by Jeff Strand
″Watch out. It′s heading your way Harold, be careful.″
″I have eyes woman, don′t you think I can see for myself?″ He replied through gritted teeth, his mouth dry.
As it got closer to the door (and as the door was open), a dreadful din, a droning could be heard. And the sound of something heavy, being dragged along the wooden porch.
In Lindsay′s immature mind, she was totally convinced that hideous creature Harold had battled had resurrected itself and was pulling its huge tail along the ground. Its jaws open wide and salivating, ready to devour them both. She so wanted to scream, but she knew there would be hell to pay if she did.
″I can hear your teeth chattering from here wife, show it no fear.″ Harold ordered but his voice too wavered.
The light shone brightly through the door. The moaning and the groaning reached a crescendo, completely deafening. A loud THUMP as something was dropped to the ground. The door frame began to shake, to rattle.
″I′m scared Harold, I′m scared.″ Which wasn′t a lie, Lindsay was.
Harold rolled up his sleeves, his legs apart, his hands formed into fists, arms extended as if he was ready for a bout of Queensbury Rules.
″Who goes there?″ Harold warned. ″For I should tell you that you have dared invade the domus of one Harold Aloysius Crump and his mare Lindsay.″
″What in the name of Hades?!....″ A voice complained as it came through the doorway, bumping into Harold and went crashing to the ground (not that Harold′s extended leg had anything to do with tripping this mysterious stranger). The light (which in reality was nothing more than an old gas lamp stuck on the end of a stick) was catapulted across the cabin.
As luck would have it, right at that moment (coincidently natch!) the electricity was restored, the power returned and the lights came back on. It took everyone a moment or two for their eyes to adjust.
Lying there in a heap, was an older man. He was severely bald save for a few strands of wispy white hair which he combed from one side of his pate to the other other (though oddly this appeared to be a wig of some kind and underneath he sported a full head of hair).
His face was manically made up with white chalk, bright red lips and rouge had been rubbed into his cheeks. He wore a threadbare black suit (it appeared only the moths were keeping it together) and gloves, a silk cravat around his neck, a dirty handkerchief had been forced into his top pocket. What was once a bright white carnation stuck on his lapel. He also held a cane (in reality it was a sword-stick, minus the sword) which amazingly he still gripped. With great difficulty he climbed to his feet.
″BAZ!″ Harold and Lindsay exclaimed in unison.
″Yay, tis I brother and yonder wife. Don′t fret yourselves. I′ll sort myself out.″ He dusted himself down. ″Pray tell, what has been the occasion that one finds oneself in?″
Harold looked briefly confused as he tried to calculate what Baz had actually asked, Lindsay picked up the mantle as she uncurled herself. ″Harold fought a hideous monster, out there, he did us proud.″
Baz stoke his chin. ″Is that correctumundo? You need a dousing in gripe water you spindly Amazonian. Have you been out on one of your walks again brother? You′re like a couple of albatrosses around my neck — but no worries, we′re kith and kin I guess. Well, so it′s been said though I′ve had my doubts. I of course have the better genes.″
Harold, tried to regain his composure but failed miserably. For the second time that night, he broke wind. It was more than a trump, there was a definite squelch-like quality to it. He did the only thing that came naturally to him: he sat back down, but the look on his face said it all. ″More tea vicar?″ He whispered, much to his own amusement only, followed by a belch.
Baz surveyed the scene. He appeared most displeased. ″I have no idea what′s been occurring whilst I have been hunting and gathering....but whatever it was, I am somewhat perturbed. However, for our perusal and before you enquire, I have been most successful in my quest. We have not gone wanting.″
He headed back towards the door. ″And brother, you can remove your fist from your mouth, I do find it quite offensive.″
Harold did as asked, annoyed somewhat that Baz had caught him out.
From outside, came the sound of hysterical laughter. Shrill-like, the giggling of a hyena.
″What′s he laughing at Harold?″ Lindsay enquired, not wishing to be ignored but feeling that she was being goaded.
Harold shrugged. ″Where Baz is concerned, it′s best not to interfere.″
Baz, with a massive smile across his painted face, leant round the door frame. ″Brother, I am most intrigued by this monster it has been purported you fought.″
″Leave it Baz, there′s no need to scare the little lady, you get my drift?″ He motioned towards Lindsay, trying to laugh it off.
Baz frowned. ″Indeed I do.″ He played with a strand of hair. ″Perhaps you can describe the creature Lindsay?″
Harold made a sound, like a death-rattle, but his brother ignored it, he was in an inquisitive mood and wanted the woman to explain herself (probably before he throttled her into one inch of her miserable existence, and boy, would she would enjoy it).
Lindsay was a caged animal. She grabbed her chain, smashed it over and over again against the floor. Her open cardigan flying around like a crazy cape. ″You should have seen it. At least seven feet tall, teeth like razors, huge talons for claws, scales all over its body, but my Harold fought and killed it. He deserves a medal.″
If he could, Harold would have reddened (not that you would have seen it amongst the pock marks and his usual blotchiness). ″Now now Lindsay, no need to exaggerate.″
Baz nodded. ″Sounds quite a scary critter.″
″Oh it was, it was.″ Lindsay continued. ″It was called a Joooggaallo, no, a Jodddooodoo, no a Jacalllooodooo.″ She gave up.
″Horrific.″ Baz added. ″And what choice of weapon did you use to best this mysterious creature brother, for I′m sure you would have required something exceptional other than just your wits. Limited as they are.″
Lindsay pointed to the remnants of the newspaper. ″He used that, and a stub of a pencil. Don′t tell me how he did it, but he did. And lived to tell the tale. It′s a pity he didn′t have your cane...″
Baz frowned. ″And the cushion, where did that come into all this? What was its involvement?″
Lindsay was like a flock of seagulls flying into a sandstorm: completely bemused. ″Cushion?″ But there was no denying that Baz′s words must have had some ring of truth about them as in his hand he held what was left of one. Several of the feathers fell from the case, fluttered to the ground.
″Harold?″ Lindsay asked.
Baz burst into another fit of those awful giggles. ″This has also been discovered - is this the monster you battled brother?″ He disappeared out of sight before returning, he held a small white bunny-rabbit. He stroked it. It must have been digging in some bushes or other undergrowth because it had various twigs, branches and leaves stuck to its head, caught in its ears, making it appear like it had huge horns.
″Is this your mysterious Jackadoo?″ Baz enquired.
″Are you both fucking insane?! It′s called a fucking jackalope! How many more fucking times do I have to tell you?!″ Harold gave up, exasperated.
Lindsay didn′t seem that disappointed, in fact, she appeared quite intrigued by the pretty little thing. ″Can I have it Baz, can I have it? I′m feeling all dark and deadly.″
Baz shrugged. ″What harm would it do I wonder?″
He confidently strolled across the room, handed her the small fluffy creature.
″Why, aren′t you a darling?″ She removed the leaves and twigs from its head. It loved the way she tickled it under its chin.
Harold (thinking no-one was watching) slinked away towards the kitchen door, he was hoping to sneak out the back and have some private time.
But Baz being Baz of course noticed and clapped his hands toget
her. ″Dear dear brother, before you go, there′s some breakfast in that sack out there, I happened across him on the freeway up yonder, his vehicle had broken down, conveniently, and as he was taking a winks behind the trees, well you get my drift. Flesh seems quite tender, probably no more than nineteen or twenty, right up your street hey Harold?″ He smirked. Annoyingly.
Harold, embarrassed, shook his head, turned on his heels and headed outside. ″I have no idea what you′re talking about, I′m all man, me, all man.″
″Yes, such a dear pretty little thing.″ Lindsay cuddled the rabbit tightly to her breast. A definite twinkle in her eye. She leant down and kissed its cute little button nose.
But before the creature realized what had happened, it was dead. Lindsay had snapped its neck. She held it in the air for the others to see. She threw it on the floor.
″Typical, bloody typical.″ Baz said. ″But no matter, sun′s coming up. Time to get the breakfast on the spit.″
Harold dragged the sack into the cabin. The boy that was inside, fought and kicked, tried to make his escape. Harold licked his lips — he liked food he had to tame and the way Baz described him, he sounded a right spunk.
″Come on Granddad, stop lying about will you? There′s flesh to be flayed!″ Baz ordered.
The beetle stood up, dusted himself down. For all intents and purposes it was human, well, it resembled something human: it was dwarfish, a hideously burnt face, a black Nazi SS hat sat on its head and leather gloves on each hand. It stunk terribly.
″I′ll get the spit turning.″ Granddad mumbled through a toothless mouth, limping into the kitchen,
Seeing that Harold was struggling (making a song and dance of it, as per) Baz said. ″Let me help you brother.″ They dragged the sack into the kitchen. Baz hitting Harold′s rump with his cane to encourage him.
Lindsay sat there for a moment or two before realizing she was all alone. Not wanting to miss out on all the fun, she put her hand in her mouth, reached down deep into her throat and vomited up the small key Harold had put there for safe keeping, she undid the manacle around her neck and once she was free from the chain, she ran to join the others.
The door slammed shut behind her.
A gust of wind blew over the small gas lantern, the glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the flame escaped. There it danced merrily around the cabin consuming everything that came into its path. The eyes that stared through the window opened wide and perhaps it was just the breeze but if you listened hard enough you would have sworn you could have heard the laughter of the mysterious jackalope....
DRAWN TO THE LIGHT OF SCIENCE
MIKE D. MCCARTY
DON RODGERS TUGGED on his yellow leather work gloves and made his way through the cool morning air out to the horse barn. He moved past the rusted iron gate and up to the barn where he heard his horse Joe give the side wall a heavy kick. Ace and Joe were both pretty spooked. It was more than just the nervousness of the new place.
Don had only lived in this particular house for seventeen days since downsizing the ranch, the horses had been there even less time. It had taken a while to get the barn ready and the new well dug, but now everyone was in. Don figured they would have gotten over the move already and they still shouldn′t have been acting this way. No, this was something else, something really had them bothered.
Don had heard a story from Pete at the hardware store about potential horse thieves in the area. He couldn′t believe after all these years that, that of all things, still fuckin′ happened, but it made sense, times were tough all over and out here in the rural areas it was easy to get onto someone′s land. The Sumner′s had lost five horses and ten head of cattle that season alone and old Bill Wiley had some jackass up and take off with his beat up Ford tractor one night. Bill had even heard ′em drive it off, but he was so slow getting up and around that the bastards got away.
So having known all of this and with the horses being more than a little agitated, Don had kept a vigilant watch the previous night with the heavy weight of his Mossberg 12 gauge pump his lap. No Goddamned thievin′ shit-bird Mexican was gonna get onto his property by God.
Around midnight his tired eyes had gotten the best of him and he began to drift off. All night long the horses kept stirring him awake, but each time it was a false alarm, other than the moths and insects in the florescent lighting there was nothing out there. No matter how much Don checked on them and tried to reassure them they still whinnied and kicked the stalls till the sun came up. After the fourth false alarm Don had gotten so mad at them he yelled out of the window to; shut the hell up or he′d personally take them to the glue factory. Then he went to bed. Now he kind of felt bad about it, they couldn′t help it, they weren′t trying to be annoying, in-fact they were probably trying to tell him something...but what?
Now that the sun had risen it was horse breakfast time. Both of the big beasts were quick to turn a head and bolt upright, sometimes with an added spin like a demented ballerina, all legs, whirling around. Don looked at what was left of Joe′s dinner, there was still a good third of a flake of three-way there, maybe more. That meant one thing, either the hay was bad or he was really upset. The old saying, I could eat like a horse, was more than true, and if your horse wasn′t eating, something was definitely wrong.
Don tried not to be too concerned with it. He still went through the motions and patted them on their heads and told them they were good horses. Ace ran a quick circuit of his twelve by twelve stall and rushed up to the Dutch door, eyes wide and black, ears pinned, nose in a perpetual snort. He was apprehensive for a moment, Don held his empty hand out so the horse could rub his face on it. The young paint horse wrinkled his nose for a moment, then velvety lips scrubbed Don′s palm looking for a special treat of a carrot or cookie. Ace turned to the side annoyed when he found no treat and that′s when Don noticed several small reddish brown spots that stood out on his mostly white, coat. He opened the stall and examined them closely. They all appeared to be dried blood spots. Like the big horse had leaned up against a nail or scratched his hide on something.
Don made a round of the stall examining the walls for exposed nails or something Ace might have gotten into. He next went into Joe′s stall and found the same type of marks camouflaged on the big bay. Something had bitten them. It had been too warm for him to put a blanket on them. So whatever it was had a free meal. ″God damn horseflies″ he said as he made a mental note to mix a stronger batch of fly spray and get them spritzed soon.
He went on about his morning ritual of mucking the stalls and spreading around the shavings. It was quiet, real quiet. He paused for a moment and listened intently. The only sound was that of the horses breathing and a slight breeze through the hills. Normally there were crows squawking, sparrows chirping, and surly finches fighting other birds off their nests.
But today it was just the sound of air being pushed by animal and nature. Don scanned the landscape for signs of life, nothing moved. He looked down the hill into the valley and knew that six miles away there was a the local diner and market, most likely teeming with the sounds and sights of daily small town life, but up here it was just him. That′s okay, that′s the way he liked it. Since his wife had passed seven months ago and he downgraded the farm to this little ranch in the hills it was all he wanted, to be left alone. People were too full of horse-shit these days and the last thing he wanted was to be shoveling their shit as well. He took the stall rake and dumped what little dung there was into the can and flipped the lid shut.
It was on his way back to the house that the strange pine cones caught his attention. He couldn′t remember if they were in season or not. He also couldn′t remember if they had been there a few days ago. He would have bet money on it that the pine trees were barren then, they couldn′t have grown that fast in just a couple of days could they, and why only on three trees?
He wandered up to the affected tree and took a good long look at the cones. They appeared to be overrun with webbin
g. The closer he got the weirder they looked. In-fact they weren′t pine cones at all, but more like dirty sacks of webbing with small twigs and bits of weeds stuck to them. On the side of one was the desiccated body of a humming bird. Don scratched his head, he had seen a special on TV about African bird eating spiders, but never thought that such a thing existed here. He made a mental note to come out and eradicate the little fuckers once he got some bacon and eggs in his growling belly.
After breakfast the day wound down quickly as Don made his rounds on the new ranch. So many things needed to be done. The fence out by the North gate needed to be fixed where the coyotes or something had gotten through at one time, the roller on the door to Ace′s stall was stuck and the vent in the master bathroom ceiling was being held on with duct tape. The early evening began to chase the day away and bring with it a slight breeze, warm and comforting. He put the last screw into the pine board at the fence when he heard the horrible squawking. It was coming from one of the trees. He got up and started for it watching the branches tremor as something fought for its life inside. Don felt an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that the fading light of the sun only added to the closer he got to the tree. On his way he picked up a rake, he wasn′t sure why, but the well worn wood of the long handle made him feel...safer.
The racket died down as he grew closer and ended with what sounded like a last dying gasp as a small crow, probably a fledging, made its final twitch. Don moved in slow, the black bird was stuck chest first to one of the larger sack like things. Blood dripped and glistened. Don reached out with the rake and gingerly poked the back of the crow. It peeled away from the sack with a grotesque sticky sound, that made his lunch, turn over in his stomach. The bird hit the ground hard and flat. The shade of the branches above and the dim light made it hard to make out the birds wounds. Don reached for the beat up mini-mag light key chain on his belt, he had purchased at a hardware store years ago, its anodized green handle was almost worn clean as he expertly twisted it with one hand. He shone the light onto the sack first, which looked like a teardrop the size of a large man′s fist, the center was torn out of it and edged in shiny crimson. Don focused the light down to the bird. Writhing in the birds chest cavity was what looked like living spaghetti. He whirled back in revulsion. The rake caught one of the sacks on the bottom and tore it open, crimson and yellow caterpillars poured out of it onto the ground. Don spun out from under the tree catching another sack with his shoulder. He instantly felt a powerful sting like a jolt of 220 down his neck. He dropped the rake and made a football move out from under the tree. Two of the wicked caterpillars dropped off of his shoulder. He swiped at his neck his hand came away slick with blood. He was overcome with horror as he danced and whipped his body around hoping to get whatever they were off of him.