by Jeff Strand
It tilted its head, studying him. Tilted it to the opposite side, studying him.
″Please, no,″ Terry said, begging.
The lead jackalope sucked in a great gulp of air and opened its mouth. What followed was a screech so loud Terry could do nothing but cover his ears and scream. It felt like the very sound drilled into his ears. Into his mind.
The other jackalopes joined in. The screech became unbearable. Terry leaned over into the passenger seat, trying to push his head into the crack. Trying to get away from the terrible wail.
But he couldn′t get away. Couldn′t block out the sound even as his ear drums exploded. As the blood oozed around and between his fingers. As the glass of the windows shattered inward, raining him with the remnants of the last barrier of protection.
The screech stopped. But the echoes in his head remained. The pain in his ears pulsed. Terry shook and wondered what next?
He lifted his head, hands still clasped over his ears. Jackalopes sat on the dashboard, peering down at him. Saliva dripped from their mouths. Their great teeth glimmered.
Terry laughed. What else could he do? This was how it was going to end. This morning, he thought he had it made. Rob a bank and flee to Mexico and set up a king′s life. And now he stared at his death, reflected in the mirrored eyes of fucking jackalopes.
″I′ll see you soon, Hank,″ Terry said as the lead jackalope jumped on his chest and bit.
CAUTIONARY TALES
ABBIE BERNSTEIN
IN A LITTLE NEW ENGLAND TOWN, In a little New England town, not unlike the one where Ms. Phipps was teaching her English lit high school class, it was said there lived a young man named Aldin Beuel. Aldin was tall, good-looking and charismatic. As a consequence of this, even young women who did not know him tended to smile at Aldin and look at him warmly. Aldin appreciated the regard of the young women. Those he especially liked he would court, and once he got them alone, he would embrace them from behind, then slit their throats with a small silver scalpel and cut out their eyes, which he kept so that he could continue to appreciate the way they looked at him.
This story found its way into the neighboring towns. The young women there, taking the story of Aldin Beuel to heart, glared at any young man they did not know, especially those they found unattractive. Another young man named Fletcher Hogden, who was not attractive, grew so worn down by the hostile expression on the face of those young women who met his gaze, and the others who simply glowered preemptively at his back, that he purchased a rifle, walked into an indoor shopping mall and opened fire on every young woman he saw there until at last he was subdued by the police.
When Ms. Phipps judged that her students had taken sufficient time to finished reading the two paragraphs above, she said, ″Well, what can we learn from this?″
Several hands waved tentatively, but Jennifer Foley′s arm shot straight up.
″Yes, Jennifer?″
″Never trust misogynistic urban legends that have the underlying aim of repressing women′s sexuality?″
″Thank you, Jennifer,″ said Ms. Phipps. ″Who can tell me the folklore regarding alligators in the sewers?″ This time, quite a few arms shot up. Ms. Phipps pointed and nodded. ″Yes, Tom.″
Tom Clofield was small for his age, but he had what Ms. Phipps regarded as commendably outsized enthusiasm for all things regarding narrative. ″Well, there was this family — no, wait, it had to be a bunch of families, for there to be alligators, plural. Anyway, a bunch of families in New Jersey — is that right?″
″It′s usually New York,″ Ms. Phipps said, ″but go on, the locale isn′t the point.″
Tom continued. ″They bought baby alligators for their kids, but when the alligators started to grow, the parents didn′t think they were good pets anymore, so they flushed the baby alligators down their toilets. The baby alligators landed in the sewers, where they grew and grew and grew, until they started eating sewer workers.″
″That′s the gist,″ Ms. Phipps agreed. ″And what is the point being made by this tale?″
Tom raised his hand again. ″Don′t be a sewer worker.″
″That′s self-evident,″ Ms. Phipps said. ″No, that′s not it. Someone else? Come on, anyone.″
″Um, don′t buy something you don′t want?″ said Sally Rawley.
″Not quite,″ said Ms. Phipps. ″Hugo?″
″The whole story doesn′t make sense,″ declared Hugo Larch. ″If the alligators got too big to deal with, they′d also be too big to flush down a toilet.″
″Perhaps they simply got too difficult to deal with, rather than too large,″ Ms. Phipps suggested. ″Let me put it another way — what do you think happened in that neighborhood, assuming there were stories about alligators eating sewer workers?″
A confused murmur went around the class. Finally, Ron Martinez raised his hand. ″Then the sewage workers didn′t want to go down there and the sewage started backing up?″
Ms. Phipps clapped her hands together, just once. ″Yes, Ron. And what does that tell us?″
″That when people are irresponsible with pets, they wind up knee-deep in their own shit?″
″Exactly, Ron,″ Ms. Phipps nodded, pleased.
″Would serve them right for doing that to a pet,″ Hugo declared. ″Except they wouldn′t fit in the first place.″
″Then there is the legend of the Vurdulak,″ Ms. Phipps said, resuming the lesson. ″A father leaves home, is gone for several days, returns, but insists upon being invited into his own home. When a family member complies and does invite him in, he reveals himself to have become a vampire and makes his entire family into vampires.″
Benny Hakawara spoke up. ″Could be a metaphor for sudden wealth, Ms. Phipps. The father leaves home poor, comes back rich and turns his entire family into soulless rich who drain the poor.″
″That′s an interesting notion, Benny,″ said Ms. Phipps, ″but it doesn′t take into account the new need for permission to enter the home. Yes, Lawrence?″
″It′s one of those fables designed to keep people insulated and ignorant,″ Lawrence Kelten declared. ″Anyone leaves home, goes outside the community, changes — well, don′t let them in, because they might be different now, and being different is dangerous. The let me in′ part implies that you personally can prevent change by refusing to accept anything from outside your world view.″
″Exactly,″ Ms. Phipps said, satisfied that her students were indeed comprehending her teachings. She gazed thoughtfully around the room, her eyes taking in the pile of clothing near the door, before deciding the note on which she′d conclude today′s lessons. ″Now, what about the boy who cried wolf?″
″Well, we all know that one,″ said Suzy Maynard.
″Then tell it, Suzy,″ said Ms. Phipps.
Suzy shrugged and obediently launched into the story that often signified the end of the school day in Ms. Phipps′ class. ″Well, it′s a sheep-herding community, and this boy, to get attention, says he′s seen a wolf. Everybody goes out and looks for the wolf, it′s a big deal, and everybody winds up tired and frustrated. The boy does it again, same thing happens. Finally a wolf comes and he tries to tell people, but nobody believes him, everybody goes to bed, and the wolf comes and does its thing.″
″And what 'thing′ would that be, Suzy?″ Ms. Phipps prompted.
″Well, in the story, the wolf finds the boy and kills him.″
″Do wolves really kill people?″ Ms. Phipps asked rhetorically.
″That′s just part of the story,″ Suzy replied. ″No, they don′t.″
″But we do!″ the class shouted in joyful ritual, fur and feathers and scales erupting from their bare human skin, pink and brown and black becoming luxuriant white fur, tawny and black plumage, glittering green diamonds. Fingers sharpened into claws and talons, jaws sprouted fangs and sharp beaks tongues grew forked. Hissing, squawking and howling, they ran and flew and slithered past the clothes they′d shed by the door when they′d arrived in
the classroom, readied for this moment, and bolted out into the night, seeking the tellers of false tales.
Ms. Phipps dropped to all fours, relishing the feel of the soft, warm hairs now sprouting all over her body. She hopped forward, her now-long ears brushing happily back and forth against the antlers that gave her head a comfortable weight. It was a tight fit through the classroom doorway, as she was large even by jackalope standards, but a bit of wriggling and she was clear. She leapt eagerly forward, ready to put her antlers to use.
″And what do we learn from this, class? Anyone?″
THE HOLY CARROT AND THE HORNED HARE
MATT KURTZ
IN ALL HIS EIGHTY-ONE YEARS, Floyd Buford Jenkins had been a peaceful man. But tonight, with his livelihood on the line, he was forced to come out swinging (well, at least as much as his arthritis would allow...especially with what felt like an approaching storm out west).
Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, his rusted ′56 Chevy truck belched under the hood and farted exhaust as the vehicle puttered down the highway. Hitting a top speed of forty-five, he ignored the honking cars that swerved around him.
Floyd squinted to read the approaching highway sign and saw that it was his exit. He jerked the wheel to the right and cut across two lanes, nearly side-swiping a minivan coming up beside him. The van lurched to the safety of the far left lane with horn blaring.
″Ah, Shuddup!″ Floyd yelled out the window. He exited the highway, grateful to be leaving such a dangerous stretch of road (and oblivious to the large, dark figure stealthily pursuing him, gliding through the shadowy woods and fields that ran parallel along his route).
A few minutes later, the Chevy truck slid to a stop across the rural gravel road. Floyd killed the engine and climbed out. Reaching behind the seat, he withdrew a double-barreled, twelve-gauge shotgun. Cracking it open, he gave a final check then snapped it shut. He tightened the ties on the tarpaulin that covered the large lump in the back of the pickup then wobbled up the long driveway toward the farmhouse.
Even with most of the lights on inside the two story house, its surrounding yard was an inky void. The black silhouettes of the nearby crops and wooded area swayed against the gray night sky. Moving through the darkness, Floyd made his way to the front porch and climbed the creaky steps. Once at the door, he gave it a hard rap.
The sound of booted footsteps came from the other side. Floyd raised the shotgun and aimed it for a headshot.
The knob twisted. The door ripped open.
Floyd exhaled at the sight of the hulking man-child that towered in the open doorway, gnawing on a strip of beef jerky. The clod′s name was Delmont, only twenty-five years old and never the same since being kicked in the head four years ago while trying to shoe an ornery mule.
Floyd pulled the barrel away from the halfwit′s face.
The oaf, ignoring the gun just aimed at him, casually said, ″Hey, Floyd″.
Floyd nodded. ″Delmont.″
An awkward silence.
″Yer Grampappy home, Delmont?″
″Sure is.″
Delmont′s eyes shifted to the darkness behind Floyd and he stopped chewing his jerky.
Floyd couldn′t help but feel the hairs on his nape stand on end. He glanced over his shoulder to see what the dimwit was looking at. Seeing nothing, he turned back and waited. Delmont continued his steady stare into the void.
Floyd cleared his throat. ″Hey...ah...Delmont...″
The man looked at Floyd as if seeing him for the first time that night. ″Oh, hey Floyd.″
″Yer Grampappy? Is he home?″
″Sure is. Hold on.″
Delmont slammed the door in Floyd′s face.
″Grampaaaaaa!″ The footsteps faded away. ″Floyd Jenkins is at the door.″
Floyd shook his head and stepped back into position, re-aiming for a headshot.
The door suddenly swung open. ″Why Floyd, what′re ya doin′ in these parts″
Horace Keenly stopped short in his tracks with mouth gaping.
Floyd shoved the shotgun in his face. ″I came for the Jesus, Horace! And I don′t want no trouble! Just hand him over and I′ll be on my way.″
* * *
Ever since that train carrying toxic waste derailed and puked its contents across the Jarvis County landscape, its townsfolk had nothing but headaches and heartaches. The glowing green goo soaked into the soil, contaminating an underground stream that spread the poison throughout the entire region.
All the crops, from peas to pumpkins, became super-sized! What first seemed a blessing quickly became a curse because of how freakishly large things grew. Hell, even someone of Delmont′s limited intelligence would know that abnormally large produce grown in an area known for a toxic waste spill wasn′t safe for consumption, resulting in a complete halt of commerce for the farmers in the area.
Those that didn′t lose their property to the banks packed up and went to live with relatives while the folks at the Environmental Protection Agency promised to sort things out.
Horace and Floyd were of the few that stayed, refusing to abandon their farms. While Floyd tried the last ditch attempt of ripping up his crops and replanting, Horace struck gold trying to uproot one particularly stubborn carrot in his patch. When it wouldn′t give, he dug around it...and kept digging. Deeper and deeper, he clawed at the soil until finally dislodging the beast from the earth, pulling it free with the help of his hefty grandson.
″Jesus!″ Delmont said. He pointed at the five-foot tall carrot that was now propped against a tree in front of the setting sun.
Wiping the sweat from his wrinkled brow, Horace fought to catch his breath. ″I...I know, boy. T′was a bitch to get up.″
Delmont shook his head. ″No, Grampa,″ he said, pointing again, ″Jesus! Jesus!!″
Horace fought the urge to throw something at his grandson. But then he looked at what the boy was pointing at and his jaw unhinged. ″Jesus. H. Christ.″
″Told ya,″ Delmont said, smiling.
With the warm orange sun providing a beautiful backlight for the carrot, the damn thing looked like the spitting image of Our Lord and Savior. From the way the floppy green shoots cascaded over the vegetable like long strands of hair, to the dark stains of dirt resembling a beard, nose, and eyes.
Horace had once seen news reports about the Virgin Mary being spotted in a tree′s bark and how people flocked to see it. The masses were a faithful bunch, coming from all over the globe to witness the likeness of the Holy Mother, some even passing out cold when it wept sap.
Dollar signs danced in Horace′s noggin. He could charge a buck a pop for a gander. Hell, make that two! Forget farming, a godsend like this could provide a steady income for quite some timeor at least until the carrot rotted beyond recognition.
At about the same time that Horace was uprooting his Jesus carrot, Floyd was taking the Lord′s name in vain over a broken fence, knocked down by a mysterious guest that had been squatting on his property.
Over the last few months, his returning crops were being trampled and devoured by the unseen visitor. Floyd saw the rooting marks in the earth and first thought the culprit to be feral pigs tearing up his land while scavenging for grub. Then he saw the scarred trees from the sharpening of antlerswith the marks being a good ten feet off the ground!
That afternoon, while mending the fence trampled by the interloper, Floyd spotted a large mound of fresh earth down by the creek. Taking a shovel from his Chevy, he poked and prodded the loose dirt. Then he dug.
His shovel clanked against something hard.
Continuing his excavation, he unearthed a large pair of six-point antlers. A little more digging and he was shocked to find the carcass to be not one of a deer, but a gigantic jackrabbit. With antelope horns!
It was the infamous jackalope! Part rabbit. Part antelope. A mythical creature that, although faked for postcards or constructed in taxidermy shops, had yet to be seen in the wild.
The ani
mal was monstrous. Lying on its side, the thing had the mass of a black bear. Multi-colored fur. Razor sharp talons. Huge buck teeth on top and bottom that resembled a staple remover from hell. One of its floppy ears hung limp, partially covering a ghastly blood-red eye that stared up lifelessly at Floyd.
The sight of the freakish beast gave him the heebie-jeebies. Had the thing naturally grown to such a size or was it from the effects of the toxic waste spill?
Floyd glanced at the ground on the opposite side of the mound.
Footprints. Not human.
Hare. And Huge.
By God, there were two!
He hustled over to the footprints, sized them up, and returned to the mound, comparing them with the corpse′s feet. The tracks were twice as big, making the thing that left them jumbo-sized! Probably at least nine feet tall...not counting the antlers!
Floyd had found his interlopers and when the world saw his discovery, especially if he could snag the living one, he was going to be rich! Or at the very least, be able to save his farm.
Scrambling up the incline, he went to fetch his truck while trying to figure out the best way to catch the one still roaming his land.
″Hootch!″ Floyd screamed a half out later. The memory hit him like a slap to the face while driving home with a truck bed full of dead hare.
He remembered the jackalope spook tales told by his MeeMaw concerning a surefire way to lure the beasts from hiding: booze. A flask of whiskey left in the open would draw them out. They′d drink the alcohol, get sloppy drunk, and become easier to catch. It was the only way to dull their senses in order to sneak up on the swift bastards.
Floyd had to admit that a rabbit being attracted to alcohol was more than far-fetched but it was worth a shot.
By the time the moon was high in the night sky, Floyd was hidden in the brush with his double barrel and lasso, ready to catch him a drunken monster. He eyed the opened bottle of cheap whiskey in the middle of the clearing and licked his chops.