by Byron Starr
* * *
Sharon Perrett had lived by herself since her husband, Terry, had died almost ten years ago. Terry and Sharon had been high school sweethearts who married right out of school. He worked offshore and she was a champion barrel racer. Long ago the team of Sharon and her horse, Chelsea, won several rodeo barrel-riding competitions. Unlike many teenagers who marry right out of high school, Terry and Sharon enjoyed a great relationship. When he was in from work they were inseparable, and while he was away Sharon spent all of her time riding Chelsea and waiting for him to come home.
On February 22, 1993, a helicopter bringing Terry and several other offshore hands from a rig in the Gulf of Mexico crashed in a storm, killing everyone on board. When it became known that the helicopter had taken off from the rig despite repeated warnings of foul weather, the relatives of the victims became part of a major settlement with the oil company.
After Terry’s death, Sharon quit barrel racing. She said she just didn’t enjoy it anymore. She used her settlement to buy a large piece of land outside Newton and had a house built there. The rest of the money was put in the bank for her to live off the interest. Sharon was attractive, young, and now quite wealthy; she could’ve had just about any man in the county, but she chose a life that included only her and Chelsea, who, at sixteen years old, was now getting up in years.
Sharon woke to the sound of Chelsea running in the corral, but thought the horse was just enjoying the cool air. She tried to go back to sleep, but then she heard a loud crash followed by what sounded like Chelsea scream and take a fall.
Her hands groped along the nightstand, knocking the alarm clock to the floor. Finally, she found the light switch. She quickly put a robe on over her nightgown and started down the hall. From the kitchen widow thought she could see movement in the barn, but she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t hear Chelsea running anymore – was she hurt? Hurrying toward the backdoor, Sharon told herself she was overreacting, that everything was okay and she would be laughing at her own silliness in no time. Still, her hands were trembling by the time they reached for the switch that turned on the back porch light.
She grabbed a flashlight and the .22 rifle that she kept propped up in the corner by the back door.
“Chelsea?” she called from the back porch, pointing the flashlight toward the pen. There were two security lights on either side of the barn, but there were still large shadows she couldn’t see into. Sharon tried to use the flashlight, but its weak beam wasn’t powerful enough to reach the barn.
“Chelsea?” Sharon called out even more loudly. Again she thought she saw movement in the barn, so she stepped outside and started toward the gate.
The night was cold and damp. Sharon carried her flashlight in one hand, while the other held the small rifle close to her body in order to keep the robe tight around her. As she walked toward the barn, she thought she saw another flicker of movement.
* * *
The beast realized something was coming as soon as Sharon called out. It moved quickly behind the barn and waited. Although it hadn’t caught a glimpse, the beast caught a whiff in the air. The scent was familiar; this creature smelled like whatever had left the strange flat tracks in the clear cut. As its new prey approached the barn, the beast once again detached its senses. Passing through the barn wall, it spotted a pale creature walking on two legs and started in that direction. As it drew nearer, the scent became stronger. The beast was almost to one of the creature’s vulnerable eyes when its newfound prey saw the grisly sight in the barn. The sudden loud shriek of terror startled the beast into opening its eyes, ending the out-of-body movement of its senses.
Sharon had walked into the barn and found Chelsea. Entrails and gore splattered the sandy floor and ropy streaks of blood marred a nearby wall. Sharon’s beloved old mare had been ripped apart. Sharon dropped her gun and flashlight and staggered forward, dropping to her knees near the horse’s head. Kneeling beside the old mare, Sharon put her head in her hands and started wailing.
Outside the barn, the beast once again detached its senses. It passed through the barn wall and approached Sharon, who was now lying across the horse’s bloody neck. Suddenly, Sharon stood, screamed again, and ran toward the house. The sight easily caught her at the gate. A useful memory was found. The beast opened his eyes.
The beast stepped out from behind the barn, but Sharon was already over halfway to the house. There was no way it would be able to catch her.
* * *
Lightning briefly lit up the sky to the north quickly followed by a long roll of thunder in the distance. The cold front had arrived in force, but was already beginning to ease off. The rain had been coming down in buckets earlier, but now it was only drizzling.
In the barn Sheriff Bill Oates, Game Wardens Emilio Rodriguez and Bob Ellis, and Deputy Chad Hudspeth stood over the mutilated horse. Greg O’Brien wasn’t far away, leaning on the side of the barn, yawning frequently. Greg had just switched his schedule with Deputy Price and had yet to get accustomed to the 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. shift.
In the house, a team of paramedics was still trying to convince a hysterical Sharon Perrett that she was in shock and needed to go to the hospital. The night dispatcher, Clara McClellan, was also there. She and Sharon were distantly related, so Bill had brought Clara with him to the scene hoping she could help calm the poor woman.
Bill looked at the tracks beside the horse. “It’s the same animal that got after Edgar Harvey’s cows Monday night.”
Emilio stooped down and traced a finger over one of the tracks in the sand. “These tracks aren’t as easy to make out as the ones in Harvey’s pasture, but, yeah, I think they’re the same.” Emilio turned to Bob Ellis and asked, “Are you sure the rain washed away the prints outside?”
Bob Ellis, who was soaking wet and shaking replied, “Yep.”
Bill walked over to the far side of the barn. “It’s on two legs over here again, and it seems to walk over to there.” Bill walked almost half way through the barn and stopped. “But, it seems the horse reared and knocked it down once it got there.”
“Look at the blood,” Chad said pointing to the stall beside Bill. Bill pointed the flashlight on the gate to the stall and there was blood splattered across it.
“Damn, blood way over there, too? It’s like a butcher’s shop in here,” Greg commented.
“It seems she didn’t rear until whatever was approachin’ got right up to her,” Bill said.
Emilio walked over to where Bill was standing, looking at all the gore and hoof and claw prints as he went. “It looks like she went down swinging,” he said to nobody in particular.
When Emilio got over to his side of the barn, the old sheriff said, “I think we’re looking for a man.”
“What?” Emilio asked with a confused look on his face.
“So I was right?” Greg chimed in, now looking at least somewhat awake.
“Well, Edgar’s cows and Sharon’s horse were tame; hell, Sharon’s horse was practically a house pet.” Bill said, speaking directly to Emilio and ignoring Greg’s input. “They’d run at first sight or smell of a strange animal, but a man could walk up to them without any problem.”
From the other side of the barn Bob said, “That’s not exactly true. Two years ago when Sharon was in the hospital for a week with pneumonia, I fed Chelsea for her. That horse never let me get near her. Chelsea was a one-person horse; Sharon was the only person who could just walk right up to her.”
Frustrated, Bill’s cheeks turned a shade redder. He turned to the game warden and snapped, “Well, Bob, we can probably rule out Sharon hacking her own horse to death.”
Bob started to reply, but warning glances from Chad and Emilio caused him to remain silent. Bill’s temper was already starting to flare, no sense in adding fuel to the fire.
“I’m open for suggestions,” Bill said, still red-faced. He looked at each of their faces, waiting for a reply, but got none. Everyone stood silent. Even Greg’s ever-wagging tongu
e remained still. Bill hadn’t said ‘by God’ but it was certainly there in his voice.
Finally Emilio spoke up. “I think you’re right. I mean it would be a lot easier for a human, even if it’s not Sharon, to get close to Chelsea than it would be for an animal.”
There was another pause as Bill got up and walked to the back entrance to the barn, followed by Emilio. Water was trickling off the roof from the rain, making little conical impressions in the damp sand at the entrance to the pasture.
Bill kneeled down and studied the first tracks. Then he looked up at Emilio. “Any word from A&M on the cows?” Bill asked, although he knew the answer; they had only been sent off yesterday afternoon.
“Not yet,” Emilio replied.
“We’ll need to call’em on this one, too,” Bill said, studying the footprint again.
“I left a message on Doctor Bolinger’s answering machine before I left the house.”
This caused a slight smile to creep onto Bill’s weathered face. At least someone’s on the ball, he thought. He looked back up at Emilio and asked, “What do you think’s goin’ on here?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. Maybe it’s like those cattle mutilations you hear about from time to time in New Mexico and Arizona.”
“They don’t leave tracks in New Mexico and Arizona, and they’re much more methodical. Whatever did all this was anything but methodical,” Bill said, pointing at the gore scattered throughout the barn.
“True. I was just. . .” Emilio paused, searching for a word.
“Reachin’?” Bill injected.
Emilio smiled. “Yeah, reaching.”
Bill stood up and put a hand on Emilio’s shoulder. “Me too, son. Me too.”
They walked back to the others. “I want pictures of the barn, the prints, the blood, the horse, everything,” Bill said. “If you use less than five rolls of film, you didn’t use enough.”
Chad looked at Greg.
Greg looked back at Chad.
“Don’t tell me y’all forgot the camera,” Bill said, his cheeks darkening.
Neither Greg nor Chad answered, but their blank faces spoke volumes. Bill extended an arm and pointed in the vague direction of town. “Somebody better get their ass back to town and get that camera, by God.”
* * *
James woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. He was in a real dilemma. He had seen the horse get attacked and Sharon Perrett’s close call, but he didn’t want to believe what he was seeing was real. After lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for an hour, he got up and made a cup of coffee. Ambling like the living dead, he shuffled into the living room and flopped down on the couch. At first he reached for the remote, thinking he could see what was on the late show. But he set the remote back on the coffee table without turning on the TV. He needed to think.
It was time to tell someone about the dreams, whether they were real or not. James knew Angie was already worried about him and he was worried that further stress could complicate her pregnancy, so he counted her out. The only other person he would feel comfortable talking to about this was Greg. He was also the only person other than Angie who knew about James’ visions. James made up his mind he would tell Greg first thing tomorrow afternoon.
His mind now somewhat at ease, James nodded off on the couch. He slept dreamlessly for an hour before Angie got up. She waited until Jimmy was off to school before waking James up and when she did, she found his disposition much better than it had been in years. In stark contrast to the morning before, James thanked her for letting him sleep the extra few minutes, and after he got dressed, he sat down and ate breakfast with her. After eating they sat at the table chatting about everything from local gossip to Jimmy’s grades. James didn’t leave for work until fifteen minutes after eight, thirty minutes after he usually did.
When James got to work he felt better than he had since the dreams first started three weeks ago. He felt that he had made up for the way he had acted toward Angie the morning before, and the extra sleep had certainly helped. Not only that, although he hadn’t told Greg about the dreams yet, the knowledge that he was going to took a great deal of weight off his shoulders.
James and Guy worked until past six o’clock that afternoon, and James didn’t get home until seven. After sitting down and eating supper (steak, mashed potatoes and gravy — he had obviously been quite successful at making up with Angie this morning), James got up and dialed Greg’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sandy; this is James. Is Greg where I can speak to him?”
“He’s asleep right now. He just got switched to the night shift and its got his hours all messed up. He’ll be getting up in about an hour to go to work; can I have him call you then?”
James paused. He considered having Sandy wake Greg, but what would another hour hurt? “Sure, no problem. Just have him call when he gets up.”
“I will. Is Angie there?” Sandy asked.
“Yeah, she’s right here,” James replied, handing the phone to his wife who was standing right beside him waiting for her turn to talk to her gossip buddy. After talking for thirty minutes they got off the phone and Angie started hinting about going to bed a little early (yes, he had definitely been successful at making up). At nine they tucked Jimmy in bed and went to their bedroom where James temporarily forgot all about the visions.
Sandy forgot, too. To give the message to Greg, that is.
* * *
Sharon finally did go to the hospital, but she refused to stay. The doctor gave her a prescription to calm her nerves, but she gave it the same treatment she had given a similar prescription when Timmy died; she threw it away.
It was just after midnight. Sharon had quit crying hours ago, but her eyes were still red and swollen and there was a painful, hollow look on her face. She sat at her breakfast table looking at the empty pasture through the same window from which she had watched Chelsea for nine and a half years. Sharon sat there in her robe, with both of her trembling hands wrapped around a cold coffee cup that had earlier held hot chocolate; she had drained the last drop over three hours ago. Every now and then she would get up and slowly walk into the living room with her hands still clasped around the empty cup, and look at the trophies and pictures of her and Chelsea that adorned the walls. After staring at these memories for a few minutes, she would turn and slowly walk back into the kitchen and sit back down. Every now and then her chest would jerk and a hiccup-like hitch would come forth as she teetered on the brink of another bout of crying, but she never quite crossed the threshold.
Sharon had just returned to her chair from yet another trip into the living room when she heard a sound coming from the direction of the barn. It sounded like a horse.
Chelsea? Sharon thought. She strained her eyes and looked through the window, toward the barn. It was hard to make it out from that distance, but past the yellow Police Line - Do Not Cross ribbon, she could swear she saw the shadow of a horse inside the barn.
My mind is playing tricks on me, Sharon thought. Nevertheless, she stood and put her coffee cup down for the first time in four hours. She hurried through the kitchen to the back door, where she turned on the back porch light. There was Chelsea standing in the pen, just outside the barn.
“Chelsea?” Sharon mumbled, tears streaming down her cheeks anew. In the back of her mind she knew something wasn’t right, but she didn’t care. She opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch.
“Chelsea,” Sharon said softly, smiling. Like a ghostly apparition, she descended the steps of the back porch, with her long blond hair blowing out to the side in the cool October wind. Her maroon robe billowed away from her body revealing her slim pale figure, which was naked except for a pair of white panties. Even her smile had a ghostlike quality — it creased across her mouth, but stopped at her eyes, which still looked strangely hollow.
Oblivious to the cold, she walked across her back yard toward the barn. She opened the gate and stepped inside the pen. The
haunted smile still on her face, she walked toward Chelsea, who was slowly approaching from the barn.
As they drew close together, Chelsea snorted and shook her head as if in recognition.
“Chelsea,” the apparition said dreamily, reaching out to touch the horse’s velvety nose.
Just before her hand reached Chelsea’s nose, Sharon was struck on the left side of her head by a blow that completely severed her head from her body.
Chapter 3
Awake in the Night
James awoke and sat straight up in bed, “Oh my God!”
Angie stirred beside him and asked, “You okay, James?”
“Sure, Honey,” James answered. “Just a cramp in my leg.”
“You sure?” Angie asked sleepily, without raising her head from the pillow. James knew she wasn’t one-hundred percent awake.
“Yeah, it’s better now.”
“M’kay," Angie muttered. She went right back to her deep slumber.
At first, James wanted to call the sheriff’s office and get them to tell Greg to call him, but if he called Greg while he was on duty, James would end up having to tell his story to Sheriff Oates. If Sharon Perrett was dead, how would he answer questions as to how he knew so much about her death? Greg knew about James’ visions, but he was sure that just about anyone else would lock him up in a small padded cell if he told them he was some sort of psychic. Or worse yet, they might try to pin him for Sharon’s murder. James decided to wait until Greg went off duty at six in the morning.
James lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours. Finally he realized there was no way he was going to get any sleep, so he got out of bed and went into the living room to watch television.