by Ron Shiflet
Jill left the room. Even her concern for Brewster was overridden by the horror on the table. The sounds of her getting sick erupted from the next room.
The partial torso was curled into a tight ball. Its arm was wrapped up and around the head which was covered in blood-matted black hair, hiding what might be a face. There was no other arm, or shoulder. The chest ended just above where the breast bone should have been in a ragged, mess of blackish-red flesh. Ribs, ghastly white and jagged, poked out of the skin as if searching for more flesh to attach themselves to.
“Oh shit,” Harlow groaned. “What is it?”
“A woman, I think,” Furlong stammered. “At least part of one.”
They had left the examining room and Jason was checking on Jill when the screaming started. It was the doctor’s assistant. A moment later, the woman ran out of the room, shrieking and crying. She didn’t stop when she came to the front door and slammed right into the glass, nearly shattering it. She screamed again, swung the door wide and fled out into the parking lot.
Furlong and Harlow rushed back into the exam room and Jason was right behind them.
“Oh, dear God,” Furlong mumbled.
“No, no, no. This isn’t happening,” Harlow said, pulling on his white hair. His eyes were huge and he’d gone as pale as the doctor’s assistant.
Jason couldn’t believe what he was staring at. The head and torso on the table jerked. Then the arm slowly stretched out and began flailing madly, making wet, slapping sounds on the stainless steel table. The woman’s face was still hidden beneath a shaggy mane of clotted hair but Jason could see a nose, then a huge mouth filled with crooked teeth, grimacing with effort. The hand finally found purchase on the edge of the blood-slick table and hoisted the rest of itself up.
As the head tilted upward, Jason had the feeling that he was seeing something ancient, something that was beyond time, beyond anything he could ever imagine. A dry sound chuffed out of its twisted mouth and Jason realized the abomination before him was laughing.
“Kill it. Kill the damn thing!” Harlow shouted.
Furlong grabbed a thick trash bag and tried to cover it, but the hand lashed out, its long fingernails slicing the plastic liner.
“Damn it! Get me another bag!” Furlong screamed.
Jason finally reacted and pulled two more liners out of the box by the door. He opened them and slid one inside the other.
“Ah, shit, she’s got me!”
Jason tried to cover the head, but it bit Furlong’s arm through the plastic and wouldn’t let go.
Harlow snatched a large jar from the counter and smashed it down on the head. They heard a muffled scream from the bag and Harlow hit the creature again. Jason slid two more bags over the jerking, shrieking lump.
“Now what?” Jason asked.
“Now, we burn the bitch,” Harlow said. “Just like they used to when my grandaddy was a boy.”
They all walked out into the clinic’s small back yard. Furlong had some lighter fluid left over from a barbecue he’d thrown for his staff earlier that summer. The witch howled and wailed at the top of her lungs, then spit curses in some language they’d never heard before.
They doused her and the bag with the noxious fluid, and Jason threw the match. She stopped struggling almost immediately. Instead, her thin, pale arm reached out to them, and then marked them one by one with the sign of the evil eye. The stench overpowered their senses. Burnt flesh and scorched plastic rose on a black cloud, but they watched her burn in silence. When the fire went out, they set it aflame once more, adding more fluid and then kindling from the nearby trees until nothing remained but a pile of ash. They buried the ash, not out of respect or to give the witch peace, but out of fear that her remains might drift in the wind and be breathed in by another dog, or perhaps this time, a child.
Jason and Jill took Brewster home and laid him down on his dog bed. The day had seemed like a surreal nightmare, something out of The Twilight Zone.
The next day Brewster had regained consciousness, but moved slowly. Jill set his food and water dishes next to his bed and he tentatively took a few bites out of his dish.
“I guess it’ll take him a few days to get his appetite back,” Jason said.
“Yeah, considering his last meal nearly killed h…” she covered her mouth and let out a loud burp, then giggled. “God. Where did that come from?”
Jason felt a slight rumbling in his own stomach and let out his own, mightly belch.”
“Oh, God,” Jill said. “You don’t think?”
“It’s probably just the big breakfast we ate,” Jason chuckled. “You’re being paranoid.” He laughed on the outside, but inside, he was scared to death.”
The phone rang and Jason picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Jason,” it was Harlow. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” Jason lied. “Why?”
“I’m worried about that smoke we breathed in yesterday. I can’t seem to stop burping.”
Jason dropped the phone. As he heard it hit the floor, he felt another gaseous rumble move up from his stomach. In the back of his mouth he tasted blood and magic.
A COLD DAY IN HELL
RON SHIFLET
Tom Bowden awoke at dawn to find his hands covered in blood. His head was pounding and he was disoriented as he rolled naked in the damp pine needles. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and looked around the unfamiliar clearing. Tall, ancient pines stood like grim sentinels in the cool east Texas morning. In the dim light of the forest, he watched a beetle scurry along the ground as if hurrying to get home before the rising of the sun. Staggering to his feet, he looked around the clearing in a frantic effort to locate his clothes. Near the edge of the clearing, he saw a boot and the filthy shirt he had been wearing the night before. Scanning the needle-carpeted ground for snakes, he made his way cautiously to the clothing.
Damn. I can’t believe it happened again.
This morning was the most recent of several occasions over the past several months that Tom had found himself in such a disconcerting situation. The big man felt nauseated and clutched his middle as he bent to retrieve his boot. His pants and the other boot were nearby and he hoped like hell that he could find his horse in the thick piney woods. Seeing a small brackish puddle, he dipped his calloused hands into the liquid and cleaned himself as best as he was able.
He stood shivering in the dawn and dressed. Once done, he began to walk in circles around the clearing, hoping to find his bedroll and gun. Fifty yards from where he began, he found both items. Sighing in relief, he strapped on the holstered firearm and whistled for his horse. He listened for movement among the trees but heard nothing but some birds. Whistling again, he thought he could hear something but it was too distant to be sure. He returned to the clearing and continued to whistle. “Amos! Come here, boy!”
Standing in the brooding silence of the forest, he cursed. He readied himself to walk east to the small community of Pine Top when Amos came sauntering into the clearing. Praise Jesus, you old son of a bitch! You’re a sight for sore eyes. The roan was still saddled which told him that whatever had happened, had occurred before he had bedded down for the night. He would normally unsaddle the horse and give him a rubdown, but didn’t like the idea of remaining in the immediate area. He had no idea what had happened during the night, but given the circumstances of his awakening, there could be any number of enemies trailing him.
The air was humid and a slight breeze blew through the woods, turning cold the sweat that beaded on Tom’s wrinkled brow. He regretted the loss of his hat and was unconscious of running his hand through his thick graying hair. The events of the last several months had taken a mental and physical toll on the man and he had no idea how to solve the mystery of his disconcerting plight. Have I killed? Could I murder and be unaware of my actions? These thoughts had become increasingly frequent and weighed heavily on his mind. He had certainly killed men before but that was in war or in situatio
ns where other men had given him no choice.
Gathering his wits, he rode toward his boyhood home of Pine Top. After two miles of riding, the small town came into view and he smiled. For the moment, it felt good to be home. He rode into town and took note of the many changes. There were more buildings than there had been when he left and a boardwalk on each side of the single street to keep folks from having to walk in the mud when it rained. Smiling, he spied the saloon and hitched Amos to the wooden post in front.
Tom entered the saloon, seeing no one he recognized except for Buck Trent. He had no use for the man but nodded a greeting as he stepped to the bar. “Howdy, Trent, it’s been a long time.”
Trent frowned and said, “Longer would’ve suited me.”
Tom ignored the comment and ordered a beer. He drank it and looked around the room, seeing four or five men drinking and talking. They each nodded to him and continued their conversations.
“What brings a former soldier in the Union army to Pine Top?” Trent asked with mock interest. “You come back to kill more of your countrymen?”
“Let it drop, Trent,” Tom replied. “That’s ancient history.”
Trent scowled at him and said, “Why don’t you do us all a favor and ride on back to where you came from? All the slaves are long freed and I don’t figure you’re needed around here.”
“I’d love to oblige you, Buck,” Tom answered with a smirk. “Only problem is I aim to stay around and look after Uncle Willard.”
“What for?” Trent asked. “He ain’t going to be around much longer, and besides, he’s got that nigger bitch taking care of his needs.”
Tom took a step forward, his hands clenched. “You got an ignorant and foul mouth, Buck. What I decide to do about my Uncle Willard is none of your damned business.”
Trent took aim at the spittoon near his feet and spat in disgust. “Yeah, that’s about how I figured you’d see it. You still got a love of them darkies huh? But hell, what can a body expect from a man who turns his back on his country?”
The barroom grew deathly quiet, the few customers tense and expecting trouble.
“Damn straight, if by turning my back you mean I wouldn’t see clear to fight for a bunch of rich bastards who were too damn lazy to work their own places.”
Trent stepped forward belligerently and replied. “Like I said, why don’t you do us all a favor and leave?”
“You feel up to running me out?” Tom asked.
Trent looked at the scattergun leaning against the bar, estimating his chances. “Go ahead,” said Tom, “I’ll allow you to pick it up.”
Suddenly an older man wearing a badge entered the saloon and all heads turned in his direction. He had steely eyes and gray hair but an air about him that commanded respect. “Don’t try him, Buck,” said the man. “You’d be dead before you could pull the trigger.”
There was a noticeable easing of tensions as Sheriff Morris Teague approached the two men. “Howdy, Tom.”
“Morris,” nodded Tom, respectfully.
Trent said nothing but seethed as his boss looked at him.
“Is there a problem here, boys?”
“No problem,” Tom replied. “Just a little disagreement over politics.”
Trent smiled and said, “That’s right, Morris. Just a friendly disagreement.”
“I’m glad to know that’s all it is,” Teague answered.
Trent looked at Tom and picked up the shotgun. Finishing the last swallow of his drink, he said, “I got to get back to the jail.”
“I’ll be along directly,” replied the sheriff.
Trent ambled to the swinging doors, stopped and said, “Hey, Tom! You give some thought to doing us all that favor.”
Tom grinned and replied, “Hell, Buck, I expect you’ll be doing me a favor ‘fore it’s all said and done.”
“Don’t wager on it,” sneered Trent. “It’ll be a cold day in hell.”
Sheriff Teague slapped Tom on the back and said, “It’s damn good to see you, Tom. You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
Tom grinned. “You’re looking fit, Morris.”
“Hell, Tom. You never was much of a liar but I appreciate the sentiments. Take a little stroll with me?”
“Sure,” answered Tom, “and you can fill me in on all the latest town gossip.”
The two men left the saloon and turned west on the boardwalk, strolling casually and greeting the occasional passerby. “You here about Willard?” Teague asked.
“Yeah,” Tom replied. “I lit out of Colorado when the news reached me.”
“It’s a damn shame. Have you been out to the home place yet?”
“Not yet, but I’m heading there next,” Tom replied. “How bad is it?”
“I’m no doctor,” answered Teague, “but it ain’t good. Doc Haslett figures he could go in the next week or the next couple of months. Said it’s hard to tell in such cases.”
Teague stopped and filled a corncob pipe. Striking a match, he asked, “You planning on staying until Willard passes?”
“That’s the plan unless you know some reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Don’t get testy,” laughed Teague. “I just wondered how long I needed to keep an eye on you and Buck.”
Tom frowned and ran fingers through his prematurely graying hair. “I always figured you to be more particular about who you pinned a badge on.”
“Buck’s not so bad,” said Teague. “A little rough around the edges, but a pretty good man.”
“We could argue that one back and forth, but I’ll let it pass out of respect for you.”
“I appreciate that Tom. I’m glad to have you back in Pine Top but don’t need any trouble.”
“Ain’t looking for trouble,” Tom replied.
“Good. Then there won’t be any.”
Tom took out the makings for a smoke and said, “I see he’s still toting that Greener. He shot anyone with them silver dimes yet?”
“Nary a soul,” laughed Teague. “You know that not much ever happens around here ... a few drunks on occasion but things are generally pretty peaceful.”
The two men walked to the end of the street, stopping at the livery stable where Tom had left Amos for a much needed rubdown and feeding. “Well, Morris,” said Tom, “I best get on out to the house and see Uncle Willard but we’ll talk again real soon.”
“That sounds good, Tom. Give my regards to Willard and tell him I’ll drop by for a game of checkers soon.”
Tom grinned and said, “He’ll like that. He surely will.”
Tom retrieved his horse from Boyd Wheeler at the stable and started the short ride to his Uncle’s place.
He trekked slowly through the thick pines, his mind troubled with the unexplained incidents of the past several months. The nightmares, waking up covered in blood and the unaccustomed feeling of helplessness. Being self-reliant and an independent spirit, he found it difficult to seek help for what plagued him and was afraid to tell anyone since the facts, as known to him, indicated a severe mental aberration at best. All he knew to do was hope for the best and try to work at the problem alone.
The nightmares and the troubling behavior had started three months earlier in a Colorado mining town. He had left a poker game on the outskirts of town and had been attacked by a person or persons unknown. It was in the early hours of the morning and his primary recollection was of hearing a noise behind him, feeling a blow to the head and then losing consciousness. Upon awakening, there was a huge knot on his head and a deep animal bite on his shoulder. A solitary witness to the attack testified to seeing a wolf or large dog leap onto Tom from out of the darkness. The witness purportedly fired a warning shot that nearby card players confirmed hearing. The attacker fled after the gunshot and Tom was taken to a doctor. The doctor dressed Bowden’s wound and told him that it should heal without difficulty as long as the bite didn’t become infected.
The pressure was unbearable. The pounding in the brain and shortness of breath rendered the garmen
ts restrictive and hated. The nostrils flared wildly and the influx of smells triggered an olfactory overload. The large round object in the sky was a source of wonder and triggered a mournful, throat-stretching howl. The garments were tossed aside but before a celebratory howl could be emitted, the body was wracked with torturous pain as muscle, cartilage, and bone molded themselves into shapes never intended. Coarse bristles of hair grew abundantly and painfully through the skin like cactus thorns, or so it felt. A feeling of wild abandonment coursed through the body as heightened senses detected the night creatures of the forest. Food. Food for the taking. Let the hunt begin.
“Yeah,” muttered Tom to himself. “That’s pretty much how it’s been, one night a month for the past three months.”
But only when the moon is full.
The forest thinned as Bowden drew nearer to his uncle’s cabin.
Wonder what the moon has to do with it?
He had heard wild yarns about the moon’s effect on certain people but had never put much stock in such nonsense. Still, there was no denying that his disturbing behavior occurred only when the moon was full. He didn’t like to think about it but it was something that he would definitely need to sort out. And soon.
Guiding his horse into the green pasture, he spit and gazed intently at the building before him. It was in need of repair but that couldn’t stem the flood of pleasant memories that washed over him as he approached its door. He was within twenty yards of the house when a tall woman with coffee-colored skin opened the door and walked out. Looking at him in surprise, she said, “You must be Mr. Tom Bowden!”
He grinned and replied, “I must be.”
The simple beauty of the woman, her high cheekbones and smooth dark skin struck Tom unexpectedly. Her eyes sparkled with an openness that he found appealing. She wore her hair braided in a manner he hadn’t seen before. The woman sat down a wooden bucket and said, “I’m Naomi Black. I’ve been seeing after your uncle since he took ill.”
