Kenneth lowered his palms to the ground as he moved closer. “All right. It’s all right.”
The deer pushed up on its front legs, twisting its body to keep its head toward Kenneth.
“Easy, there.”
Then it stood completely, unsteady on all four legs.
“Looks like we've both had a bit of a spill,” Kenneth said. The deer limped on its back leg—the one facing away from him. Its body leaned to that side. Kenneth stepped to the back of the animal for a closer look.
Another gurgled, closed-mouth bleat, and the deer circled away from him, keeping its injured side out of view. Its front legs struggled with the memory of graceful movement, while the deer’s back haunches jerked and the rear leg dragged behind. From the motion, Kenneth deduced the leg itself was fine, but there was something wrong with the hip socket. He imagined he heard a faint sound of grinding bone.
“Let me see, fella.”
Again the deer circled away, keeping the same distance between them as they edged to a different section of the field. The deer’s back legs continued to falter, mimicking the hobbled gait of a child wearing an over-stuffed backpack over one shoulder.
Kenneth held up his hands and backed away. “All right. You win.”
Another bleat, loud and scratchy, and the deer sprinted awkwardly to another unmarked path that led away from the clearing. As the animal exited, Kenneth caught a fleeting glimpse of the deer’s right haunch. The hip was oversized and deformed—more likely a birth defect than from a recent injury.
He looked at the ground, a strange spiral overlay of footprints and hoofprints. To get his bearings he needed to trace the prints to the starting point, but the deer’s dragged leg had smeared some of the tracks. Fortunately, he was able to locate the long smooth oval of dirt where he had surprised the resting animal. Now he could retrace his steps to where he’d entered the clearing.
But something about the deer’s impression in the ground gave him pause. He moved closer to examine it.
The outline was normal: long torso and rounded belly; thin and angled impressions where the legs bent next to the body.
But a scooped impression appeared at the site of the injured hip. A half-sphere, wide as a dinner plate and pressed deep into the dirt.
With a face. The monstrous face he imagined on one of the tree-side burls.
Lines in the dirt retained the whorled texture of twisted bark. Two bumps indicated the eyes, with a scalloped vertical indentation for the nose. A twisted horizontal slit represented the mouth.
Kenneth grew sick at the image: a burl attached to the animal like a tumor, the deer pressing its hip into the dirt in some vain attempt to suffocate the awful face.
An insect buzz rose up from all sides. Why had it been so quiet until now?
He wasn’t sure where to go. Kenneth looked up, hoping to gain his bearings from the position of the sun. But he couldn’t see anything clearly—only the dizzying redwoods all around, each one straight and tapering to a point high above. He got disoriented again, and staggered sideways, tripping over one of the peripheral roots.
He caught his balance against the trunk of the closest tree. His hand rubbed the soft bark of a knotted burl.
It pushed back. Like when his wife was pregnant with Amy, and he felt their baby’s kick through the soft belly.
What horrible pregnancy was this? He imagined the curled fetus of an advanced ultrasound, crusted over with bark and tearing into the world with wooden teeth. Or the gnarled and squat face of a burl itself, dropping fully-formed from the side of a tree and seeking an animal host.
All the day’s musings came back to him: Muir’s concept of man’s sympathy with the wilderness, his own newfound intuition that nature itself expressed a vague sense of purpose or will. In addition, his underlying fear of the inmates and patients he counseled, and the strain their remorseless confessions placed on his view of humanity—causing a strange distance between himself and Patricia, and even with Amy. He realized he'd barely thought about his family since they parted ways this morning.
Instead he'd been consumed by hatred for the visitors to this park--their inattention and disrespect to the majesty of nature. These angry thoughts still pounded in his head, thrumming amid the steady buzz of wilderness insects.
And another sound, continuing to gain momentum. The gurgled bleat of the deer, of several deer, echoing from all sides of the clearing.
Except he knew now it wasn’t the deer. The deer’s mouth had been closed.
Another mouth had faced away from him, open, forcing out each scratched bleat with an undercurrent of softly grinding bone, or sticks being rubbed together.
He sensed their monstrous faces staring at him from the shadowy periphery of the clearing. The low growl of the burls matched Kenneth’s thoughts and encouraged them. They absorbed his deep disappointment with humanity—a process that began, he was now certain, the minute he stepped foot into the park.
In his mind he said good-bye to Patricia and Amy—though he was not yet sure if he’d doomed them or himself.
He closed his eyes and waited as the sound continued to rise. Soon, their voices might get louder as the circle of burls closed in around him, one awful parasite, then another, attaching to his body. Or they could reject him, flinging themselves toward a multitude of deserving hosts. A chorus of growls would fade into the distance, a new procession leaving the beauty of Muir Woods behind, planning to sprout new births from the ruined shells of conscienceless humanity
A Walk in the Park
By Brandon Ford
Brandon Ford is an American author of horror and suspense fiction. To date, he has written four novels (CRYSTAL BAY, SPLATTERED BEAUTY, PAY PHONE, and OPEN WOUNDS) and two collections (DECAYED ETCHINGS and MERCILESS). He has also contributed to several genre anthologies, including: CREEPING SHADOWS (a collection of three short novels), THE DEATH PANEL, SINISTER LANDSCAPES, MADE YOU FLINCH, RAW: BRUTALITY AS ART, and most recently READ US OR DIE and FRESH FEAR. He currently resides in Philadelphia.
I’m so cold. My God, I’m freezing. I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold before. Why is it so cold? Where is it coming from? What is going on?
When Clark opened his eyes, he found early morning, but it was not beyond his bedroom window. It was stretched out before his sensitive eyes, as was a blanket of newly fallen snow. Bolting to his feet, he fought the urge to scream, though his heart continued to thrash like a pounding drum and there was a growing terror inside of him.
Where am I? How did I get here? What in the name of sweet Jesus is going on?
He trembled with fear and with panic. Folding his arms, he hugged himself and turned from left to right. As his eyes began to adjust and things became clearer, he realized he was in the Friedman Plaza parking lot, a strip mall he visited at least once a week. But the lot was empty and the stores were all dark. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
Clad in only a t-shirt and sweatpants, his socks soaked through, he was overcome with panic.
I’m gonna die, he thought, moving fast, feeling the blood pulse through his legs. I have to get home. I have to get home or I’m gonna die out here. My God, how long have I been here? Why is this happening?
His feet, having reached the point of complete numbness, sank into the snow and slush as he pushed onward, arms flailing as clouds of hot breath sifted past his chapped lips. Reaching the sidewalk, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the orange glow of the sun. Across the street, he focused on a line of buildings—mostly independent businesses and an ATM at the end of the block—and watched as an elderly man shoveled a clear path through the snow. The warmth of the sunlight began to find him, but it was far too little and far too late. He wanted to move, to run, but he could barely stand. His legs ached and his feet throbbed.
On the busy street, cars sped this way and that, gray and black slush continuously changing patterns as a multitude of spinning tires plowed through it. Lifting both arms, the pain was so strong it brou
ght tears to his eyes. But even still, he waved them wildly, struggling for the attention of anyone who’d stop. Inside, he screamed and howled with defeat as his eyes met one indifferent soul after another. One by one, two by two, they continued to pass him—minivans, tractor-trailers, compacts, station wagons, even eighteen-wheelers—as though he didn’t even exist. As though he wasn’t even standing there. Watching them, the stony eyes of the drivers killed him even more than the cold. And as another strong gust of winter wind swathed him, he thought for sure all was lost.
Until a yellow cab pulled up beside him.
He didn’t have so much as a nickel on him, but there was nothing that would’ve stopped him from climbing aboard. He gave his address to the driver and spied his own reflection in the mirror. He looked sick. Scared and sick. Lost and cold and alone.
“W-w-would y-y-you mind turning up the h-h-heat?” he called through chattering teeth. Rubbing both arms, he was certain he’d never know what it felt like not to feel this way. Not to feel warmth.
He stole a glance at the dashboard clock. A few minutes to seven. Tuesday. It was Tuesday, wasn’t it?
It was. He remembered having a beer with Gary after work yesterday. Remembered coming home to Sherry. Having a hot shower before they made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
But what else? What else had he done?
Nothing. He didn’t do anything. Just slept. Dreamed.
Or did he dream?
He could never remember his dreams. Not right away. They always seemed to come back to him mid-day. In the office, he’d flash back to an episode in his unconscious mind. See himself in the third grade. In his parents’ house back in Vermont. On the beach. Somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. At his own funeral. And then he’d remember the way he felt when he saw or experienced these things. He’d remember how scared or how sad or how happy he was the moment he opened his eyes.
But now, he could remember nothing.
Even still, he tried to piece together what he’d done the night before. He didn’t drink more than the occasional beer. Didn’t take drugs. Was a pretty boring guy. A regular Joe.
And then he flashed back to more than fifteen years ago. His college days. Experimenting with LSD. Seeing things he never would’ve imagined in a thousand years. Walking beyond the earth’s soil. Flying high above the clouds. And then he wondered what kind of lasting effects that shit could’ve had on his brain.
Over and over again, he replayed the night before and he saw only the same things. He was certain he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Positive.
Still trembling uncontrollably, he blew heat into his hands and rubbed both arms. He would’ve given anything to be rid of the cold. He couldn’t stop his body from quaking. Couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. It was maddening. Every so often, he caught the driver eyeing him in the rearview. Instinctively, he wanted to jump on the defensive, bark what the hell are you staring at? and demand that the tubby bastard keep his eyes on the goddamn road. Just drive the goddamn car. But he knew he couldn’t blame the driver. He saw what he’d looked like. Knew this wasn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill situation. And so Clark forgave the driver’s wandering eyes.
When they pulled up outside the brownstone he called home, Clark could only feel the slightest bit of warmth. His extremities were still numb and he knew that stepping out of the cab would be both painful and strenuous. But he never could’ve guessed how painful, for when he stepped out, both feet sank into a curbside puddle. It was like jagged shards of ice shooting through his body.
“FUCK!” He couldn’t help it. By that point, he’d really been through the wringer.
He told the driver to wait, then slammed the door. Rushing up the front steps, he crossed paths with Mrs. Sambino, his first floor neighbor. She eyed him cautiously before continuing on her way. To her, he breathed not a word. Let the old bag wonder.
The second floor might as well have been the ninety-second. Reaching his own apartment door sounded more strenuous than anything ever had. But he couldn’t tense up now. Couldn’t lose focus. And so he pushed his way up, up, up, leaving wet footprints along the way, as the anger dissipated and all he wanted to do was cry.
He found the apartment door open, just a crack, and when he pushed his way inside, the first thing he heard was the whirr of a hairdryer coming from the bathroom. Sherry. He slipped into their bedroom unnoticed, snatched his wallet from the nightstand, and headed straight for the door.
The trip back down the stairs wasn’t much easier than the trip up. The pain pulsing through his feet, calves, knees, thighs, and arms was immeasurable. But what killed him more than all else was facing the cold again.
This was too much. This was really and truly just too much.
He reached the sidewalk, stopped at the curb, and leaned over the passenger side window. If the driver thought he was going back out into the street, then he could just go fuck himself.
Clark couldn’t see him through the frosted window, but he could feel a set of glaring eyes looking back at him. A few grunts and a few turns on the crank and the window came down. Clark felt the heat kiss his flesh and felt almost at ease.
“W-w-what’s the d-d-damage?” Clark said.
“Twelve-fifty.”
Clark handed him a twenty and told him to keep it. Just to show the driver he wasn’t all bad.
Going back up the stairs was only slightly easier this time. Knowing he didn’t have to go back out right away was his only solace, while words like pneumonia and hypothermia spun around in his head.
Re-entering the bedroom, he found Sherry dressed and perfecting her makeup in front of the mirror. She looked beautiful, yet professional. Classy. The first time he saw her in one of those knee-length skirts, he just about melted.
They’d been dating just over a year. Living together only six weeks. All of their little quirks and idiosyncrasies had yet to reach the surface. He didn’t know how he’d explain this.
“What the hell happened to you?” she said to his reflection in the mirror before turning to face him.
“S-s-slept in the m-mall parking lot.” He was starting to warm.
“You… what?”
“N-not sure if I slept there all n-n-night. B-but that’s where I woke up.”
“Why are you stuttering?”
“B-because I’m freezing.”
“Clark, it must be ten degrees out.”
“Oh, I think I’m aware of that.”
“I figured you left for work early or something.”
He didn’t respond. Just pulled out of his clothes and headed for the bathroom. Starting the shower, he stepped inside the tub. At first, the water scared him and he had to edge his way under the spray. But as soon as he adjusted, it became a dose of euphoria and he turned up the heat, clouds of steam rising all around him.
“You ever done this before?” Sherry called from the doorway.
“Done what.”
“Sleepwalk.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Maybe you should ask your parents.”
“Maybe.”
“My God, Clark. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“You wanna tell me something I don’t know?” And there, under the steam and the spray, he saw his sprawled frame, arms and legs partially hidden beneath patches of mounting snow, eyes glazed over. Perfectly still. Dead. And even under the scalding shower, he felt a chill.
“I have my doubts about leaving you,” Sherry said.
Clark turned toward the direction of her voice. He’d forgotten she was there. “I’m fine,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m okay.”
“Clark, I have plenty of sick days. If you’d like me to stay home with you, it’s really not a problem.”
He smiled, the vision of himself lying in a hospital bed covered in tubes and wires beginning to fade. “I’m not staying home, either,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to w
ork as soon as I’m finished in here. I said I’m fine and that’s exactly what I meant.”
He heard her mumble what sounded like “All right, I guess…” and they said their goodbyes.
Clark was never one for fast food, but on this icy afternoon, after this bitch of a morning, something quick and greasy sure sounded good. For his lunch hour, he ducked out of the office and took a short walk around the block, where a line of chain restaurants lured shoppers with bargain prices for hamburgers consisting of shoddy, undercooked meat. Braving the frigid winds and snow was the last thing he wanted, especially so soon, but he could almost hear the enticing call of a double-cheeseburger, thus giving him courage.
Surrounded by only a few patrons eating quietly, he sat before a pyramid-shaped pile of French fries and a cup of soda deep enough to bathe in. He’d just swallowed his third bite when the memory struck him and he just about choked.
Jimmy Doolan.
He hadn’t thought of that name in well over twenty years. That fat little freckle-faced bastard made his life a living hell. Made him dread getting out of bed in the morning. Made him dread going to school everyday. Filled him with a terror very deep and very real.
It would be a small miracle if a week passed without Clark getting his ass kicked. Some days Jimmy would strike at recess. Others he’d wait until the final bell rang. And then there were the days when Clark had thought he’d made it out safely. He’d be on his merry way home, flushed with relief, and Jimmy would leap from behind a shrub or out from behind a corner and always would Clark regret dropping his guard.
There wasn’t a neighbor for three blocks who hadn’t seen him return home swollen and bloody. He took class pictures twice with a black eye. Once with a split lip.
In those days, the last thing the school wanted was to get involved. His parents thought he should fight back and haphazardly taught him how to do so. And so it continued. To this day, he had battle scars left over from Jimmy’s wrath. He sure was a merciless little fucker.
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 21
