“Make sure you save a few for me. Last time you had me aching for booze.”
“Aching for me honey?”
“No, my booze. You finished most of it with the paint.”
The tired farmer stumbles his way to the refrigerator. He reaches inside and grabs two Millers. He opens both quickly and gives one to his wife.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Cheers, and to the farm.”
“The farm it is,” she says.
They both drink in unison, then the farmer glares out the kitchen window. He looks for a few moments then goes off in a daze. He remembers his childhood back in Wyoming. He imagines his father pushing him on an old tire wing from a big oak tree. Same tree he broke his hand and wrist falling. The farmer remembers being punished. It was his fault the tree broke. The farmer snaps out the daydream, then quickly walks over to his wife and kisses her on the cheek.
“Now go on and get out of here!” the wife exclaims.
Don quickly drinks the Miller, then sighs with satisfaction. He turns away and walks towards the oak staircase. His big balky feet can be heard as he heads up the staircase. The farmer’s wife smiles and returns preparing the Lasagna. She begins signing one of her favorite nursery rhymes. She has a look of peace and satisfaction as she hears her husband talking to the children upstairs. She continues singing the nursery rhyme. “One little, too little, three little Indians, four little, five little, six little Indians. Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians, ten little Indian boys.” The farmer’s wife tastes the Lasagna then smiles.
Dinner is now done. The farmer stands next his wife in the kitchen helping with the dishes. As usual, she does the washing, as he does the drying. The kids are upstairs finishing their homework and washing up for bed. They both sing old songs they grew up with as they sway side by side together. The radio is on the kitchen shelf. Don and Donna have had a few beers and are enjoying each other’s company. It’s dark black outside. Late October. 31st to be exact. They listen to ‘Tex Ritter’s Deck of Cards’ swaying and humming to the music.
“Hey, hun, good old Tex reminds me of us, don’t it?”
“It actually, reminds of New York.” She laughs nervously.
His wife stops for a moment and looks out the kitchen window. Nothing but total darkness is seen. “Remember the Don and Donna joke?”
“Hun?” He nudges his wife on her arm.
“The Don and Donna joke. One of the reasons we got married.”
His wife still stares outside the kitchen window. She snaps out of the daze and smiles towards her husband.
Don looks at his wife curiously. He gives her a kiss on the cheek.
“What are you thinking about? What do you see?” asks Don. She looks at her husband with blank expression.
Don dries his hands, throwing the towel on the sink.
“Nothing really, I thought I saw something outside this here window.”
“Saw what?” the farmer asks. “It’s pitch black out there.” She changes the subject quickly.
“I’m worried about your back is all.”
“My back is fine. Which reminds me, I got to get to the barn, get some work done.”
“Now, it’s late and the kids are resting.” Don gives his wife a big hug.
“My plow needs some welding. If I don’t get it fixed, we won’t have much of a harvest, now will we?” The farmer’s wife looks at her husband with disappointment.
“It’s late, honey, can’t the welding wait until later?”
Don pulls away from his wife holding both her hands. “It won’t be long. I’ll be up there soon.”
He kisses his wife on the cheek. “Happy Halloween, honey.”
The farmer kisses his wife again, heading quickly out the front door. His wife looks out the window again for a moment, then places her hand over her heart. The sound of heavy footsteps is heard in the background.
“Don’t worry, honey, like you said, it’s date night. I’ll be up there soon.”
A loud grinding noise is heard from the barn. Don sits in front of the grinder machine with no clothing. He sweats profusely from his forehead, his eyes dilated black. He wears the necklace he found in the field. He grinds away at a metal hand axe, rocking back and forth with each turn of the blade, the hand axe gets sharper and sharper.
The farmer’s wife walks out the house and towards the barn. She wraps a shawl around her as she cautiously walks through the cold Halloween black air. It’s unusually cold tonight. The muscles on her back tighten with each step. She finds it hard to breathe as steam exhales from her mouth. Her body tingles. In the distance, a coyote sounds, startling her for a moment. She looks around and regains her composure.
She thinks she hears the voice of Cousin John. He’s from New York. He tells her things. Warns her. Lately Donna has been dreaming of him. One night while visiting.
John got drunk and passed out in the field. He was attacked by a gang of wild coyotes. In the end, all the Sheriff’s found was his intestines and parts of his stomach. Don says "guess the coyotes couldn’t handle the taste and stench of the booze. As she walks towards the barn, she notices a grinding noise. I thought he was welding, she thinks. The grinding sound becomes more prevalent with each step closer. Donna looks puzzled but is not afraid.
She now stands in front of the barn door and peeks in. Donna slowly walks through the barn door shutting it without a sound. She sees her husband naked, sharpening a hand axe; she becomes alarmed. Donna stands against the barn door. She is not surprised. Don’s done this before. He’s put down a half gallon of whisky, on a hot summer night, talked about the South, took off his clothes, and starts making weapons. He’s always told Donna, “They’re for the last days, honey. Tribulation and chaos.” Donna’s a bit turned on seeing her large, naked, husky mate. After all, it is Halloween and date night he said. She licks her lips and slowly walks forward. Date night indeed, she thinks to herself.
“Don, what are you doing? It’s late, naked boy.” She looks at him again as he continues grinding away. She yells this time.
“Don, what in Sam Hill are you doing there? Don!” Donna walks more closely towards her husband.
“Don, Don!” She’s a bit nervous. She finds her husband naked behind the grinder, wearing nothing but boots. He sits rocking back and forth, fixated on the hand axe. She walks up to him slowly. She stands right behind him. Donna slowly reaches out her right hand, then brings it back. He does not notice. Donna slowly reaches out again, her heart pounding. Is the vision outside the kitchen bay window true? She closes her eyes and touches his right shoulder. She speaks gently.
“Honey. are you ok?” her hand still on his shoulder as she speaks.
The grinder stops. Her eyes are still closed. Donna now sees a vision. This time is not the same vision she witnessed earlier.
Donna opens her eyes seeing a man who is no longer her husband. He grins and laughs aloud. He is drenched in sweat, eyes black like a reptile. The farmer holds up the hand axe gleaming in the dim light.
The farmer’s wife screams at the top of her lungs and sprints towards the exit door. Engaged with fear, she loses the control of her legs and arms. As Don stands up, raises the sharp axe and walks slowly towards her. She tries calling his name. Calling her name, the kids name. Nothing works. He looks like a demon from hell, with eyes of hunger, culling and sacrifice. She tries to open the barn door. The door will not open. She feels the arms of a malevolent holding it closed. She looks, screams for the last time, then falls on her buttock. She holds her arms over her face, begging and pleading for her children.
Voice along with muscle control are gone. Don stands in front of her. His wife looks up gasping for air. She closes her eyes and finds the will to start praying. As she prays, she feels a sharp blow to the upper torso; yet she feels no pain. Blood squirts out towards the ground below her. She notices part of her upper intestine lying on the ground. Reality now hits. She knows the love of her life, her love since high s
chool, is killing her. With each blow, the blood runs in her eyes. She can no longer see him.
“Don, please. Stop!” is all she can find the courage to say. Her husband raises his hand and delivers the final blow atop her skull. Now she screams. Her last words are:
“Don, the children, please God don’t, the children.”
Thunder’s now in the background as the driver wipes the windshield with a cloth. The Ford pulls in front of the old farmhouse. Surprisingly to the driver, the lights are on downstairs. The driver looks at the barn. This strikes curiosity as the driver turns off the engine. Chuck Berry goes suddenly silent. The only sound the driver hears is contempt, rebellion, and anger. Contempt towards the three-hundred-pound man for scolding her, telling her she’s useless and will never result to anything. Rebellion, as her father disapproves of the driver’s lifestyle, roadhouse bars and carefree attitude And the Rock-n-Roll long haired music he hates. Anger, well, anger. The driver doesn’t want to think about anger. Anger keeps her in Kentucky bourbon and beer. The scars on back of the legs speak for themselves. The Ford’s door opens. She rides in a 49 Truck. Lowered suspension, flat black, orange flames and red NASCAR racing wheels. The rain now is at a constant sprinkle. A spurred black boot hits the gravel with faded jeans. A cigarette lands aside the boot. The driver stomps on the cigarette, snuffing it out in the gravel. A Pabst Blue Ribbon can is thrown to the gravel. The driver burps and pulls up those Levi jeans. The favorite dirty jeans. The ones dipped in oil. The ones she arrested wearing. Hijacking engines and selling to NASCAR teams.
The driver of the Ford is the farmer’s daughter. She is very attractive. Twenty-six years of age. Blondish red hair, light green eyes, 5’7", and sporting a white cowboy hat. She wears traditional boot-cut Levi jeans, white tank top, and leather belt with buckle showing the state of Wyoming. She looks at the farmhouse then the barn.
“What the heck? Why are the lights on?” she says to herself. She walks towards the barn hearing the noise of the grinder. She walks more quickly now as the rain starts falling a bit harder. She stumbles, drops her keys, then looks up at the large oak tree her grandfather used to tell her stories about. “Spirits of lost souls reside in that tree, sweetheart.” She thinks about her grandfather and grins. Grandpa was killed by a bear in Canada. It was a hunting trip ten years ago. To this very day, she thinks of daily He was a World War One Hero. He rode motorcycles and is her inspiration. The wind picks up and makes an eerie whistling sound. A large branch quickly falls to the ground. It sounds like a landslide of rocks hitting the pavement. She looks up to the full moon and shakes off a cold breeze. She finds the entry to the barn partially opened with enough light just to peek through. She looks through the cracked door entry and asks for her father.
“Dad, hello. Are you in here?” The sound of the grinder suddenly stops. The daughter enters the barn quickly. Nothing seen is unusual. Tools hanging from the walls, stacks of hay, ropes, wood cutters, and metal tools her father uses.
“Dad, you in here?” she calls again with no answer. She enters the barn and a gust of wind blasts through her. It felt as if someone had walked right through her. The farmer’s daughter gasps for air, then quickly looks around. Thunder sounds outside. Then a quick lightning flash follows. A large manure shovel falls from the wall, striking her nerves.
“What the hell!” she exclaims aloud. She now walks in the center of the barn, looking quickly in all directions. The daughter now observes the grinder. She looks over the large machine curiously.
“Weren’t you on just when I was walking up?” she says to herself. “Must be one of Dad’s Halloween tricks, and I’m not falling for it!” She exclaims.
The farmer’s daughter notices a few drops of blood on the haystack floor. She kneels and places her index finger in the red wet stain. She tastes the red substance, just to be sure. Fear overcomes her. She walks behind the large machine seeing one of her mother’s big, bulky, black shoes. She looks in the far-left corner, seeing her mother’s decapitated head. Shocked and terrified, she falls, catching herself with one hand. She hears a cracking noise and screams. She has fractured her wrist. She runs towards the barn door as thunder hits again. She frantically tries opening the barn door. It will not budge.
“Oh God, open up.” She tries using her left hand and cries in pain. “Damn it!” She continues struggling opening the door. Outside, she hears the laughing of a small child. The farmer’s daughter takes a few steps back. With all her power she runs at the door, left shoulder first. The barn door opens as she falls to the moist muddy earth. The farmer’s daughter quickly stands up and looks around. She screams at the top of her lungs.
“Father!!!” As she screams, the thunder muffles her voice. She runs full stride to the farmhouse, tripping on the solid oak porch step. She hits the wood porch forcefully, hearing a crack in the lower portion of her spine.
“Ouch, crap. Well, that hurt. Thank god for whisky.” The daughter slowly gets up, shaking her leg a few times, then limps through the farmhouse entry. She slams the door behind her then locks it. She thinks to herself, whosoever has done this, is not getting out of here alive. Immediately, thunder strikes again. The storm outside begins. The living room is darker and more frightening than ever she remembers. The lights inside are now off. They weren’t when I drove up, she thinks.
“Dad, where are you? Amanda, you here!” The daughter runs to the kitchen and looks around. The sink water was left running. She turns it off, then grabs a knife out of the drawer.
“Dad, Jason, Amanda, where are you guys? Answer me?” She begins breathing heavy. Her heart begins to pound, as she feels she muscles over her left breast spasm. She walks back towards the living room and looks around. Nothing but flashes of lightning show the way. She hears a man laughing from the kitchen. She yelps out and turns quickly. She looks at the old rock fireplace in the living room. She notices a family portrait over the fireplace is broken and lay on the floor. As she walks towards the stairs, she slips and falls on her back again. The fall is fierce, making a cracking noise. She rolls over on her side and tries ignoring the pain. There is blood. Blood is the reason she slipped. The daughter looks at the portrait again and starts to cry. She begins to tear up as feeling of despair, anguish, and horrible anxiety take over. Many thoughts of her family run through her mind. Mostly, all the good ones now. Birthday parties, anniversaries, Christmas. The fear she feels is crippling to her. Life without her family will kill her. No, they must be ok. They have too. God doesn’t do this. I must get up and kill that fucker.
The farmer’s daughter walks slowly up the wooden staircase. Each creaking noise in her bones reminds her of her dog, Lucy. Lucy was an Irish Setter, run over by a car during her seventh birthday party. She held the dog as it whimpered in pain, ribs collapsing, falling apart as she carried her away. She looked to the sky and cursed god. Ever since then, she has had troubles with her faith. Later, she demanded the whole party witness her dog’s funeral. After that, she never wanted another party again.
She gathers her thoughts, ignores the pain, and continues up the stairs. She smells the fresh paint, and the glue from the new wallpaper. Along with whisky. It makes her want to vomit. Lightning and thunder strike as she observes the family portraits of her ancestors. They look as if they are laughing at her, mocking her. Their facial expressions look inhuman, evil; her dead grandmother looks as if she is grinning with deceit.
The farmer’s daughter walks slowly up the stairs, her left ankle almost drags behind each stair lip.
“Amanda, Jason, anyone home?” Her voice is harsh. Her lungs press against her ribcage as she speaks. The daughter walks and feels as if someone is watching her. She looks over her left shoulder quickly. The rain, lightning, and thunder intensify, and she continues onward. In lieu of her fear, she fails to recognize the large, dark figure slouched down in the left corner of the living room. Slouched down like a lion ready to pounce on its prey. The dark figure is no longer her father or human. His skin look
s dead and gray. Eyes big and black. The possessed farmer watches his daughter walk slowly up the stairs. He grins then lets out a slight chuckle. He wants to devour her. Most of all, he wants to taste the flesh from her face. Then the bicep of her arm. From the left of the farmer, a sharpened hand axe dripping blood lays on the wooden floor. He drools and watches as saliva drips from his mouth, leaving a puddle on the floor.
The daughter gets to the top of the stairs; she looks left, then right. She feels as if a demonic presence is following her every step of the way. The kind of demons she learned about during church all those years back. She stands outside her little brother’s room. She looks down the hallway and sees the now disturbing pictures on the wall and lightning flash. The rain is a heavy downpour, followed by harsh thunder.
She stands outside her brother’s door, then slowly opens it. The door makes a creaking noise. Its ear piercing and makes her skin crawl. A wind blows through her again and she cries out, then covers her mouth. The farmer’s daughter enters the room as the bed is in view. She notices that the blanket is covering him up to his shoulders. There is no breathing or any movements. There is an oddness to the body. The head is sitting in an unnatural position upright on its neck.
“Jason, wake up.” The farmer’s daughter slowly reaches down to shake her little brother. Her hand trembles with fear as she reaches for the covers.
“Hey.” She grabs the bed covers and pulls them aside. Her brother Jason has been decapitated. His lifeless bloodied body and pajamas lay there. The appearance is one of a fresh kill. The head is unnaturally sitting upright on the pillow. Below the bed, a spike is struck through the mattress, hitting the floor. Blood drips down the spike. The sight of her brother drops her to the floor. She is so shocked, she can barely move, barely scream.
“No, oh God, please no, no, no!” she cries.
The First Culling Page 3
