Damned in Dixie: Southern Horror

by Ron Shiflet

  “I’m not afraid of you!” hissed Naomi. “You ain’t half the man that Tom Bowden is.”

  Trent grinned, grabbing the collar of her dress with one hand while placing the dime-loaded scattergun on the table with his other. “Well, honey, you’re getting ready to find out for a fact if that’s true or not.”

  Trent gave a hard pull and the dress ripped loudly.

  The transformation had come over Tom within the first half hour of darkness. The beast held sway but was initially disoriented by his surroundings. This had been the case during previous transformations but all senses were fully heightened after only a few minutes. The beast had a vague but incomplete recognition of its surroundings and was agitated by the confining walls of the barn. Walking man-like on its hind legs, it sought to raise its arm for a freeing blow but was enraged to discover that its limbs were bound with thick strong rope. Flexing the powerful muscles at its command, it growled deeply in anger and frustration. Pacing frantically around the confines of the makeshift prison, it stumbled over farm implements, enraging it further. The beast bared its teeth and gnawed madly at a plow-line in which it was entangled. The leather was severed in moments, allowing the wolf-like creature to focus on ridding itself of the maddening bindings.

  A noise from outside attracted the beast’s attention and it ceased its writhing. Someone was approaching the cabin. The cabin? The creature’s brain could not fully articulate the concept but a territorial instinct surged through its body and inexplicably calmed it. A natural cunning seemed to focus its thoughts and within seconds it snapped the rope. Must get out ... protect the cabin. Kill the interloper and shower in its warm rich blood.

  Hardened claws raked the wood, leaving long deep grooves in the surface of the door. The beast charge the impediment and wood groaned from the onslaught. A few more vicious slashes and a second charge at the door caused hinges to loosen. Exhilaration filled the beast. It sensed that one more attempt would secure its freedom. He tensed and lunged, sending splinters of seasoned lumber into the moonlit night. With a triumphant and primal howl, the beast gazed briefly at the corpulent moon and loped toward the cabin.

  “Holy Jesus!” yelled Trent, still holding a piece of Naomi’s torn dress. “What in the hell was that?”

  “Your death,” said Naomi. “And an unanswered prayer.”

  Trent grabbed the Greener and ran to the doorway. Before he could cock either barrel, a large dark shape crashed into him and sent him reeling across the room. The beast entered the cabin, teeth bared and slavering jaws snapping wildly.

  “Tom!” screamed Naomi.

  The creature glared at her, prepared to attack. It tensed and paused as if confused. The woman ... do I know this woman?

  “Tom, it’s me ... Naomi!”

  Trent shook his head in pain and huddled against the wall where he had landed. He looked for the Greener and cursed silently as he saw it on the other side of the cabin. What in God’s name is that thing! The bitch called it Tom. I’ve got to get away from here ... there’s the devil’s work going on here.

  Trent found the knife in his belt and grasped it in his sweaty palm. He shook with fear, ashamed to realize that he had pissed himself. The creature appeared transfixed on Naomi and Trent began to edge to the other side of the room, hoping to reach the shotgun. The creature glanced at the man but remained in front of Naomi. She saw what Trent was trying to do and did her best to communicate with Tom.

  “Tom,” she pleaded, pointing to Trent. “He’s your enemy! He tried to hurt me and he wants to kill you ... you’ve got to stop him!”

  The beast glanced at Trent and snarled a warning. Trent froze, hoping that the monster would turn its attention to the woman. The creature’s head was throbbing, confused by the tableaux before him. His instincts told him to kill the humans but something inside him was fighting against it. Naomi ... can’t hurt Naomi.

  Tom’s body was still unaccustomed to the change into wolf form and his body was racked with pain, making him unable to focus. The beast clawed at the top of his head, pulling at thick tufts of fur.

  “Tom!” screamed Naomi. “He’s going for the gun!”

  The werewolf leaped across the room as Trent grabbed the Greener. It raked sharp claws across the man’s face, ripping skin and muscle in a spray of blood. Holding the man with one fur-covered hand, he slashed the man’s belly and hurled him across the room. Trent hit the floor moaning, holding his guts in with one hand while cocking both barrels of the shotgun with the other. He turned his upper body toward Naomi and cursed. “This is your goddamn fault, bitch! I’m going to send your black ass to hell!”

  The creature watched the scene unfolding and fought to understand. Naomi looked from the barrels of the shotgun confronting her and looked at the creature, “I love you Tom!”

  Love? Naomi ... my love ... No, it can’t happen ... got to end it now!

  Both hammers locked into place and Buck Trent pulled the triggers. Before the beast could act on its instinct for survival, the part of Tom Bowden that remained, flung its body in front of Naomi, taking both blasts from the weapon to its midsection. The silver dimes with which Trent had packed the shells tore into the creature causing it to fall howling in agony. It panted in pain and confusion and tried to pull itself along the floor to the woman. Naomi ... Naomi ... Naomi ... I ... love ... you ...

  “No!” screamed Naomi in a heart-rending cry of despair and rage.

  The creature lay on the floor and whimpered, reaching for the woman. It began to change, the animalistic features receding as the human form of Tom Bowden reemerged. Tom looked at Naomi and their eyes met for a final time, only for a second but long enough to express what each felt for the other.

  Trent laughed and then moaned, still clutching his belly. “Don’t that beat all,” he muttered. “I guess I did get around to doing Bowden that favor. It must be a cold day in hell.”

  Naomi picked up Tom’s pistol from the floor and pulled back the hammer. Turning to Trent she smiled, aiming the barrel of the .45 at the bleeding man and said, “I hope you’re dressed for it, you son of a bitch.” She pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the man’s brain. Turning away, she walked to where Tom lay, letting the gun drop to the floor. She cradled Tom’s head in her lap and sobbed. Wiping a strand of hair from his lifeless forehead, she bent down and kissed it. Tom was the finest man she had ever known. Perhaps there were other such men. Naomi didn’t know. There would need to be if the world stood any chance of becoming a better place. Sensing the new life inside of her—Tom’s child—she smiled through the tears. She could only hope, but maybe that would be enough. Where there is life, there is always hope.

  THE COOTSY

  D. J. BARBER

  He took the turning off Interstate 81 and headed east toward the small mountain town called Antlered Deer. Ol’ Amos was to meet him there because it was safer than traipsing through the old Thorny Woods where the owner of the red and white pick-up lived. Carl drove that old truck, his palms sweaty on the wheel.

  The Thorny Woods. That’s where Carl was raised—where he’d lived all his born days. He kept repeating over and over, “I ain’t afraid. I ain’t afraid.”

  Well. Fact is—he was afraid. And terribly so. Carl had never known such dreadful fear in all his twenty-six years. And now—now he could hardly breathe. And that damn old fool, Amos, was making him drive all the way across the county to talk to him about the Cootsy.

  Carl shuddered. Even the name scared him. He turned off the county road and onto Main Street. He pulled diagonally right in front of Babcock’s Barber Shop where Ol’ Amos was supposed to be waiting.

  “I ain’t afraid.” Carl said aloud as he exited the truck and bounded up and onto the raised sidewalk.

  The red and white barber pole spun in its twisty manner as Carl walked through the open door. Two of the three chairs were occupied, one of the patrons being Ol’ Amos himself. Carl sat in a chair by the window, grabbed a fishing magazine, and pretended to
read. His thoughts ran back to the Thorny Woods. The past two terrifying nights—I ain’t afraid—he thought and tried to study the fishing magazine.

  But it was no good. Carl couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the Cootsy. The shiny paper of the magazine rattled in his nervous hands so he quickly set it down and watched the barber clip slowly, ploddingly along, with Ol’ Amos’ wisps of hair.

  Be quicker to get the clippers and have done with it, thought Carl. But he said nothing, just sat and waited, worrying about tonight and how the Cootsy would be coming back. Carl shuddered.

  An hour later they sat across from one another at a table booth in the Mountaintop Diner, drinking after lunch coffee and talking.

  Amos was saying, “You think anything you want, Carl. It ain’t a bit like that. I know you’re a-feared an’ all, but for the love of God, what you’re saying—”

  “The truth!” spat Carl. “I ain’t saying I knows all and ever after, but I’m telling you—these things is real.”

  Amos nodded. “I know you believe that, son. But lemme tell you—your daddy lived up that hollar in them Thorny Woods all his live-long days and he never said anything like what you’re saying to me today, Carl.”

  A bit slow. That’s what they’d always called him—a bit slow. Why, back in school he would always be the last to understand a problem with math or get the gist of some book. His daddy always told him, “You gotta learn your cyphers and letters, boy.” But, by God, this was different. He knew what he knew.

  “Amos,” he began, “I know you’re having trouble believing me and I can understand why. But what you need to do is come out to home with me—then you’ll see.”

  “I’d like to do that, Carl. I really would. But my old woman won’t take to me running off tonight on such short notice. Tell you what, though. I’ll come over tomorrow and we’ll both see what there is to see. Okay?”

  Carl tucked his chin. “Okay, Amos. I’ll come back over tomorrow and fetch you home then.” Carl rose to his feet and held out his hand “And Amos? I really appreciate this.” The two men shook and Carl exited the diner, climbed into the old pickup, and pointed it toward I-81—and home.

  The old house sat in a hollow of land between two high ridges. The woods were all around except for the head of the hollow where the house sat. Carl had his old rifle cleaned and oiled and was taking no chances, but he worried about the coming of night. Worried about the Cootsy.

  The night before last—gee, was it only then? Seems an age. Carl shook his head slowly and looked out of the window at the darkening wood. It seemed he’d lived here and heard all the critters of the night forever: chirps, hoots, howls, croaks, peeps and cheeps—you name it. But the night before he heard a high-pitched “COOTSY!”

  That’s as near as he could place that sound—piercing it was—woke him from a sound sleep. That’s all there was—a few loud calls and then silence. The other critters were all as quiet as can be too. Then slowly the crickets and bullfrogs and others joined back in their chorus. But that sound had frightened all them critters, too. Sure as shooting!

  Then last night. It was back in numbers. Several calls of “COOTSY!!” ”COOTSY!!” It was louder than the thunder and shrill as a squealing pig. There was a tramping of hooves, like a herd of deer, scampering all around about the house. He had gotten up and fetched the lantern, but while the calls and scampering around continued, Carl could not see a blamed thing.

  “COOTSY!”

  The sound was suddenly loud and close by, startling Carl into dropping the lantern, causing it to break on the steps at his feet. He backed slowly up the steps so as not to cut his bare feet on the broken glass. He re-entered the house and bolted the door. The calls continued for some time, leaving Carl with only a few hours sleep.

  He called on the boss at the propane company and begged off work, being much too tired, and then resolved to nap a bit. Afterward he would head down to Antlered Deer and talk with Ol’ Amos, who was probably his only friend on Earth. And that is what he had done.

  Night came. The sounds of the Thorny Woods came alive as they had for millennia. Carl brewed a fresh pot and fried some shredded potatoes mixed with sausage for his supper. It was late to eat, but Carl hadn’t eaten earlier, because he was too worried. But now he figured he should eat as it might be a long night and he’d need his strength. Tomorrow was Saturday and he had to fetch Ol’ Amos up here. He also had to start splitting that pile of firewood, for winter would be here before too very long.

  He ate, not tasting, and afterward walked out on the front porch. The critters all sang their songs, pulsing and rhythmic.

  Suddenly it was deathly quiet! Then: “COOTSY!” split the night air. Another call, closer this time, responded to the first. All at once a chorus of “COOTSY” spread all over the mountain hollow. Carl retreated into the house, fetching his rifle. “By God, “he spat, “I’ll quiet them down.”

  He pointed the rifle at a high angle and sent two shots high over the trees. It was silent for maybe a breath, but the calls commenced once again, louder—and closer!

  He stood on the porch and flipped the outside lights off, peering into the mountain darkness. There! He spotted something on a branch over the wood pile. It was near about the size of a squirrel, but had no fur. It was scaly all over and when it reared up it showed bat-like wings. It suddenly swooped straight at him and Carl ducked out of its way just in time. He stood erect again as another one, from a different direction landed on his back and bit him on the ear. It had long, sharp teeth—a lot of them—and bit him again, this time on the nape of his neck. He brushed it away, dropping the rifle in the process and scampered back into the house.

  “Fire and Damnation!” he swore, “What are those things?”

  Looking out of the window, Carl saw them gathering round about the house. Up in the trees that provided daytime shade, on the shed, the posts of the clothesline—everywhere! Dozens of them!

  “Look now, Carl Ol’ boy,” he said to himself. “They can’t get in. So calm yourself down. C’mon breathe deep and slow.” He deep breathed a bit, bringing his racing heart back to a slower beat. Then he felt something warm and wet trickling down his neck and the side of his face.

  “Damn! Better check the damage.” He raced to the bathroom and examined his injuries in the mirror. The neck he could only feel since he had no handheld mirror, but the ear was frightful looking, a jagged edge torn from it.

  His heart raced again and he commenced to deep breathe again and get a hold on himself. He was afraid, more afraid now than even before. They attacked him—Rat-Bastards! Drew blood. The rifle lay on the porch outside and Carl figured it would remain there until first light. But there was one thing. At least he knew what he was dealing with now. And he could show Ol’ Amos tomorrow what was what. He decided he better tend to the ear and stop fussing about the Cootsy. He found some tincture and poured it on the ear and his neck and found his Daddy’s First-Aid kit and dressed his wounds.

  The calls continued, close and loud. Carl also realized that what he had mistaken for the sound of many deer stomping around the night before was actually the bat-wings a-fluttering on the night air. Sleep would be impossible this night, so Carl grabbed another cup of coffee from the pot and sat down in the easy chair to wait out the siege.

  Carl awoke with a start. The nightmare subsided, little sharp teeth had been gnawing his toes and one of them was at his neck. “Whew,” he sighed. “What a dream.”

  Sunlight streamed through the east windows and Carl got up out of the easy chair and stretched his stiff back.

  “Breakfast first. Then we take a drive down I-81 and fetch Ol’ Amos and see what’s what, huh?”

  The fried eggs simmered and smelled good. Carl threw the remnants of last night’s potatoes and sausage next to the eggs in the pan and started the coffee.

  M-mm, breakfast hit the spot. Carl felt less frightened today. He wouldn’t face this menace alone tonight and they’d ready their guns—kne
w what they battled now. There was no phone service up the Thorny Woods. Carl would just get to Amos’ when he got there and Ol’ Amos would expect that. As he locked up the house and walked to the truck, Carl wondered what Ol’ Amos would tell his missus about coming up here to the Thorny Woods for the night.

  The drive seemed somewhat shorter than usual. Carl was excited, could prove now to Ol’ Amos he wasn’t just scared or lonely. There was something in the woods. Something horrible.

  Ol’ Amos was in the drive when Carl pulled up, carrying two fishing poles and a tackle box. “Told the old woman you and me was goin’ fishing today and I was spending the night so’s we could get an early start tomorrow for some more,” explained Ol’ Amos as he entered the pickup. His missus was at the door and waved

  “You boys have a good time now, ya’ hear?” she called as the truck pulled slowly away.

  Carl waved back and turned his attention to the drive back to the Thorny Woods. Their progress was slowed by a jackknifed truck on the interstate, but otherwise the ride was uneventful.

  They sat at the miller’s pond, lines wet, and a few specimens in the gunny sack. Ol’ Amos whistled an off-key tune and Carl swatted at a persistent horsefly. There were few words and when they came it was on fishing, hunting, and what they’d make to have with the fish they had caught for dinner.

  Carl still had some new potatoes and his small garden would yield a handful or two of string beans. So dinner was settled. They gathered their fishing gear as afternoon drew toward evening and set off for the hollow where Carl’s house sat.

  Ol’ Amos cleaned and filleted the fish and Carl picked potatoes and beans, washed them, cut them, and threw them in a pan with a glob of butter. Another pan was soon on the stove loaded with their catch and the house began to fill with the aroma of a good country dinner.