The First Culling

by Michael Eicherly

  She finds the strength to get up and run out of the room. She is violently shaking. So much fear that she no longer feels the pain in her wrists, back, and leg.

  “God no, no, no, no, no.” Her lips tremble as she walks back into the hallway. She carries the large knife in front of her, waiting for the attack. She walks slowly and walks down the hall. She dares to wonder what lies behind her sister’s bedroom door. The farmer’s daughter is finding it difficult breathing. Breaths short and frantic. Sweat is dripping from her forehead. She takes off her hat and drops it to the floor. She bends over, trying to catch her breath. Her heart beats so fast, it hurts. She is becoming faint. Why Jason? She thinks. Why? He never hurt anyone.

  She places her hand over her heart as she reaches her sister’s bedroom. She closes her eyes and quickly opens the bedroom door. She quickly prays for the best. Her little sister’s bloody body sits upright on the floor, leaned against the side of the bed. Lightning strikes over the young girl’s face, revealing hand marks around her neck, her wrist cut, leaving a pool of blood. There is also a bite mark on her right bicep, displaying bloody flesh. The farmer’s daughter grabs her sister and holds the lifeless body close to her. She looks up and begins to cry frantically.

  “God, why are you doing this? Why? Damn you!” Thunder and lightning strikes again. Rain is in full force. It sounds like rocks are hitting the roof. The wind howls and taunts her. She hears voices in the wind. The sounds of souls being tortured in hell.

  “Dad, where are you?” she whimpers.

  Hate now fills her mind. The only blood pumping through her now is revenge. She gets to the stairs, runs halfway down, and jumps the remainder of the way. No more fear, no more pain. As she falls to the ground, she gets up and screams.

  “I’ll get you for this, fucker. Sick, evil bastard!”

  There is an old grandfather clock in the living room. She looks it over, then looks at her hands. Then she looks at the clock. The clock begins clicking louder and louder as she stares at it. So loud, her ears will break, she thinks she hears voices in her head taunting her. They tell her about the pleasures of hell. How they want her, how they crave her delicious flesh. They say. They curse her, call her a whore. Curse her future offspring. They tell her God hates her and Jesus was a fake. The clock strikes midnight, making a disturbing ringing noise. She looks at the clock then laughs cynically.

  “Come on, girl, get it together. Must kill who did this. Do not pay attention to the voices. They’re just evil.” She makes way to the kitchen and grabs the phone. The rain sounds like hail. It makes the brain pulse on the right and left side of her head. Rage begins to set in. All she can think about is revenge for her brother and sister. The voice taunts her: “Kill your father, kill him for us,” they say. She picks up the phone and dials for the operator. The operator answers.

  “I need the police fast.” The farmer’s daughter places her knife down on the kitchen counter. She rubs her hands over her face. Her voice trembles. she finds it hard to speak. The operator asked what the emergency is.

  “There has been a murder.” As she tries to explain, she looks toward the front door entry and sees a woman in a Spanish style gown looking at her. She remains fixated on the apparition for a few seconds. It appears that the apparition is trying to say something. The apparition points forward while moving its head back and forth. The operator speaks again.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I need the police fast.”

  “What is your emergency?”

  “There has been, oh shit, I need help, hurry, there’s been, it’s murder.” The farmer’s daughter immediately stops talking. She feels someone behind her. The operator speaks over the phone again.

  “Hello? You there?” Thunder and lightning strike.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?” The farmer’s daughter turns around quickly. Her naked father stands in front of her. Three-hundred pounds of nakedness, blood, and murder all over his mouth.

  “Oh my God, Dad!!!” The farmer grabs his daughter by the throat with two hands and chokes her. The daughter begins the struggle for her life. Her boots begin to elevate above the floor. The farmer pushes her backwards forcefully into the kitchen counter. The force of the push sounds a crack on her lower spine. Her face turns white in agony. She drops the knife in the kitchen sink. The daughter with both hands tries to remove her father’s grasp. She is unsuccessful. She feels faint. In desperation, she reaches towards the sink, grabbing anything she can get her hands on. First a spoon, mixing cup, then a plate over his head. No luck, all that did was shatter on the floor. Her father begins to squeeze more forcefully now.

  “Dad, Dad, it’s me. I’m your daughter, stop. Please stop.” Her father does not respond. She tries reaching for the knife one last time before she is murdered.

  “Dad, please stop, please.” Her arms flapping, as she fights for her breath.

  Her father gives one last push. The force of the push causes his daughter’s face to swell. The farmer’s daughter knees her father in the groin area as hard as possible. He falls back for a moment and she gives him a right upper cut. Then a boot kicks in the side of his head. Things she learned from him. The blow causes him to hit the floor on his knees. As he falls, the Indian necklace falls from his neck. His daughter is left gasping for air. Her father rolls to this side and starts sobbing. Just as she grabs the knife, and is ready to cut his throat, he appears to have snapped out of the possession. All he can do this place his hands over his face and scream. ’My god, I am sorry!"

  His daughter, looks him over, and asked, “Dad, are you ok?” Her father gets up and stumbles a bit. His daughter can barely walk or breathe.

  “Pumpkin, I don’t know what happened… I… I.”

  Her father’s eyes turn black again. His daughter looks at him and begins screaming. Her father places his hands around her neck then recognizes who she is.

  “No!!!” The large man runs toward the exit door, screaming as a man that is insane. His screams gone insane.

  The farmer runs down the porch and towards the farm field. His cries are a mixture of screaming and laughing. Demonically echoing throughout the valley. Storm continues widely as his big white feet make smacking noises through the mud. He stumbles, then loses his footing. He trips and falls on a large pointed rock erect from the earth. The force of the fall causes the large man’s skull to crack in half. The farmer now lays lifeless in the muddy dirt. His skull pours blood over his face as he lay on his back, he speaks his last words:

  “God, why are you doing this to me? I never wronged you.” The last sounds the farmer will ever hear is the music of ancient tribal music being played in the distance. He tries to move but cannot. He thinks of his wife and family. He screams and curses one last time. He struggles for his last breath, then realizes he is not alone. A man in a cloaked in black, stands over him, grinning and laughing. He speaks to the farmer. “Take my hand and join me. Forever in eternity.”

  The farmer’s daughter gets to her feet and makes way to the front door. She is exhausted and finds no strength chasing her father. She hangs up the phone, walks to the living room, and slams the front door. She finds her way back to the kitchen and picks up the Indian necklace. She looks it over and begins to sob. The phone rings at an alarming volume, startling her. She throws the knife back in the sink, then slams down the phone. The daughter turns on the sink water and washes the sweat and blood off her face. She is ready to collapse. Too tired to speak, she hopes the Sheriff will come as a result of the emergency call.

  She continues to sob as she washes her face. When finished, she grabs a towel and begins drying her face and hair. She stares out the window. Lightning shows the way as her mother’s head is stuck in a spike. The face is white and bloodied. Her long hair, struggled and mangled, dances with the wind. Her face her face the daughter thinks. What happened to her once beautiful face…

  Chapter Four

  A black Chevy truck drives down a gravel road. It’s an early
1980s model with a V8 engine. KROG is on the radio. The DJ is Richard Blade. He references rock of the 80s and the band ‘X Los Angeles.’ will be up next. The driver is in route to the old farmhouse. Much has changed since the way it stood in the ’50s. The house looks older now, more decrepit. It looks as if other inhabitants occupy the property too. The once flourishing crops are dried up. Dirt is prevalent across the parcel. There is no livestock. The water well went dry. No chickens, fruit trees, nothing. Nothing is left but a hard

  A much older looking farmer’s daughter is in view of the driver. The driver has heard many things about this woman, and the family that once graced these premises. Goosebumps grow across his arms, and an eerie feeling walks over his body. He feels if just committed a crime against humanity, and someone watched. He knows the land is sour. He knows what happened to this family. He knows he must close this deal.

  She, the now older daughter; is in her late fifties. She looks as if she’s late 70s. Leathered skin, long frizzy white hair, rough hands, rough build and eyes that appear of a demon. A demon that roams the land, looking for revenge. She’s draped in Levi denim, cowboy boots, and the same white hat her father bought her on her eighteenth birthday. She never washed out the bloodstains. Says that blood is the most important thing to her. Blood and this hear house. She sports black circles under the eyes and lines on the forehead. Her skin is pale white, almost gray, like a shark. She walks with a black solid oak cane. A black cane with a silver eagle handle, with red eyes. She calls the cane protection, against evil men who walk the planes. She is hopelessly addicted to alcohol and Quaaludes. She spends most of her days drinking beer and whisky, sitting on the front porch, staring off at her father’s wasteland. The old rocking chair her father used to sit in is her best friend. She says the chair tells her stories. Teaches her about ways of the wicked. Best of all, revenge. A woman’s revenge. She still carries the knife utilized the night of the massacre. She carries it everywhere. Even the local Sheriff, not dare try taking it away. The local Lucky’s Market makes sure she is happy. Unlike other residence, she is authorized to purchase and drink as much as she pleases. She’s been able to keep her furniture and appliances modernized. This is due to Lucky Distribution Warehouses in Irvine. The local union, and truck drivers, see her as a legend, an act of god. Around her neck is the same necklace her father wore during that horrible night. The deranged looking woman rocks back and forth on her covered porch.

  She sports a bottle of Miller Beer and listens intently to ‘Hank Williams.’ The sounds are scratchy and authentic; from the old RCA turntable. It’s the only way she likes it. She tells the local police that Hank tells her things to do too. He always tells her things. Things about sex, love, marriage, booze, and guns. “All the things that make America beautiful,” she says.

  The black SUV stops. The door opens. A black spit-shined boot hits the gravel road. The dark blue jeans, boots and black Levi Shirt, make way up the covered porch. The man is Bod Sanders. Good ol’ Bob Sanders with Sanders and Sons Construction. Bob stops and takes good look at the once young woman he’s knows for all these years. He can’t help to take pity, but he prefers money over kindness and sympathy. He looks at the once young woman swaying to the beat of Hank, then tips his hat. n the rocking chair. You see, Bob’s been watching this woman and this here house for years now. Many years. His time is now. No is not an option. Bob looks at the woman and spits chewing tobacco on the wooden deck. The older farmer’s daughter chuckles, as she accepts his offering. She looks him over and smiles recklessly.

  “I’ve reconstructed the offer. You ready to look it over,” says the contractor.

  “Look it over. Look it over.” She says. "From what I see honey, and that their bulge, you got plenty there for me looking over. What you say cowboy. Shit, your just my type. She clutches her knife, and spits chewing tobacco on the wood deck.

  “What’s there to look over anyway, honey? I know what you’re getting into. All I want is my fair share. And few other things.” Says the woman.

  The woman looks him over for a second, then breathes in deeply. “You smell offensive to me.” She spits tobacco on the porch, then smiles. “Want to take a bath out back in the yard?”

  The contractor chuckles. He knows he better get her signed. If he has too, at least flirt or entertain her enough to keep satisfied. She has been screwing around with offers the past twelve months. One of the other closers, college graduate; ended up sitting with her, eating, drinking, getting high and doing god knows what? In the end, the man vomited in the gravel and passed out in his truck. She later told the construction company. “I just wasn’t satisfied with our meeting.”

  Bob cringes and his gut aches at the thought of having too entertain this woman. The woman looks over Bob and spits again.

  “Why do you what shit awaits here? Do you how much shit, I have been through? Do you know how much shit is in store for the future?” Bob nervously adjust his hat, then pants. He shovels his right boot into the gravel.

  “Yeah, I know, the firm knows this shit. The whole county knows this shit. Isn’t it time to stop the shit? Have you signed? Get out of here. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

  The older farmer’s daughter clenches her knife again. He reminds her of father’s presence. Big, balding, and cocky. She likes big, balding, and cocky men. The contractor raises up his black briefcase.

  “Now we’re all done here. Are we game?”

  The old farmer’s daughter smiles and stops rocking in the chair. She spits chewing tobacco towards the contractor. Surprisingly, it almost hits his boot. He moves out of the way.

  “What the fuck you’re doing, woman?”

  The deranged woman laughs aloud.

  She stares at him dead on. Her eyes look dead. Dead and distant to a world he never knew or will ever understand.

  “Well, whatta know. The big cowboy here is still trying to sell me!” she exclaims. “Ain’t that right, cowboy? I’ve had a hundred of you folks coming here, talking shit. You say stop the shit. You people are shit.” She spits tobacco, takes a sip of Miller, then laughs aloud. “I must say though, you’re a tasty looking man. I like you, cowboy. More importantly, I like your style. Style is most important attribute in a man.” She finishes her beer, then burps. “That’s what my daddy used to say. This is why your here right now, cowboy. Your style. Get it?” She looks over the contractor like a two-pound T-bone steak.

  “Yeah I got ya.” The contractor looks around uncomfortably. “Can we get this done now?” The farmer’s daughter gets up, looks at the contractor, then takes a drag from a wooden pipe.

  “Well, I tell ya what I think,” she says, “It’s too damn hot out here. Come inside, have a beer with me, then we’ll discuss whatever needs discussing.” The woman walks with her cane through the front door. The contractor reluctantly follows. The contractor sits down at an old oak dining table. He places his briefcase on the dining table.

  “This is a good quality table.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she says, as she admires the builder’s strong physique. “If it means anything, I made it myself.”

  “No shit?” Asks the contractor.

  “Yep.”

  The contractor looks around the house. He looks over the home. The horrible stench is all around. It smells like a rotten animal resides under the crawl space foundation. It also reminds him of the smells he encountered in Vietnam 1968. He gags and tries not to vomit all over the table and ruin the deal. Under every piece of wood lies a smell, a demonic smell, he remembers. North Cambodia. He was a grunt, first airborne Marine Core. He served 36 months over there. He witnessed beheading, children tied to palm trees and hacked with axes. Innocent people were hacked in half in front of their families. He remembers these smells. The smells of lost lives, lost loves, despair, evil, and anguish. The smell of communism. The contractor feels uncomfortable. His back begins to tighten up. Muscles in his middle and upper spinal column start to spasm. He squirms in his seat, wi
shing to get this over with. He sees empty Coors cans everywhere, cigarette buds on the floor, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, empty frozen food boxes, buckets of Pioneer fried chicken, and Kool-Aid mix. House flies are in abundance. He cannot stop brushing them away.

  The farmer’s daughter finishes a can of Miller then belches as she looks him over.

  “So, live here alone?”

  “You want a beer?” she asks.

  Thank god thinks the contractor. I good drink 5 in 3 minutes.

  The farmer’s daughter giggles, smiles, then throws her best Betty Davis attitude. She walks over to the contractor and places a beer down in from of him.

  “I’ve lived here alone for some years now. I had a brother and sister. Both dead.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What about your parents?”

  “Dead also. Cut the crap. We all know what happened round here.”

  “Well, my deepest sympathies for you,” the contractor says. The contractor holds up his beer. “Cheers.” The contractor drinks the beer as quickly as possible. He wants out of there.

  The farmer’s daughter sits down at the dining table. She grabs a shot of whisky and a bottle of old 49er. She pours a double shot and shoots it down.

  “You like moonshine, boy?”

  “No, Ma’am, I mean yes. But I can’t. Got to work. I’ll stick with the beer.” The contractor does his best to smile.

  “Mother passed on. Father just got up and vanished. Never seen him again.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the final offer.” The contractor nervously places papers atop the table.

  “What the hell you want with all this land anyway? There isn’t nothing here but this old shit box and dried up dirt.”

  “Homes, tract homes. Shit, we’ve been digging up dirt left and right. Can’t keep up with demand.” The contractor sits up and proudly adjusts his bravado.

  “Well, hope you all know what you’re getting into.”