined the spilt-rail fence, and the dark creature which appeared at the far wall. It was on all fours and low to the ground. It was neither a coyote nor a coy-dog. Not nearly as large as a wolf, but still David saw it was of a fair size. And intelligent.
David watched as it paused at the fence, head between the rails. Fear raged within him, a storm which threatened to rip his courage away. The terror he felt seemed to feed off of the anxiety of the sheep, but David battered it down. He was the shepherd, the one who protected the flock. David knew he had no choice. He must shield them from the beast, ensure their safety. David swallowed and ignored his sudden, painful desire to flee, and waited.
The wind carried its scent to the sheep and caused the fear to run rampant. The beast waited for the fright and terror to run its course; to make the sheep crazed and ready to run. Yet David’s own presence offset the scent, and the lack of panic amongst the sheep caused the creature to hesitate.
Will it come anyway? David wondered. Will it move on to Old Parchman’s farm, or perhaps the Stoats?
He could only hope so. Yet, it didn’t.
Gingerly, almost daintily, the beast stepped through the rail. It advanced and the sheep pressed closer to David. He worried they might crush him, but even as the beast neared them, the sheep gave David and the ash a bit of room.
David ignored the shakes and trembles in his flesh. He fought the numbness as it threatened to rob him of what little courage he had, and he kept his eyes on the monster. It was tall at the shoulder, its fur dark gray with strong white streaks. The eyes were a yellow tinged with black, and each step revealed the powerful muscles on its lean frame. The tail hung low, and the ears were pressed flat against the head. It looked similar to drawings of wolves David had seen in his school book, yet it was far longer and lower to the earth.
At the edge of the flock, the animal stopped. David watched silently as the beast seemed to choose the sheep it would cut out. The one it would devour. And the sheep knew it as well. Their bleating rose to a frenzied pitch, and David wondered how either he or his parents could ever have slept through such a sound. The beast sank lower and prepared to strike. David launched himself forward. The monster paused and straightened up, eyes wide and ears up. The sudden change in its posture was almost comical, and then it realized David was armed. David was fast. Faster than any other child in his school. Faster than some of the young men in town. And faster than the beast which had threatened the flock. As the creature turned and tried to run, a hind leg kicked out on a loose tuft of grass and it was all the advantage David needed.
Two long strides propelled him through all the flock, and he leaped the last few feet. He had the knife in both hands, fingers interlocked as he brought the weapon up over his head. As he crashed into the beast, David plunged the blade down into its back and buried the knife to its hilt between the creature’s bony shoulder blades. It let out a terrible shriek, horrifically human in nature as it smashed onto the earth. The beast tried to shake David off, but the boy locked his legs around the animal’s narrow midsection.
Behind him, David heard his father yell, and his mother scream his name. The door to their house burst open, and lamplight spilled out as the sheep ran. The animals’ frightened screams rang out.
The monster fell to the earth and shuddered. A gasp escaped its mouth and David wrenched the knife free only to plunge it once more. Again and again he stabbed the beast. Blood flew up into the night sky. Vaguely, David became aware of his own screams and as he ripped the blade free, he tasted the sharp and bitter tang of blood in his mouth even as he thrust the blade down into the furred body again.
“David!” his father yelled and in the corner of his eye David saw the man leap the fence. His father was clad only in an old nightshirt and nightcap, the shotgun in his hands. From the open door of the house, his mother ran, lamp held upward as her flannel nightgown flapped around her. Suddenly, his father’s broad, calloused hand was on David’s shoulder. The man pulled David back with such strength it sent him into a tumble.
“Sweet God in Heaven,” his father whispered, cocking the hammers of the shotgun.
“Isaac,” his mother hissed as she pulled David close to her. David looked at the beast in the moonlight, yet it was no longer a beast.
It was the naked, bloodied form of Mrs. Parchman, the pig farmer’s wife. Her gray and white hair was tousled, a look of frozen horror on her face. She was filthy with mud, her eyes clear and white, and the spark of life gone from them. The antler handle of the silver knife protruded from the woman’s back and glowed in the light of May’s full moon.
David allowed himself to be cradled in his mother’s arms, he shivered as he looked at the giant, pale orb in the night sky, and suddenly felt a terrible, horrific longing.
* * *
The Shortcut
At sixteen years old, Mark LeBlonde wasn’t afraid of anything. If he could handle the beat-downs from his father, he could handle whatever the rest of the world decided to throw at him. What he couldn’t handle, though, was Stephanie Ural’s rejection. She was hot, and he wanted to date her. She didn’t feel the same.
Not. At. All. Mark thought.
He cut through the driveway of an abandoned house on Pierce Street, reached the iron fence of the cemetery, and hoisted himself up. With gr
eat care, he avoided the points of the metal posts, hooked his foot into the top crossbeam and jumped over onto the grass. The air seemed colder in the cemetery, the night sky darker. Mark ignored them both. He didn’t believe in ghosts.
And even if they were real, what could they do to me? he thought.
He stuffed his hands into his pants’ pockets and dropped his head down slightly. Anger raced through him and flared up occasionally as he thought of Stephanie and her rejection. He released it each time with a kick to a tree or a wire-mesh trash can placed along the cemetery road. As he passed into the older section near the cemetery’s center, he saw a white headstone. The marker leaned crazily to the right and looked as though a strong breeze would knock it over. Mark paused and looked at the stone, and then he smiled.
He left the cemetery road and walked across the grass, taking his hands out of his pockets. The stone of the marker was cold beneath his fingers. He gripped the top of the headstone, the surface pitted and worn from years of exposure, and he pushed. The tendons in his neck strained and his shoulders ached, but Mark continued to press his weight against the stone. With a groan and a strange squeal, the marker went over, and Mark stepped back as it crashed to the ground. He could feel the vibration of it through his feet, and Mark realized he felt great. He felt … strong. He shook his head, laughed and looked around for another. Half a dozen feet away, another headstone was cockeyed on its wide base, and Mark knew it would go. He stomped over to it, took it in both hands as he had done the other, and shoved it. And while his muscles ached and screamed at the sudden, unexpected effort, the stone went over. Mark let out a triumphant shout.
Forget Stephanie, he told himself. There are other girls, and this is a hell of a lot more fun than chasing her around.
Mark nodded in agreement with himself, scanned the rows of headstones and spotted another, a few feet away. In less than twenty minutes, he stood by a tall monument to some long dead soldier and panted. He had managed to push over six stones. The last one had split in two, and it made all of the new aches and pains he felt, worthwhile. He leaned against the monument. The cold of the stone worked its way through his clothes and into his flesh, but it was alright. All of it was alright.