Tales Of The Amulet - XI

Turkeys

Part 1-

Ed sighed and sat back on his porch rocker. It creaked under his ever increasing girth; blame it on age, blame it on dessert- heck, blame it on complacency, it didn't need a name. He was getting heavier, and the arguing keen from the old chair only rubbed it in. He looked out over his yard. It appeared as vast as always: a tightly manicured lawn near his creaky deck, and a flora-laden landscape across the back forty. He loved gazing out over his property and watching as the wildlife popped in and out of their hiding spots. It was six acres all told, and he loved every square foot of it. It'd been his for going on thirty years now, after he'd inherited it from his sickly mother. Her death was melancholy, but not unexpected. It was the cancer that did her in back in '82 when Ed was just forty-three. His life's aspirations never really bore fruit, so he packed up what meager collections he'd amassed and moved back to the house he'd grown up in. Lucky for him, the little town of Handlers Grove didn't have a decent hunting and fishing surplus shop, so Ed was kind enough to oblige and soon opened 'Ed's Outdoor'. And as he sat there on the cool November afternoon watching the hazed-over sun slowly march its way to its daily death, he knew Thanksgiving was coming. And so were the turkeys.  

Part 2-

When Ed first took residence a few months after his mother's passing, nothing felt right. The house was still haunted by her; knick-knacks strewn about the walls, printed area rugs in mundane places, cabinets full of innocuous clutter, some bizarre disk-shaped trinket hanging from the mantle that immediately turned his stomach, and the stink. It positively reeked of his mom. It was her perfume and her smell that clouded her during her last days when Hospice had to take over. It was stale urine, dirty, fouled laundry, and the ever cloying stench of a drawn out death. As he stood there in the doorway facing the stairwell leading to his mother's old room, he clutched a box that contained nearly all of the things he owned, and he wept. He stood there and cried like a baby boy who'd lost his favorite stuffed bear. The wave of emotion rolled over him like high tide. He didn't even cry at the funeral, for whatever reason. Call it masculinity. Call it potential embarrassment... whatever. But there he stood and the floodgates opened wide. A few minutes passed and he regained control of himself after a few hitching breaths. Yes, he knew it was the scent that did it. His mother was still there and he'd keep it that way. She was always good to him, despite her early divorce from his father, and the death of his step-father a few years later. She was always there; she was always mom. He did, however, pack away her things. Too many reminders were just too painful. And then it was his home and his alone. And he was happy.

Part 3-

Being as far out into the country as he was, there was a never ending parade of animals wandering his property. He'd begun setting salt licks out for deer, feeders for squirrels and birds, dishes of food for raccoon and coyote, and insect feeders as well when the season was right. It was like living in a preserve. But as the first year drew on toward late fall and into November, something strange occurred that Ed could never have been prepared for.
One day, late in the month, the turkeys came. At first it was a few and their guttural screams woke him from a dead sleep at first light around six thirty. He leaped from his bed clutching his chest trying desperately to calm his heart and his nerves. His eyes were wide and blurry as he flew to the window. He slid the curtains aside and there, strutting across his lawn laying waste to every piece of food he'd left out, were a dozen wild turkeys. They pecked at the seed, the salt, the treats for the coons... you name it, they were devouring it. And they were huge. Ed had seen wild turkeys before and they were typically scrawny and gaunt, not a lot of meat on them... but these bastards were massive! Bigger than farm-raised even, and by the looks of it, pushing thirty pounds each. But they weren't the sluggish, useless meaty birds you see on TV when Thanksgiving rolls around. Oh no, these birds were active and angry. But worst of all, it was their eyes. The turkeys looked at the house and Ed could see their eyes glowing bright red like tail lights. And they didn't just glow, the throbbed.... pulsated. He watched, catching his breath in silence, as the turkeys decimated his wildlife spread. The birds wandered the yard, and Ed only hoped that they didn't catch wind of the deer he'd field dressed the night before. It was a surprisingly cold night, so he just left it hanging from the tree branch till he could deal with it the following day. Now, in fact. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that the turkeys smelled it. What followed was something out of a horror movie: beaks gnashing, meat stripped as though they were those piranha fish Ed had seen on those animal shows, and incessant cackling like a pack of angry wolves. They thrashed at each other, clawed faces, pecked and pulled feathers. It was terrifying. Ed could only hold back his gorge as he watched the birds strip the carcass to bloody bone. Fortunately, he hadn't eaten yet.

Part 4-

That first year was a surprise, no doubt. But the year following Ed was a bit more prepared, and this time he figured if they were going to stuff themselves on his animal treats, he'd happily kill one for his own Thanksgiving spread. And so he waited. Beginning around the middle of the month he'd begun getting out of bed just before dawn and loading his rifle. He was a hunter after all, and this was his property. He was going to give some paybacks this time. It was 1983, a year that Ed would later regret his actions.
On the morning of the 20th, the birds arrived. This time there were twenty strong and as they wandered from the wooded horizon and onto his property it looked like forty glowing alien orbs slowly hovering in for an attack. Their calls were ominous and shrill. They looked around, jabbed one another for positioning, and marched like stalking soldiers into Ed's backyard. He watched, silently, as the turkeys shuffled up to their feast. And just as the year before, they tore into the offerings like they hadn't eaten in their lives. But Ed was ready. He quietly slid up the pane, poked the barrel of his rifle through, sighted his target (an especially rotund specimen) and fired a shot right through the bird's ruddy head. It's skull exploded into gory shrapnel. It stood for a minute, took a few cautionary steps toward its brethren, and collapsed in a feathery heap. The others stopped feeding almost instantly and looked at their fallen comrade. And then the screaming began. Like the cacophonous screech of a sick baby by way of a megaphone through the cone of a prison alarm. The sound was deafening and awful. Ed dropped the gun and fell to his knees. The birds carried on for what seemed like forever; back and forth, louder and more shrill, they bleated on and on. Eventually, the noise just ceased. Ed drew his hands from his ears slowly. He stood and looked out the window and watched as the remaining turkeys slowly tore their winged friend to shreds.

Part 5-

Years had passed and Ed had learned a valuable lesson. From then on he just left out the food and made sure he was occupied with busy work. He even recalled the year he'd forgotten to leave any food out at all. He was traveling that year to his friend's house in Martinsburg for the holiday,just a few hours south. He locked up, didn't think anything of leaving out goodies for his turkey pests, and left. Upon his return he instantly regretted this oversight as well. The birds had smashed through his big picture window, as evidenced by the trail of bloody feathers spotting the crime scene that looked as though someone had been murdered with a furniture duster. They'd ransacked his house, tore apart his couch and chair, pecked apart the wires to appliances, and managed to yank open the fridge and laying waste to its contents. The stench of fouled food hung in the place like a decaying body. That was the last time that happened. It cost him too much to argue with the birds, and so he just gave in. But this year would be different. This year was going to be the turkey's last.
He sipped on his beer and knew, subconsciously, that tomorrow was the day. It had been far too long in years and he'd gotten to know the turkey's routine. But Ed was getting tired. He was too near eighty now to want to put up with the barrage of fowl that plagued his pre-holiday festivities. And besides, this year he wanted company at his house and the last thing he needed was the fret on about a flock of angry birds. He was ready, and he could only hope he'd catch the turkeys by surprise.

Part 6-

Morning. Early. It was six-fifteen and first light was maybe an hour away. Ed slid out of bed into his slippers. He stretched, yawned, and smiled. It was going to be a good day. He knew it. He strode with a shuffle to the kitchen where his automatic coffee maker had just finished making the pot he'd set to brew twenty minutes prior. He poured a mug, always black, and slid out a chair at his dining room table. It was as close to the window facing the yard as he needed it to be, and he waited. At last the calls echoed from the far side of his property; that wretched crowing that signaled the arrival of the mass of turkeys that had been ruining his holiday for thirty years. This year was going to end very differently; in fact, it was going to end before it could even begin. What he was about to do he'd seen on a cartoon, believe it or not (even he could only shake his head), and he just knew he could make it work in real life with only a few tweaks. You see, in the cartoon, the target got away, but Ed made damn sure that wasn't going to happen today. As the rafter of turkeys approached (this year quite possibly numbering in the thirties), Ed stood and slowly moved to the little button that was wired just inside of the window. Soon the birds began to feed on Ed's home-made goodies, each laden with enough black powder in all to blow apart a solid concrete wall. Each item was wired to a sparker that led back to the house. He wanted to catch as many turkeys as he could in mid peck so the damage would be just as spectacular as he'd imagined. He waited patiently. There was plenty of food.
Then, suddenly, the time had come. Without another moment's hesitation, Ed pushed the button.

The sound and the fracas that followed was a circus of freakish agony. Right off the bat after the button was pressed, ten bird heads immediately blew apart like miniature fireworks. Seconds later, the individual pieces of food exploded into geysering flame balls that set another twelve birds on fire. Then, as the still living birds suddenly began to scuffle in terror, the black powder in their mouths and stomachs ignited from the fire and intense heat. Guts burst forth like burning party favors. Turkey necks and beaks blasted apart like over-filled balloons. Headless bodies flopped around, torched feathers smoldered, and the acrid smoke of slowly dying birds coiled into the air on the lazy breeze. When it was finally over, only two birds still moved, and Ed just waited as the flickering flames eventually overtook them and they, too, popped like Champagne corks. It was finally over.
Ed sat for another minute and enjoyed his coffee with a huge, satisfied grin. It was almost time to bring in the bodies. That food was going to last him for months.

THE END

Tales Of The Amulet - X (The Last Halloween)

I

Evening

The full moon hovered like a dirty halo in the smoky night sky. Running footfalls and the distant whoops and catcalls of the last of the Trick-or-Treaters carried into the darkness like cacophonous notes borne on the breeze. Our pillow cases were loaded enough to be nearly heavy, and we'd each filled two a piece. I had mine slung over my shoulder; a nice accompaniment to my meticulously (and ironically) organized Hobo costume. My friend, Eric, was a racist ghost: eye-holes cut into a big, black sheet (a costume he now carried under his arm, claiming the damn thing was too hot). And Darren was a 70's Disco clubber complete with a giant, tacky (yet somehow horrifying) medallion-like amulet dangling from his neck. We looked ridiculous -all of us. But this was to be our last Halloween together... for various reasons. Eric was moving after the holidays out of state to live with his dad. Wyoming. Who lives in Wyoming? So, we sort of decided that since the three of us were being unceremoniously whittled down to a duo, we'd make this our last foray out into the Trick-or-Treating world. Besides, we were each pushing 15. It was time to pack it in, anyway. The wind had begun to pick up a bit. Unraked leaves took flight and spun in lazy circles as they chased each other in lopsided cyclones. The din of the last remaining kids faded into the night, and the three of us silently plodded up the side street to my house to conclude our evening. I was hungry, and not just for Snack Sized candy. My mom had actual food waiting for us...

"Hey, Stew... wait a sec." Eric said from a few paces behind me.

I stopped. Darren, too. He was even further in the lead than I was. His infamous perpetual hunger must have been dragging him by the stomach.

"Yeah. What's going on?" I asked as I turned toward Eric who had fallen back fifteen or twenty feet.

"Did you guys here that?"

Eric and I exchanged a quick glance and in eerie unison told Darren, "No."

"Guys I'm serious... it sounded... deep."

I chuckled, "Deep like introspective?"

Eric scowled. "No, shit head. Deep like growly... guttural."

Darren froze and cocked his ear. He cupped his had to his temple as though he were really trying to listen.

"I hear... wind. Dumbass."

Darren and I burst into fits of mocking laughter. Eric blatantly ignored us and looked around.

"Shut the hell up! I heard it again!"

This time, so did I. And Eric was right: it was deep. Low, raspy... like a thrumming purr.

"Dude, chill. I heard it."

Darren's eyes opened wide. "Bullshit!"

"No. Eric's right. I think it's coming from over there. The Stillwell Lot... ya know, where that store was going to go a few years ago?"

I pointed off to the right of the sidewalk. The Stillwell Lot was a piece of property bought by local party store owner, Xavier Stillwell back in 2005. He owned six local liquor stores in the area, each with more escalated prices than the last. But as it turned out, the city didn't really want (or need) another Stillwell's, and the lot remained empty to this day. It was from there where the sound originated, as far as we could tell.

And then it came again. And it might have been closer.

II

The Chase

We stood absolutely still, and just listened. The crunchy chatter of dried leaves tumbling aimlessly in the wind seemed loud enough to be the hammered drumbeats of a marching band. And there, amid the crispy clatter of the long dead flora came that noise: hollow, gurgling, and churning. It sounded to us now not unlike the echoing whines of an empty stomach. This thought momentarily reminded me of my current state, but I snapped out of it as what could only be described as a lowing growl caught the wind and tore at our ears.

"Shhh... there it is again!" Eric said as looked at me, eyes round with fear.

"I definitely heard that. What the hell was that? It sounded like Darren's stomach through a megaphone!"

"Comedian." Darren scoffed as he, too, reluctantly nodded that he'd heard the noise. "But seriously, what could that have been? Is there a house with a giant-ass dog over there, or something?"

I shook my head, "I don't think so. As far as I know that whole lot all the way over to Park Street is just one, long, empty piece of overgrown land."

And I was pretty sure I was right. As we stood on Broad Street, Park ran parallel but about a full block-and-a-half away. It was a decent sized open area perfect for... well, another store that never happened. As it sat, the weeds had grown waist high, small saplings and shoots jutted out in small copses, and grasses as thick as reeds sprouted like land-locked islands of bristling foliage. It was obviously late fall, so everything was dry and dead and the stiffened bits of plant life whistled like an out-of-tune flute section. But the sounds we were hearing were nothing like the reedy shrills made by the blowing grasses.

"At the risk of sounding like a pansy, I vote we hike up our skirts and get the hell out of here." That was Eric, and those words will forever be etched into my memory because those would be the last words I'd hear him say.

The thing that burst past me knocked me off my feet. I could smell its rank decay in its wake as it leaped at Eric and beat him to the ground. I heard him yelp as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and then the unmistakable deep, thrumming growl erupted from the thing that stood mere feet from me. I could hear Darren panic; strings of expletives flowing from his mouth in blaring screams as he tripped over his own feet attempting to get away. I scooted back, regained my own footing and stared dumbfounded at the inky black mass that huffed its soured breath and bounced, spastically, on Eric's frame. Without a second thought, I gripped my weighty candy bag, and with a swing like a rail-spike driver, I brought it down on the beasts back like an unruly hammer.

What barked from its mouth was both the sound of agonizing surprise, and and almost human reaction: "OW!" The amalgam of beast and man suggested that this thing was directly from nightmares I'd log since grown unafraid of. Yet here it was. It turned its head as it purposefully lifted its frame from Eric. What I could see of its once-white teeth were stained pink and glistening rivulets ran down its damp chin. At some point over the last minute, it had bitten Eric. I didn't have time to figure out where. My body burned with fear; arcs of terror lanced up my spine and exploded into my skull. My eyes quivered and took in as much light as they could manage, giving everything a ghastly corona. My guts dropped a floor and piled up in a hot mass. I wanted -more than anything I'd ever wanted before- to run. But I was locked up. It took the gurgling cough of Eric to snap me out of it. The beast heard it too, and turned its gaze back to its interrupted meal. Eric's eyes were huge as he silently pleaded with me. A large chunk of his cheek had been sheered from his face and I could see his back molars poking out of the muscle. 

I shouted. It wasn't a word; it was just to release the pressure that had built to bursting in my head. It was loud enough to redirect the monster's attention. And then I felt heat. Not coming from me, but from behind me. I could see from my frozen peripheral vision a glowing light. To my left ran Darren, his candy sack emptied and now burning from the flames from his lighter. He swung it like an juggler's torch and screamed as he lunged it at the beast. At that, I could finally make out just what it was I was looking at: pitch black fur covered a stocky, muscular frame, and fingered paws ended in scabrous claws. Its face was a mismatched and gnarled mess of fur and pustules; some of which had burst and ran green into his nose and mouth. It's eyes glistened at the swirling flames and showed true signs of abject fear. It reared back in revulsion; it's fangs sat deep in a mouth that was neither dog nor man, but was the absolute worst of both.

It clamored from Eric's body and I could see amid the dancing flames that it moved with human precision, but looked uncomfortable doing so. It had a beast's musculature and obviously relied on that to move quickly when it wanted to. As it backed away from the fire, it lowered itself into a predatory pose, which was our cue to scramble. I reached for Eric (fortunately the smallest and lightest of the three of us) and heaved him over my shoulder Fireman's style.

And then we ran.

III

Eric

We had an instant to make a choice, and it was a choice that none of us was going to be too fond of. If we continued to run down the street, we'd have to get to Main Street at the end and hang a right to get to my house. As it turned out, it was going to knock off about a third of our run if we just cut through the lot. Like I said: not the best option, but Darren knew it was true, too... we'd done it before on past Halloweens when we'd cause some form of mischief or another and wanted a quick escape before angry folks discovered us. It had been a year since any one of us had cut through the lot, but now seemed like the best time and our only speedy option. The decision took less than ten seconds: Darren kept the monster outside of our space by waving the last of his rapidly burning pillow case at it. It snarled and gurgled just beyond the light, ready to spring as soon as the fire burned out. We had no time. We nodded, we turned, Darren dropped the last of the smoldering cloth, and we took off at a sprint I'm sure I'd not performed in far too long. 

Eric was much heavier than his bony frame would have ever led me to believe in any normal circumstance, but this wasn't that. He moaned and wept as he used his elbows to keep his head from banging into my back, which must have been incredibly uncomfortable since it was killing me. But I pushed it away; the distance to my house was only about a hundred yards and the whipping limbs and stinging grass were already making the run as difficult as I could handle. Darren kept pace and frequently stole glances over his shoulder. It wasn't necessary. We could hear the monster breaking through the overgrown foliage like a loosed bull. We could hear its labored, wet rasps not too far beyond our own heels. It was gaining slowly, but it was gaining. Guttural yelps bellowed from its throat and their sickening similarity to human cries were so unnerving that the sense of fear pushed me on a little faster. 

Then Eric began to shift. His center of weight was now sliding down my back and I was losing my grip. I tried to adjust without giving too much of my current speed, but in an instant it was too late. Eric slid and fell, and I  pitched forward, completely losing my balance. I skidded into the underbrush, tearing up my hands and face as I landed awkwardly. Darren stopped, too, reached down a hand and yanked me off the ground. We looked back, but we couldn't see Eric. But we could certainly hear the beast's footfalls and snarls pounding down on us, mere moments away.

"ERIC!" I shouted into the night. 

A limp arm shot up out of the grass. He'd fallen a lot further back than I'd first realized. Darren and I made to run back to him, but our luck had completely run out. The moonlight caught the black form of the monster as it burst into circle in which we stood. It's wet, foaming breaths came rapidly and they caught in its throat as it struggled to breathe regularly. We backed up and ducked into some taller overgrowth. The beast lumbered closer to Eric's body and it looked around, arrogantly triumphant. And that was it for my friend. The monster shot its muzzle into Eric's weakened body and Darren and I heard the sloppy, chewing sounds as it fed.

As sick as it seems, we knew we had time now. It was over for Eric, and though I was horrified and scared beyond rational thought, we had to go. I tugged Darren's shirt, and we slowly moved out of the grass and took off at a run to cover the last thirty yards.

IV

Night

It only took a few seconds to fight the rest of the way through the weeds and saplings, and then we crashed the final few feet and out onto manicured lawn. We didn't stop running until we hit my yard which was two houses down from the backyard we'd broken through the field into. We dropped to the damp grass and breathed heavily in unison as we stared at the suddenly cloudless sky. I shivered uncontrollably thinking back a few moments ago as I watched one of my best friends being torn to fleshy threads before my eyes. It was almost too much... and then it was. I sprang to my knees and retched up the few pieces of candy I'd eaten along with most of that evening's dinner. Beside me, Darren began to weep. The weighty reality of what had just happened over the course of the last half hour hit us like a train wreck. How were we going to explain this? How were we going to tell our parents what had just happened? How were we going to tell Eric's parents? I had no idea. My mom and dad were literally four walls away, making snacks and waiting on our return. I sat in the grass next to Darren dumbfounded and overwhelmed with blanketing dread.

The night was uncomfortably quiet. It was one of those nights when the sounds from anything were amplified tenfold. And that was when we heard the howl. It wasn't quite animal, and it wasn't quite the distressing shout of a human... but we knew exactly what it was. And it sounded placated.

We had no choice. We had to go inside. Night was full-on, and ignoring our responsibility wasn't going to go away the later it got. We got up from the lawn and headed to my front door. We opened it; the warmth from the furnace swept us up and drew us in, as did the smells from the myriad snacks my mom had made. My dad sat in his recliner; 'An American Werewolf in London' was playing on AMC. Mom was fussing over a Sudoku at the kitchen table amid the plates of hot snacks. She looked up and smiled.

And there sat Eric, munching on a Pizza Roll. He turned to us and winked. 

THE END