Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

  Ryan turned to walk away, and took two steps before he realized he heard steps matching his own again. He whirled to face the intruder, and realized that the fog had nearly reached him, and he could only see about fifteen yards behind him now. The feeder road was completely gone from his view. He peered behind him, and saw nothing.

  "Who’s there?"

  Ryan hear loud crack like a branch breaking from high overhead and about one hundred yards away, and then only the guttural moan answered him.

  The fog’s silent fingers finally reached out to touch him, the tendril’s icy fingers like ghostly fingers caressing him lovingly with a touch he could not feel.

  Ryan backpedaled slowly, the wisps of fog clinging to him, swirling in sickening eddies he tried to kick away. "Aww, man. Fuck this noise."

  He turned to walk briskly away, but a solid wall of fog was rolling down the path towards him, silent and relentless. Ryan’s heart trip-hammered in his chest, and his eyes rolled madly as he turned to run back towards Sarah’s house, but he was utterly nonplussed when he saw the wall of fog advancing towards him down the hill as well. Checkmate.

  There was a crashing noise from the swamp, and the guttural growl was closer.

  Ryan thought, "Fuck it."

  He tore off on a dead sprint towards home.

  He could hear the mistimed footfalls racing behind him, and he found himself racing along the logging path at breakneck speed, flying on fear and pure adrenaline. He’d lost his bearings, and had no concept of how far along the path he was.

  He heard crashing sounds, parallel to the path, and then high, loon like shrieks of pain that spiraled upward, then suddenly cut off. Ryan had never felt such pure terror, and his breath was coming in ragged, whooping gasps. He felt as if his head was going to explode, his heart was hammering so hard.

  Ryan refused to stop or slow down, though, and after what seemed like ages to him, he barreled out of the woods at top speed. He immediately hooked right, and followed the furrows in the field, knowing those pointed directly towards the out barns near the house. He staggered wildly, tripping over the uneven terrain as he sprinted wildly across the field, his footing unsure in the foggy field, but he refused to slow down.

  He damn near ran right into the side of the barn, as he barely had time to register that he was running over grass instead of corn stubble. It was only in a split second did he realize he had reached the end of the field did he hook left and avoid running full-tilt into the slightly dented and worn corrugated aluminum siding of the furthermost pole barn.

  Ryan sprinted through the deep fog around the edge of the building, hurdling over a farm implement that would have impaled and mangled him. He turned at the edge of the out barn and ran towards the house, twilight having passed into the gloom of deep dusk, and he was able to navigate by the lights of the mercury vapor and sodium vapor lights of the outbuildings, glowing dimly in the mist. He bounded up the steps onto the porch, and tore open the heavy wooden back door, breathing hard. He slammed the door behind him, rattling the windowpane, and threw the deadbolt more out of defiance and fear than any need for prudence.

  He leaned over, hands on his knees, drawing deep and gasping breaths, when there was a sudden deep impact that shuddered the back door heavily, rattling the windows across the whole back of the house. Ryan yelped in sudden fear, and nearly pissed himself with the sudden shock to his system as he jerked bolt upright. He backed away from the door, eyes wide, when "Wham!" The whole door shuddered again within its jam.

  There began furious scratching at the base of the door, with heavy crunching as large chunks were tore off the door, as though an animal were digging furiously at the door, trying to claw its way in through the solid oak. Ryan back further away from the door, and when he felt something touch his shoulders, he shrieked and whirled around to face the wall. He realized he had backed into the wall, and adrenaline had him completely on edge.

  The scratching had stopped as soon as he had had screamed, though.

  "Fuck me," he muttered. He edged quietly, tiptoeing towards the breakfast nook windows, simultaneously not wanting to see what was on the porch, and desperately needing to see what the fuck had been trying to claw its way into the house. He stood by the curtain, his hand trembling as he lightly and delicately drew it aside; peering to see what might be on the porch, fearing it might leap at the glass and break its way inside.

  Surprised, he saw nothing. He had to lean his head to the far side of the window, but there was nothing on the porch. Nothing at all. He stared for nearly a minute, and despite being only able to see a small distance out into the yard in the fog, he couldn’t see anything moving in the swirling mist. The ghostly outlines of the barns were barely discernible, the glowing orbs of the sodium vapor lights were dim orbs haloed in sick orange yellow glow. Ryan thought he could make out the outline of the John Deere tractor just outside the barn, but that would be surprising, as there’s no way in hell his father would have left that tractor outside in the elements without a damned good reason. That tractor was his pride and joy, the workhorse of the farm. However, the tractor wasn’t particularly relevant to the immediate problem of (a) what the fuck had chased him up onto the porch and (b) the hell he was going to catch for the damage to the back door.

  Since item (a) was no longer the biggest priority, though he would need to be wary, that made (b) the highest priority, and he needed to make a damage assessment in order to determine how much hell he was going to catch, and see if he could make repairs before his father found out. It was irrelevant that he hadn’t done the damage; that did not matter. That he was going to catch hell for it was the important part. However, he wasn’t going to open that back door without a backup plan, but it was going to be hard to explain himself, and he’d rather not have to.

  Ryan looked out in the driveway. No truck equals no father. Therefore this plan should work.

  Ryan went to the closet by the backdoor, and grabbed the pistol grip twelve-gauge pump action shot gun. He racked the first shell out. It was birdshot. He reloaded the last shell with a slug. He could hear his father’s voice.

  "First one’s bird shot. That’s the warning shot. Rattles the leaves, makes a big bang, scare’s the bejeezus out of em as leaves, sticks, and lead shot rains down around them. Next two are double ought buckshot. Scattergun isn’t worth a damn without scattershot. Point and shoot. While you have to be close, with buckshot, you have some margin of error. Important when you’re under fire. The last two are slugs. Those make big fucking holes in things. Like if you need to put a slug in an engine block to stop a truck. Shit like that. That’s how that gun’s to be loaded. One bird shot, two buckshot, two slugs. Got it? Now I always expect to find this gun loaded this way."

  Ryan didn’t think a warning shot was called for. Fuck that noise. If they didn’t like it, they could write a letter to Dear Prudence at Slate.com and bitch about the breach of Trespassing Etiquette. The idea of jail loomed briefly in his mind if it turned out to be a couple of punk-ass bitch kids, but Ryan dismissed it. If they were a couple of kids fucking around, Ryan trusted his instincts to not put lead into their dumb asses. When you grow up in farm country, weapon handling, and safety is second nature. Furthermore, buckshot would work as a warning shot just fine. The big-ass fucking boom would still stain some tidy-whities just as well as bird shot, thank-you very much. If that didn’t turn the trick, the unmistakable follow-up sound of Ryan racking the pump action is the universal warning sound that everyone should understand, and that should make their heart instantly stop and make them want to run home cry to mommy. Would serve them right if it’s a couple of kids fucking with him. That thought cheered him immensely, and he marched right up to the back door, flicked off the safety on the shotgun, unlocked the door, and yanked it open, the twelve-gauge leveled and pointed out into the fog.

  Not surprisingly, no one and nothing was standing there.

  He kept the twelve pointed outward, and he looked down to inspect the dam
age to the door, fearing the worst. The wrath of his father was the overriding fear that was driving this cock-up, but he was dumbfounded by what he saw.

  There was no damage to the door. It was pristine. Not a single fucking mark on it. Even the goddamned shellac was in perfect condition, without even the tiniest of scratch marks.

  Ryan stepped out hesitantly onto the porch, looking carefully both ways. Besides the wicker furniture, there was nothing on the porch. Just fog and bitter, damp cold.

  Ryan went back inside, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Quietly, Ryan reloaded the shotgun with the proper loads, one birdshot, two buckshot, and two slugs, and put the pistol-grip shotgun away, careful to make sure that it looked like it had never been disturbed.

  The Basement of Despair

  "Cleanliness is almost as bad as godliness."—Samuel Butler, (English Essayist, 1835-1902)

  Mrs. Rebecca Mason pulled up next to her mailbox, her car window already open. She sighed and swallowed hard, her acid reflux acting up bad today. She stared out across the field as she rummaged absently through her purse for a roll of antacids, trying to calm herself and avoid triggering an asthma attack. Asthma attacks were no fun for middle-aged woman of her size, and for some reason the asthma attacks were more likely to occur when she had heartburn. It wasn’t fair, either. She watched what she ate, limited herself to no more than twelve hundred calories that would barely sustain a gash-darned poodle, for what seemed like painful and endless weeks with nary a pound shed, while her daughter Sarah could pack down three thousand fat-laden and sugar-laced calories per day, and not gain an ounce. The joys of a carefree youth, sigh.

  Rebecca used to be able to pack away the calories in the same way without worrying about gaining weight, and Rebecca kept warning Sarah that her worry-free ways would probably catch up with Sarah one day too. Sarah would wake up to find herself with a husband, two kids, and tipping the scales on the far side of two hundred and fifty pounds and wondering when the hell this all happened. Thank god, Rebecca’s husband didn’t seem to care. He was an absolute sweetie, god love him. Her best friend Tammy’s husband was a god awful prick about Tammy’s weight, and Tammy was maybe thirty pounds overweight, where as Tammy’s husband had to be tipping the scales at close to three hundred pounds himself. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Damned prick.

  She found the roll of antacids, and with one hand, she pried a tablet off the top with her thumbnail, and with the smooth confidence of years of habit, flicked it down the hatch. Out over the field, barely visible through the weeds, she spotted the bright red jacket that the Vischer boy always wore, bobbing along the south edge of the field at the edge of the woods. Son of a prick, that one. God she hated that family, but especially the father, Paul. Condescending bootlicking asshole.

  The antacid only partially abated the heartburn. She frowned at the Vischer boy’s back, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel for a few moments. Then she unbuckled the seatbelt so she could lean her girth out the window.

  Rebecca Mason retrieved the mail from the mailbox, still frowning. She wasn’t supposed to be home yet, but the trip to her mother’s in Grand Rapids had not gone well. That was half the reason she had heartburn. She had worked herself up into a state rehashing the afternoon on the drive back, and that wasn’t helping a goddamned thing.

  Rebecca set the mail on the passenger seat, and resumed drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, her car idling as she sat parked next to the mailbox, the cold pouring in through the open window as she frowned at the Vischer boy’s back as he disappeared into the woods.

  Sarah must’ve invited him over after school. Alone. Together in the house. Mrs. Mason wasn’t a fool. She fondly remembered what she did at eighteen years old when she was alone with boys. That brought a wisp of a smile to her face. She sighed again, knowing she couldn’t deny biology’s demands, and hoping her daughter was at least smart enough to take care of business, and use a condom at least.

  She put the car back in drive and pulled into the driveway, wondering if she should make an inquiry about it, distasteful as the subject might be. However, the Vischer boy? Why him, of all people? There were roughly four hundred kids in the four grades that comprised high school, roughly evenly split between male and female. That put roughly fifty boys in each grade. Assuming she’d be willing to consider down one year from her own, and she was senior, which gave her a pool to choose from of roughly one hundred boys. At the very bottom of Rebecca’s list of acceptable suitors was the Vischer boy, and yet there he was, slinking home through her back field, unaware that Rebecca was now fairly certain that he had just been discovered "plowing" her daughter Sarah’s fields.

  She sighed for the umpteenth time in the last few minutes, shut off the car, and pocketed the keys into her coat. She sat in the seat for a few minutes, trying to keep her breathing under control. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat, and headed inside into the house, taking her time. She could feel the tightness coming on, and she stopped at the bottom step of the porch, forcing herself to take slow and easy breaths. She didn’t want to have to use her inhaler just to get up the damned steps, and Rebecca thought she’d be fine once she could sit down and rest, safe in the comfort of her own home for a few minutes. She hated the metallic taste of albuterol from the rescue inhalers, and she knew she should use it, but Rebecca was going to be stubborn about it.

  Rebecca had no idea what she’d say to Sarah when she got inside. She didn’t particularly want to deal with it, after all the trouble in Grand Rapids, but it’s better to tackle things head on, instead of letting things sit and fester.

  Her mom had not been receptive to what Rebecca had to say. Rebecca’s mom was living alone, and wasn’t willing to face the facts. Living alone was no longer a good idea, at her age and condition.

  "I’m fine," her mother said. "I don’t need assisted living. I can manage just fine on my own."

  Which was fine and dandy, until you realized that mother dearest was wearing her adult diaper on the outside of her slacks.

  Nevertheless, the conversation with the elderly can take you into the twilight zone, and you start to wonder if it’s you who has lost your marbles. They’re amazing adept at derailing things. "Mom, you have your undergarment on the outside of your slacks."

  "Lots of people my age wear adult diapers. It’s just a little incontinence, not that it’s any business of yours, young lady."

  Rebecca shrugged helplessly. "I’m hardly a young lady anymore. I’m in my forties. And mom, it’s supposed to be worn under your clothing. That way not everyone can see it, let alone tell if it’s full."

  Her mom eyed Rebecca critically. "Well, I don’t pester you about every little minor problem you have, I don’t see why we need to be discussing this."

  "Well, I’m just trying to help. The garment goes on first, like under things, and then you put on your pants. That way your clothes don’t get stained, you stay comfortable, and not everyone has to know you’re wearing it."

  "I don’t go around telling people about the time I caught you and George inspecting each other out in the backyard when you are eight. It’s just not proper."

  Rebecca’s cheeks flushed. Wait…what? How did we go from assisted living to adult diapers to making it seem like I’m being unreasonable to embarrassing me about an incident from thirty-something years ago?

  Moreover, discussions with her mother seemed to go always derail, anymore. Rebecca always wanted to talk reasonably, and ended up questioning her own sanity instead. Every discussion with her mother went this way nowadays. Rebecca’s mom always acted like Rebecca was unreasonable, and never saw Rebecca’s point. The hazards of the insane—their world made perfect sense to them. In addition, it was clear that she needed to be put in a home, where someone could help her take care of herself. While the diaper was obviously just an embarrassment, what kinds of things was she doing that could be just plain dangerous? Somebody needed to keep an eye on her, 24/7
. That’s what assisted living was for. The dignity of a place of her own, but the help to make sure she wasn’t going to hurt herself.

  That was the plan, but that’s not how it went. Of course. It went downhill from there. Her mother was having none of it, and Rebecca could march her fat ass back home. End of discussion. So here she was, tired, frustrated, and upset. Now she needed to deal with Sarah’s extracurricular activities. Oh, joy. What a day this was turning out to be.

  Right now, though, she needed to get inside the damned house. It was too darned cold outside, and the cold air was not help with the asthma problem. Rebecca took a deep breath, and mounted the porch steps, one at a time. She had to rest at the top steps, and then she shuffled her way inside.

  Sarah was sitting at the dining room table with her laptop. She glanced up as her mom came shuffling tiredly in. She gave her mom and uncertain glance. "Hi mom. I wasn’t expecting you home so soon."

  Rebecca put her purse and keys up on the counter, and sat down heavily on a stool. She paused for a few seconds to catch her breath. "I noticed. I saw the Vischer boy walking home through the woods in the south field when I got the mail. I hope you’re at least being smart and using protection with him."

  Sarah turned bright red. "Mother!"

  Rebecca smiled tiredly, her suspicions confirmed. She felt very clever. However, she was a realist. She could do little about her daughter’s extra-curricular activities. There’s no way to close that barn door. You’re either a virgin or you’ve been sexually active, there’s no in between. It was like candy. You were fine without it. You knew it was probably good. But oh boy, once you’ve had it the first time, you can’t not have it ever again—you wonder why you even waited—but she was worried about whether her daughter was being responsible. "Well, I’m not going to tell your father, he’d have a cow, but seriously, you are being careful, aren’t you?"