Tales of the Amulet: Behind Me

    I was angry.
    This was probably the seventh time in a month that the Buick took a shit.
    And for the seventh time the car sat lifeless on the shoulder of the road, releasing its soul in the form of dirty, gray clouds floating skyward from under the hood.
    So yeah: I was angry.
    And the real tasty icing on the crap cake was rolling in from the west: dark purple clouds with that unmistakable stain of ugly tan swirling around beside the oncoming wall. Thunder argued its location from the horizon and the flickers of lightening announced the bigger storm to come.
    Angry. But at least I had an umbrella, because yes: I had to walk. The road ran the rural outskirts of the city and from where I stood there wasn't a restaurant or a gas station for at least a mile. I was definitely walking.

    The drops began as soon as I shut the door; heavy, loud, and with a fury like the rain was mad at the ground. I popped the umbrella just in time as the downpour picked up speed sounding now like a waterfall splashing on a tent. I began my walk.
    The rain continued to pelt my meager covering like a barrage of water bombs. It was torrential for one minute, and an outright deluge the next. As I looked around with stunned wonder, I noticed immediately that the road's edge quickly became a running, muddy mess. And so I plodded on.

    Soon it became all too apparent that the arm not holding the umbrella - I rotated as frequently as my aching hands desired - was rapidly becoming a sodden sponge. It might have been an umbrella, but with the downpour, it was doing very little to deflect much of the torrent and bare!y kept me dry. I did my best to keep my mind off the drenching chill, and so I let it freely wander.
    I thought of my wife and kids warm and dry at home. I thought of my phone with its useless, dead battery. Why did I listen to music all night at work without charging? And so I walked and thought.

    Just then, something that most definitely wasn't the relentless rain caught my attention. I cocked my head as I continued my march through the deepening puddles. Then I heard it again. It sounded like footfalls beating in opposite rhythm to my own. Worse yet, they sounded agonizingly close.
    I breathed deeply and collected my thoughts. There was obviously someone behind me; someone near enough for me to discern their sounds through the ceaseless storm. I wanted nothing more than to stop and turn around, but half of me said not a chance, and forced me to keep walking even more quickly.
    My breathing came more rapidly, too, not only because of my pace, but largely because of my fear. Why was I so scared? I'm a grown man... And a big guy! So what if someone was following me? This was not the plot of one of those Slasher flicks In was so fond of. People don't just go around stalking and cutting up pedestrians! This was stupid!
    But that was just a bunch of macho bullshit because as the footsteps continued to match my pace, panic and blinding fear sank its claws even deeper. I swallowed hard enough for it to click in my throat and instinctively coughed, cleared my throat, and spoke aloud,
    "Guess I'd better call my wife!"
    There was no way my trail had any idea my phone was dead. I mocked dialing - knowing full well the lighted display wasn't glowing - and waited, pretending to listen to the nonexistent ring. And all the while the footsteps never faltered.

    My heart was hammering in my chest as I began to talk to no one,
    "Hi honey! Guess where I am!"
    I prayed for the plodding footfalls behind me to slow; to edge a little off their pace. But even as I carried on my fabricated conversation, they never once wavered.
    If possible, the darkness seemed to deepen around me. It felt as though its inky cloak was enclosing me so tightly I'd never be able to free myself. I tried to slow my laboring breath and forced myself to continue the charade I'd begun on my dead cell phone.
    "No, I've been walking to town. Yeah, it's crapped out again. No, I should be the..."
    I was abruptly cut off as the thing following me let out what could only be described as a laugh; a low, guttural chuckle.
    A cold bolt of fear lanced up my spine and I could feel its chill ring in my ears.
    I missed a step and nearly tripped. The night around me suddenly grew far warmer as the sensation of absolute dread made sweat bead all over my face and body. I juggled my umbrella from one hand to the other as my sweaty palms threatened to drop it entirely. I had sense enough to put my phone away before dropping it, too, since there was no reason to pretend any longer.

    I kept my pace, as did my persuer. By now my fear-heightened senses could clearly hear it breathing through the still-pouring rain. By now, the aching need to see what was back there was almost overpowering my natural fight-or-flight sensibilities. I had to know.
     I slowly - without breaking stride - turned my head.
    Just then my balance gave out and I stumbled over a rise in the road. My feet tangled and I fell over myself. I landed hard on my hands, both of which I managed to throw out in front of me to brace my fall. The umbrella cartwheeled down the road, and everything I had in my pockets jingled noisily across the blacktop; my key chain with my antique amulet bottle opener, my phone, my wallet... it all spilled onto the soaking wet street. I could feel the gravel as it stung deeply into my palms as the blood began to pool and trickle out.
    As I sat there on my knees, stunned, I looked desperately around trying in vein to locate any shadow or glimpse to show just who or what had been following me. But even as I shot my gaze as far as I could into the dark, rainy night... I saw nothing. I heard no sign that anything was ever there. By the time I scrambled to my feet and gathered my sopping possessions (the umbrella was a lost cause), I was drenched to the core. Heart thumping a hole in my chest, shivering from head to toe, and on edge like a startled cat, I continued fruitlessly to survey my surroundings. But still I saw and heard nothing.
    Nothing except my salvation:
    Headlights and an engine.

    The End

Tales Of The Amulet: Daddy

  Rachel sat down on her bed and yawned, stretching her arms high releasing some of the tension of the day. It was late. She'd been through the wringer today and could feel every second of it pulsing through her like hot, electrical wiring. Saying she was tired was an absolute understatement; she was exhausted and physically worn to her core. She peeled off her clothes, unhooked her bra, slipped into her favorite Monster Squad night shirt, and dropped to the bed like a sack of meat. Sighing deeply, she rolled to her side and managed to just get her phone plugged in when the blessed sensation of sleep swept her up in its warming embrace. Her last glimpse was of the digital clock on her nightstand: it was eleven twenty.
   It was the thud that woke her. It jogged her with such ferocity that her breath caught in her throat and she cried out a little. She lay there catching her breath and trying with staggering difficulty to understand if the noise was real or just a product of her sleep. But her question was answered for itself when the thud came again. Rachel squealed and felt the motion bounce her bed. She instinctively scooted her knees to her stomach and wrapped her arms around herself. The only light was that from her dim clock readout so she blinked and stared around the near-total darkness searching for sight. After a few minutes her innate bravery kicked in and she slowly undid her legs and made to step off onto the floor.
   THUD!! The forcefullness of the sound and its sudden, shuddering jolt nearly spilled her to the floor. It was then that it became evident that whatever it was had emanated from beneath her own bed. Rachel scrambled to the floor and stood idly by with pregnant anticipation. Another few minutes went by and she slowly made her way on tip-toes to her bedroom door. Just as she turned the knob, the thud came again with such force that she could actually hear the bed bounce against the floor. She yanked the door open, smacked up the light switch, and turned toward the family room. What appeared before her frightened her so instantaneously and completely that her comprehension didn't have time to catch up with what her eyes were trying to tell her she was seeing. She saw her father; her father dressed in his favorite T-shirt and sweats standing in the shadows cast by the bookshelf and the TV stand glaring at her with dreamy eyes rolled back into his sunken, pallid face. Yes her father who had died three years ago by his own hand right there in the family room. The spectral image seared itself into her psyche and the last sensation Rachel felt before black fog enveloped her was her knees buckling.
   A slice of dawn pierced beyond Rachel's closed eyelids and she winced, rolling away from the window. Then she jerked upright kicking the covers from her body. Her bed? No. Not possible! She knew with no doubt that she'd collapsed in the family room after seeing... Daddy. Impossible! It was obviously a dream. Absolutely without a doubt. Wasn't it? She sat there thinking past the fog that still blanketed her mind and stared off into the distance of her bedroom.
   Rachel's day was as hectic as all the rest -including a trip to the DMV to get her license renewed; a visit made all the more irritating by the jackass in front of her in line- and as she slouched into her front door the sensation of both being comfortably home and fearfully in a house that produced such a real-world nightmare that she'd felt it throughout the day hit her twofold. She dropped her keys in their pottery bowl, hung her jacket over the door hook,  and looked off into the dimly-lit room still safely alit by the wavering setting sun casting purple stripes through the blinds. She was dead tired, but at the same time had almost no desire to go to her room to bed. But it was finally common sense that made her roll her eyes and walk with trepidation to her room.
   Rachel once more began to undress; she slipped the disk-shaped medallion she frequently wore from her neck, stripped down to her underwear, and slid into her nightshirt. Slowly the need to sleep enveloped her and as she sunk beneath her covers, relishing the cool comfort, all thoughts of the previous night faded away.
   The first thud jostled her awake at a quarter to one. Her heart hammered a vicious drum beat in her throat and she quickly clamored out of bed. The thud rocked her on her feet and the bed shook violently. She whimpered and ran for the door. Back in the family room she was once again brought to tears by the horrifying apparition that hung in front of her disbelieving eyes. Her deceased father was both passing through the ceiling and passing into the room. His wavering shape blurred and cleared back and forth; he was both there and not there, recognizable and amorphous, her father and a mist. Her fear was at its zenith... and then the phantasm froze. It turned and looked directly at her, and through her. Rachel was paralyzed with terror.
   His mouth worked. It didn't make a sound, but it made the motions. It mouthed "You" repeatedly and held a finger accusatorially at his daughter. Rachel saw black for the last time. As she faded into sleep, her final rest, the last thought that passed through her mind was that of her dad, happy.

Tales of the Amulet (Back Stories Volume III)

The Meeting

Steve felt pretty good about himself. He stopped on the front porch of Karen Chase's home (her home she pretended to live in happily with her daughter, Meg, and her frequently absent husband, Shawn) and took a deep, steadying breath, staring out across the lawn he'd now come to know every Thursday afternoon. Steve Parker was a salesman from Payne's Home Improvement in charge of hocking windows and gutter covers to anyone and everyone city-wide. It was a crummy job all around, especially since very few people in this economy were improving their homes in any meaningful way. In fact, many were just outright selling and moving on to more fertile grounds. But were it not for Steve's position in said crummy job, he'd never have met Mrs. Chase one lonely, steamy Thursday in August when, given the circumstances, she'd likely have purchased anything from windows to the Polar Ice Cap. Steve was decked out in his typical Polo shirt emblazoned with the Payne's logo, hair combed slightly askew and tousled, and splash of musk just for its hint of crisp, acrid scent. Mrs. Chase was putty. She's invited him in -obviously bored and probably even a little ready for some sense of danger- and offered him coffee. He accepted, smiled at her politely, and watched in admiration at the swish of her butt as she led him into the dining area. She bought two windows, signed the requisite paperwork, and sat staring, like a coy animal, into Steve's eyes as both decided, wordlessly, to move things into the bedroom. And hour later, Karen became his Thursday stop. It was at this thought that Steve breathed deeply the day and stepped down the concrete steps to walk the block to where he parked his Buick.

The Buick had other ideas than Steve's of leaving. The starter chugged, but it wouldn't catch. It had happened before, and typically it just took a half-hour or so for it to calm down and fire up. Steve sighed, and smacked the steering wheel. Though he was parked a block away and around a corner, he still felt a certain sting of worry and apprehension. One never knew who might have seen him go into the Chase home and leave seventy minutes later. One never knew who had large eyes and loud mouths. Steve sat motionless and stared out of the windshield into the nosy world beyond. And it was just then he saw the reflection.

His heart nearly stopped as it jumped into his throat. One wandering glance was all it took for Steve to catch a view of the man sitting in the back seat. Steve froze with what might have been a yell catching ineffectually in his larynx. The man sat stolid; a derby sat straight and crisp on his head, the shadow from the brim obscuring half of the man's face. He wore a full-length trench coat that covered him to nearly the ankles, and proper loafers finished the ensemble. Other than that -the mostly unassuming outfit- the man only held one other thing, and it was in his lap: a medallion the shape and size of a compact disk. 

"Wh-who are you?" Steve managed to stammer in a forced whisper.

The man sat motionless for a beat. "Someone who knows, Steve. Someone who knows."

Though Steve knew exactly what this man was talking about, he decided to play as dumb as possible. "What? What do you know?"

Steve was, as he sat trembling and facing facts, scared to death. Somewhere in the cellar of his thoughts he supposed he knew he'd be caught at some point. However he was always sure it would be Karen's husband who'd do the catching. Steve saw his picture all over the house, since Karen apparently didn't believe in the time-honored tradition of cheating wives turning down images of their spouses for fear of them somehow knowing from afar. In this case, Karen's husband was kind of a mousy guy with weaselly features and slicked-back, 60's hair. All told, he looked a bit like Squiggy from the old Laverne and Shirley show. The man that currently sat cucumber-cool in the back seat was absolutely not Mr. Chase. Of this, Steve was nearly one-hundred percent certain.

"I know of the indiscretions, Steve. I know of the ruination you insist in perpetuating, Steve... the sanctity of marriage.... That's what I know."

Steve blinked. He turned his head to the back seat rather than talk to the rear-view mirror and stared at the man in the black coat and hat. The man looked like he hadn't flinched; statuesque and frozen in time. Steve gave him a look of disdain and glared at him for a time. 

"I'm sorry but I'm not going to sit here and take any crap from someone who obviously has no clue what he's talking about. So please... get out of my car."

The man only sat; still and unnerved. The disk on his lap began to shine a little oddly and Steve chalked it up to glare from the sun through the glass or something. Until it pulsated.

Red tints of undulating hue snaked across the surface highlighting the etchings that Steve just then noticed. The face of the disk looked mottled with runes and glyphs. The scarlet pulses danced across the disk like tiny flashes of bloody lightning. Steve was momentarily mesmerized.

"The Amulet knows all, my friend; good, bad, and indifferent... it sees everything. And though it feeds from the endless trough that is human unkindness and ineptitude, it also seeks those floating in the mire of damnation and... well... inhumanity. It seeks them, and shows them the errors of their actions."

Steve stared dumbfounded at the man in black. His mouth hung open and a throaty sigh escaped him. The only movement that passed between them were the thin, gnarled fingers of the man as he played them slowly over the carved surface of the amulet.

It was then Steve's mind filled with the torturous overture of the nightmares he might have inadvertently caused with his thoughtless acts. His head was thrown back, his neck arched with a snap and his spine followed. His mouth yawned open in a rictus of terror and a bark of pain escaped his throat. Thoughts paraded through his brain, each more painful and agonizing than the last; the past was shown proving that maybe Karen's husband knew after all and his subsequent plans for suicide, and the present played on as well where Karen herself began spreading the rift between her and her husband causing ripples in their child's life. And then there was the future -the worst part- slicing into his psyche like a hot dagger. Years not yet existing delivered images of a grave plot, a mourning woman, and a distant silhouette hiding in the shadows. The atmosphere was dull grey and heavy with emotion. Though Steve couldn't see it was dreadfully apparent that the cemetery stone had the name of Karen's husband, and the silhouette was their child. It was all too much... just too much.

Then the red that surged across the disk's surface suddenly ceased. The angrily dancing lights suddenly stopped, and a deafening silence slammed into the car. Steve was curled into a fetal position in the front seat, a runnel of drool stringing into a pool at his cheek. The man in the black coat and hat slowly slide out from the backseat, he took one cursory glance at Steve, smiled wanly, and left the vehicle. The amulet glowed one final time; a pulse for good measure.

Tales of the Amulet (Back Stories Volume II)

I haven't thought about Jimmy and Wil for a few years now... probably more like a decade or two, honestly. But it's time I shared the tale of the one moment that -not to put too fine a point on it- changed my life forever. In fact, it changed it in a way that would scar me in the deepest and most profound way possible.

It was 1981. My best friends in the world were Jimmy Davidson and Wil McMahon, and during that summer break from fifth grade we were inseparable. We attended Bible Camp together, we stayed over at one another's houses and back yards, and we spent as many hours in each other's company as physically possible. Life was great and during that vacation of '81, nothing could have been better, and yet what the three of us were soon to discover, nothing could be worse.

Over the week of July 4th, I had to spend six days away from my pals on a family vacation to Niagara Falls. It was great, but three days in and I was pining for the companionship of my buddies. And by the time we rolled into the driveway at the end of the week, I was in full-blown withdrawal. Within the following fifteen minutes, Jimmy and Wil were sitting next to me in the yard bombarding me with questions and throwing six days worth of new information at me about what I'd missed. It was wonderful to be back home.

But then Jimmy dropped the bomb. He looked at Wil and they both nodded. I looked quizzically at them as the readied themselves; it was clear that what they had to share was pretty damn important. I waited patiently for Jimmy to begin, both excited and a little frightened. He finally asked if I remembered the trail that led out to the old barn we called the Chicken Shack. It sat about fifty yards beyond the cul de sac on which our houses sat. I said of course I did, what about it?

Jimmy continued with an air of hesitation. He said he and Wil were out catching fireflies a few nights ago when something shiny and very red captured their attention. It was sticking out of the dry weeds next to the trail. The sun had nearly set, but it wasn't its glow that reflected of the object's surface; the ominous deep vermilion hew was glowing all on its own. I nodded and shrugged not yet really getting the full weight of what I was being told.

Now it was Wil's turn and he began by looking around to make sure no one else was listening. He glanced at Jimmy and continued the story. The thing they found was not only just emitting a sickly red light, but the closer they got they could make out a deep, reverberating hum that seemed to hit them right in their gut. It was a low thrumming that was almost painful. He and Jimmy got as close as they dared and stared at it. There was no doubt that it was metal; it had a rough, unpolished surface that looked almost ancient. But the most bizarre part were the etchings that encompassed the face of it. The closer they got, the more the ache of the vibration stung and burned. They got within ten feet before the nose bleeds. Jimmy said he felt a pop in his face and a trickle of blood oozed from his right nostril. Wil said he heard a weird echoing sound and his nose sprung its own leak. That was as far as they dared go, and they turned, abandoning their bug jars, and ran home.

I sat with the two of them in silence. It was apparent just by their curious faces that each wanted to go back to it, but each wanted to wait for me. A bloody nose? I could deal with that. I nodded and wordlessly the three of us agreed to go the following night. I wanted to go then -dark was a mere hour or so away- but my parents had already confined me to yard and house for the night. Besides, I was tired and, truth be told, maybe a bit scared.

I spent an hour that night staring at my ceiling pondering just what it could have been Jimmy and Wil discovered out there, and if I really wanted any part of it. I wish now that I'd chickened out, because little did I know that in 24 hours I'd never, ever be the same.

It was Saturday night. The three of us had spent the day in a kind of distant haze. We dragged sticks around, kicked ay rocks, and generally just wasted the day. We went to Wil's for burgers and dogs on the grill and gathered jars for our cover of collecting lightning bugs. Our parents all knew where we were going; we'd been staying out late nearly all of Summer vacation. They knew we were safe and besides, I was having both over to my house over night. Our bases were as covered as they were going to get. And as the sun ducked behind the tree line and the little pops of yellow dotted the muggy evening, we set out.

Mid-way down the trail I was the first to notice the ruby incandescence. It came from just off the trail the very same way Jimmy and Wil described. In a few steps it became uncomfortably apparent that the dull hum could be felt in the bottom of my chest. We stopped. No one said anything and neither of us knew just what to do next. But I knew if I waited too much longer, I'd have likely turned around. I took another tentative step, feeling that horrible drone deep in my gut. Jimmy and Wil followed suit, but somehow neither looked as though the sonorous buzz was bothering them at all. As I looked them over, wry grins danced across their mouths. It was then I felt the death-grips of their hands ad they grasped my upper arms.

I remember shouting at them to let go, but neither even seemed to hear me. Soon my ears began to sting as the tremors grew in intensity. That's when I felt the jab behind my eyes and the rivulet of blood ran down my lip. I tried to fight my way free, hoping it was all a joke, but knowing it wasn't. We inched ever closer to what now looked like some kind of disc poking from the dirt. As I struggled I looked at my friends. Their eyes had rolled up and I could see only whites. They glared dead-faced and slack-jawed, trickles of foamy drool ran down their chins. We were feet from the object and I wanted nothing more than to be in my house and hiding in my mom's arms. I tripped a half-step and saw a pretty big rock. I fell on purpose and that quick move loosened Wil's grip just enough. I yanked my right arm free and grabbed the fist-sized rock. The blood was running freely now and I could feel my chest about to burst from the violent drumming that continued to get worse and worse. I stood and swung; the rock collided with Jimmy's eye socket and he wailed in agony releasing his hold. I looked back at Wil who was reaching toward me. I stepped back and whipped the rock, connecting with and subsequently breaking his nose at the bridge. He, too yowled in pain and dropped to his knees. My head felt like it was stuffed with angry bees and I knew I had to get away. But how could I leave my friends?

I heard the voices. Way back, somewhere in the cavernous depths of my brain, I heard them. They spoke in hisses and chittering clacks. They called to me with their gibbering growls and guttural tones. They told me I'd won. They told me to kill. I stood above my fallen friends with a mind not my own, and I obeyed. I kicked and kicked until I felt crunching and mush.

For a few years my new home was a Juvenile Detention Center and the occasional hospital hooked up to brain machines in hopes of answering "Why?" Eventually, as I'd remained silent for six years, I was given to the State and its cells and rooms. As I sit now... unsure of the time or the day or the year... I look around at the padded walls and wonder just how much of what I've told is just voices in my head.

Tales of the Amulet -The 4th

Dale sat on the hill above the high school football field. The grass was dead and dry and scratched at his bare legs. He looked down at the meandering masses as the gathering people chose their seats and spots for the fireworks display still 90 minutes away. The hot sun hung just above the horizon; its fat, shimmering heat permeating the muggy evening. Dale peered at it through his sunglasses and silently cursed its wretched warmth.

From where Dale sat he was comfortably out of the view of the scattered populace below, and that suited him fine. People irritated him to no end, and they always had. For Dale, seeing his father -just home from the first skermish in the Middle East called Desert Storm- descend into a pit of sorrowful madness was excruciating. His dad was a strong, proud man, but the war destroyed him from his psyche outward until what was left was a ragged husk that whithered and died like an Autumn leaf. Dale watched it all and stood by his father as waste ate him to death. His father was his hero regardless, but as he slowly died, Dale questioned constantly why his own government -those men he fought for- did nothing to help. Dale was done with people, and he found his solace in an item he discovered in his dad's old Army trunk.

It was a disk about the size of a '45. Its burnished and rough exterior was emblazoned with runes and etchings that meant nothing to Dale... but what did mean something was the pulsating rouge 'eye' in the center. It spoke to him. It comforted him, and it gave him both hope and a job. Dale would soon have the vengeance his dad so richly deserved.

As Dale sat on the grassy mound, he solemnly fingered the trigger of his dad's sniper rifle. It was loaded, and the safety was off. The time was nearly at hand; he just had to wait for the colorful explosions to light up the sky. Next to him, wrapped in a loose rag was the amulet. It thrummed red in unison with Dale's own heart.

The dark night slowly overtook the light of day, and Dale heard the announcement over the school PA system that the fireworks would begin in 15 minutes. Dale laid down and positioned the rifle, and in doing so he kicked the amulet from under the rag and it slid and rolled down the hill onto the night.

Dale froze. His mind cleared from a dense fog that had been blanketing it for what felt like an eternity. He suddenly heard his father's voice. His dad reminded him how much he loved him and that what had made him fall was no fault of Dale's. He told him that by his own choice he fought for the freedoms Dale enjoys and that what he was about to do would solve nothing. Dale heard his father's words and began to weep. What was he doing?

Dale looked up past the sight and saw hundreds of people gathered together in freedom and peace. The fireworks began and their beauty was unmistakable, as was the message for which they stood.

Dale silently thanked his dad, told him he loved him forever, and retreated with his rifle back down the hill as the bombs burst in air behind him.

Tales of the Amulet (Back Stories Volume I)

-DREAD-

As the breathless man clung to his terrified children -holding them closer and wrapping his goose-fleshed arms around them- he loudly prayed, hoping beyond hope that His ears would hear. The four of them huddled beneath the stairwell in the basement, the man doing his very best to soothe his inconsolable children as they wept sorrowfully between hitching breaths and flooding tears. Their home was dark now, though the power had been cut out for several hours it was only over the last few minutes that the sun had set below the tree lines and its light no longer flooded in the windows. And it was this feeling -this feeling of eminent dread- that now crept over them like a nightmare; no lights, no calming effect of the last of the dwindling sun, no more safety. Though the man's sanity was rapidly fraying, he was a father first; and to his children a hero, and so he began to sing to them through his quavering, shuddering voice. He slowly rocked them; his big boy eleven-year old, his fiercely independent middle boy, and his little baby girl, rocking them and trying valiantly to assuage their escalating fears. 

But the knock came anyway. The pounding was so deafening and intense that it felt like it could blow the basement door of its hinges.

The man caught his voice in his throat and his singing turned into a temporary shriek. The children (for the moment lulled into what was for them an unknown false sense of security) recoiled in horror and each began crying anew. Their father did his best to shush them soundly and appease them, but no solace was to be found in his words.

The knock came again. The four of them jumped and began begging out loud for the intruder to go away. The man finally lost his composure. A man of strength; a man that never showed emotion to his children, and a man who withstood all adversaries finally succumbed to the horror that overfilled his life, and he screamed at the top of his lungs. No words, just an explosive yell, long and overflowing with alarm and panic and release. The children stared at him in unison, momentarily too stunned to cry. But the moment was fleeting and as soon as they realized that their own father was just as frightened as they were, their sobs were even more wracking.

The long moments ticked away into what felt like little eternities. The man strained to hear any more sounds while the trio of children mewled in his arms. His limbs, he felt, were growing numb. He'd been sitting squat for ever and the weight of his horrified kids in his arms had begun to feel like lifeless sacks. But he knew they weren't and he knew they'd only protest with stronger constrictions if he made to move. He was trapped for the moment in every way; both down stairs in his own home and in the death grips of his terrified offspring. But he also knew that he had to see if the thing was gone. It had been far too long since any noise at all was heard. And it was only now that he realized his youngest had cried herself to sleep.

The silence was deafening. The man slowly released his youngest into the arms of his oldest, placed a calming finger to his lips and began to methodically stand up. No one stirred, no one cried out, and the man knew now was the time to climb back into the turmoil and assess the situation. He stood, creaked a little and angled his tight joints so he could move without wincing in agony. He glanced with tireless anticipation and a heavy heart toward the wooden stairs that led into the proverbial belly of the beast...

The stairs that lead to the beast he dreaded the most: The woman he loved. 

Tales Of The Amulet XII - Spirits

-SPIRITS-

I had driven as far as my exhausted mind would let me and I eased off the Interstate onto an exit for a town called Perkins. The sign that led me here boasted both a Motel 6 and a diner; the notion of either sounded like Heaven to me. Besides, not only was my personal fuel supply dwindling, but so was the gas in the old Buick I'd been piloting since Vicksburg. I braked at the four-way stop; the glowing red illuminating the surrounding black like a welcoming beacon. Turning right, I headed toward the motel following the sign: "Three miles ahead, left." I was almost shivering with anticipation.

The parking lot was as desolate as it was abandoned; dark, deafeningly silent, and just short of full-on frightening. I'd seen enough horror films in my near 40 years to know a creepy hotel car port when one was presented to me, and I had to chuckle in spite of myself. I parked by the dimly-lit office and sighed as I killed the engine and listened to the quiet broken only by the ticking of the cooling motor. I climbed out of the car with a groan loud enough to startle myself, arched my screaming back, and made my way to the door as I winced through knots and aches.

The door welcomed with one of those electronic chimes that sounds a bit like R2-D2. Sadly, not quite as 'small town' as I'd expected. The lobby was pretty standard for a mid-level motel: plastic potted plants in the corners, a long desk riddled with brochures for the surrounding attractions in a fifty-mile radius, two wing-back chairs that looked slightly over-used, and a wall full of artwork from people no one has ever heard of. I looked around, shrugged, and counted the paces to the front desk... a nervous habit.
42...

Though the small room was meagerly lit with hazy globed lamps positioned in all four corners, there was a small desk light sitting on the counter next to the ledger. On the opposite side was a bell. Quaint. This was the kind of thing I was more accustomed to seeing in one of these off-the-main-drag inns. I smiled again, and raised my hand over it, readying it to strike, when out from the back -maybe ten feet behind the counter to my right- came a small man decked out in a weathered Izod shirt and thick-framed glasses. He wore long carpenter-style shorts, Chuck Tailor's, and continued to chew his late-night meal as he wiped his mouth on one of the motel's own finest linens. I couldn't help but stare at his impeccably honed bald scalp that reflected the white glow from the wall sconces. He grinned, nodded in a welcome, and swallowed his mouthful with an audible gulp.

"Sorry 'bout that, buddy. Dinner time, ya know... anyway, can I help you?"

I nodded in understanding and started to remove my wallet from my pocket. "Yes indeed. I would very much appreciate one of your fine rooms!"

"Mm-hmm... one of our fine rooms. Finest in all the land." He said sarcastically, likely at my expense. But if he was angry about it, he showed no signs of ire. "Well, we've got quite a slew to choose from, considering it's pretty dead in here and only eleven of our thirty-two are otherwise occupied... do you have a preference?"

I mulled it over for a second, "Yeah, I guess I'd like one with a view of the parking lot out front here." I wasn't sure why I said that, but it sounded as good an option as any.

He flipped open his reservation book and rifled to the midway point. "You're in luck, Mr.--"

"Miller." I finished.

"You're in luck Mr. Miller, room 27 is available and it just so happens to be the one just to the right as you exit the lobby."

A tinny bleep echoed through the front of the office as the door swung open behind me making me jump just a bit. I spun around and watched as a older man dressed in a tattered trench coat and poorly kept loafers trudged it. He sported a unkempt Fedora with a really odd disc-shaped medallion on the band and lugged an abused briefcase under one arm, upon which sat a long umbrella. Was it raining now? No, couldn't have been; the umbrella was closed and didn't look at all wet. I stared far another second as the man surveyed the room, and then I returned to the desk clerk. He had a cocked eyebrow and a irritated shake passed through his head.

He leaned over to me and whispered, "I know this dude. He comes in about twice a month on his business trips. Complete wing nut."

I raised my own eyebrows, smiled wanly, and nodded in mock understanding. The clerk, whom I now suddenly understood was named Ted (his name tag was pinned far lower on his shirt than I'm sure it ought to have been), slid the key to me and I signed in leaving a fifty-dollar deposit for any damages or stolen property. Thankfully a credit card wasn't required since I don't carry one. We exchanged pleasantries, I said, "Thanks, Ted", and made my way back across the lobby.

As I turned, I saw the man Ted knew standing in exactly the same disheveled pose in which he was standing after I looked him over a few minutes prior. He looked like one of those homeless person statue actors you see in bigger cities performing for handouts. I glanced; he didn't move an inch, so I pulled open the door and walked out to the parking lot. As it turned out, the 'wing nut' was probably just a little crazier than even I'd given him credit for: the night was full of stars and a slight crescent moon hung in the east.

I walked the distance of probably the width of a football field (what can I say: sports are a big part of my downtime) and found that, indeed, number 27 was sharing a common wall with the lobby. Probably the side at which there was a storage room or maybe even the office's restroom, since I didn't remember seeing it when I was in there. Despite the obvious attempts to keep the motel as Old-Time cozy as possible, the door locks were still updated to key cards. I still call them keys no matter where I am. Old habits die hard. I slid it in the electronic reader, waited a second for the lights to blink green, yanked it out and turned the knob. Immediately I was greeted by a not entirely pleasant blast of cleaning product; bleach, bathroom cleanser, and something floral hovering just above everything else. I winced and coughed as I flipped on the light, and shivered just a bit as the farthest of two wall lamps blew its bulb with a crackling pop. Delightful. I'd have to razz Ted a bit about that in the morning.

The bed spreads were completely reeking with 1970's charm, which is to say they were dark mauve with purple filigree patterns lilting about. And years of hotel visits had taught me a few things, up to and including stripping the bed cover and stashing it in a corner furthest from where one was to be sleeping. Apparently they can be riddled with human germs and... other, far more tasteless body fluids. I yanked it off the bed I'd be sleeping in, sat down heavily on the stark-white sheet, and sighed. I was even more tired than I'd imagined, but my stomach argued the point far more profoundly, so a trip to the diner was certainly going to happen soon.
But that thought was dashed quickly as I was startled by a definitely unexpected knock at the door.

I was a little unsure how to respond. Why would someone be knocking on this door? Was someone lost? Did I order pizza? That last thought was just to break the tension as I shook my head and got up from the bed.

Another knock, this time followed by a muffled male voice, "Mr. Miller?"

"Yes? Who is it?" I inquired sounding really silly to my own ears.

"Mr. Miller, you left your wallet at the front desk." Came the response.

I did?

I felt my front pocket, sure it had been there all along... and lo and behold: no wallet. Well, what do ya know? Now this was just getting funnier by the second. It seemed good old Ted had Boy Scouted himself a courteous deed for the day.

I laughed, said just a sec, and opened the door.

And there stood 'wing nut'.

For a second we just looked at each other. He, the poster child for the over-worked and society-whipped, and me, the epitome of hunger and exhaustion wanting nothing more than to find some hot food. It was a bizarre dichotomy to say the least. He just stood there, looking past me rather than at me. That was disconcerting. I tried to smile at him, despite the fact that he had a face that appeared almost exactly like something really surprising was happening just over my shoulder, and it made me rather uncomfortable.

"Uh... hello?" I said, questioning everything at that point.

"Yes. Hello, Mr. Miller. It seems you forgot your wallet back at the lobby. I took it upon myself to make sure it was returned to you. I told Theodore not to worry about it and that I'd make sure it was returned to you immediately. It seems we're sharing the same side of the building tonight, and since I was heading to 25 anyway... well, there you have it."

"Okay... well, that's great... and thanks!" I stammered, still sort of trying to grasp the absurdity of the situation. I still stared as the man just spouted his diatribe without so much as a flinch. His face belayed not a twitch and he looked almost like one of those animatronic robots from those old pizza arcades.

He lifted his hand and turned it over. His hand was incredibly big. Almost cartoonishly big, considering the rest of his frame, which was definitely not large by any stretch. Cupped neatly in his mitt-sized palm was my wallet, sure enough. I made a move to gingerly pluck it from his right when his left suddenly sprang out and curled around the circumference of my wrist with room for his spindly fingers to overlap his thumb. And my wrists aren't exactly bony. I stiffened visibly, and looked at him with a air of confusion and unpleasant surprise.

"Hey! What the Hell!" I managed to bark through my unexpectedly dry throat.

"Worry not, Mr. Miller, I mean you no harm. I promise. But I must insist on coming into your room before I return your wallet. There is something of the utmost importance I must share with you." The stranger said as he held fast to my wrist, though, surprisingly, not uncomfortably so.

"I-I-I... was actually just leaving... for a meal... dinner. At the diner... ha ha... so, why don't we just-"

"It is a pity, then, Mr. Miller. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. However, I would like to return at a later time, for I need to give you -and of this you must trust me- the information I have." He said as he lightly placed the wallet in my hand while releasing my wrist. His touch left a frigid imprint on my goose-fleshed skin.

"S-sure. Ah... Okay. Sounds fine. I'll be back in an hour or so, I guess?" I said as I looked him over anew. His pallor was waxy and he appeared to be sweating under his hat.

"I shall make it two hours. No need to rush a meal, Mr. Miller." He said as he stood, "It's not good for the digestion, you know. Rushing a meal. Enjoy it. buy a paper. But please remember: this information is of vital importance."

And with that he mechanically turned on his heal and headed to his room.

I remained still as I watched him methodically plod away. What on Earth was this guy's problem? Why would a guy just randomly want to come into a person's motel room he'd never even met previously? What the Hell was going on? I turned back to the room, grabbed the key and my jacket, pocket my wallet, double checked that my car keys were in the other, and watched the door shut itself behind me. I was still starving, but before I headed to the diner I really needed to go grill Ted about this 'wing nut' and just exactly what his deal was.

The digital chime of the lobby door bleeped through the air as I made my way to the front desk. To my surprise, a petite, cute woman and what must have been her daughter were waiting. The younger lady sat in one of the worn chairs and glared intently at her phone while her mother chatted sing-songy with Ted. I hung back a little, not really wanting to hear what was happening, since not much more than renting a room was the likely conversation. I looked again at the young lady in the chair and watched as she tapped her phone screen, probably texting or updating her FaceBook status. She smiled and giggled at whatever it was going on from the other end of her chit-chat. As I looked back to the counter, Ted had just handed the woman a key card and indicated where to sign. Money was exchanged, and the woman turned toward me and her daughter. I smiled at her as a look of surprise spread across her face like a weird mask. She glanced at me as if she had something to ask; but didn't. Then she walked past her daughter (barely even registering her appearance) who, in turn, did little more than grunt an acknowledgement, and the two left the lobby with an eerie quickness.

"Mr. Miller!" Ted inquired, "I trust you received your wallet?"

"Yeah... and that's what I came here to talk to you about." I said as I rubbed my brow.

"Oh crap. What did Mr. Christopher do this time"

"Mister... his name is Mr. Christopher? Are you kidding me?" I asked with a laugh.

"Nope. Not kidding. That's his name. Oddly it escaped me when I mentioned him to you earlier. You'd think a name like that would stick with me... anyway, what happened?"

"Well, when he came by, he made to offer me my wallet, and then grabbed my wrist-"

"He did what? Did he hurt you? I can call the pol-" Ted sputtered as he grabbed the phone receiver.

"No no... nothing like that. It surprised me, that's all." I said as I motioned for him to relax. "It was what he said after that really caught me off guard. Ted, he asked to come into my room because he had something really important to tell me. Why would he do that?"

Ted didn't respond right away. In fact, he looked as though he had to find what he wanted to say before nearly a minute passed. "Um... here's the story on Mr. Christopher. First of all, he's really pretty harmless, as far as I've been told. I've only ever met the guy maybe four times over the past couple of months. He comes here looking identically to the last time, he buys a few nights in either room 25 or, well, room 27, oddly, and he more or less keeps to himself. That's about all I know."

"No, that isn't about all. You said 'first of all' which implies that you had a 'second of all' to follow." I said with a knowing sneer, "So spill it, man... what else is going on with this dude?"

Ted sniffed and looked around, obviously making sure he wasn't being watched by... who? No one else was in the room. "Okay, look. One time when he was a guest here... this was before I was brought on, another guest came up missing. No one said it was Mr. Christopher, though he was questioned, and the guy was never found. All of his stuff was just left in his room. The cops and the CSI guys or whatever spent a few days here, cleaned up his stuff, and nothing's happened since. Again, as far as I know. I only work nights on the weekends. But I guess I'd have been told if anything else had gone on. And there you have it."

I stood there for a minute absorbing what I'd just heard. "Was there any reason to believe Mr. Christopher had anything to do with the missing man? Or was it assumed because the guy is obviously bonkers?"

"I don't know. No one here told me anything else. Except to maybe be a little leery of the guy, ya know, just in case." Ted said as he nervously moved a pen around the desk.

"Ted, I appreciate the info, but my guess is there might be something else you're not really allowed to say, and I can dig that. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye out."

Ted looked like I'd caught him lying to his mother or something. But I left it at that, nodded to him, and left the lobby. By now I was famished.

I sat behind the wheel for a few minutes just kind of stewing over the experiences I'd been through over the past hour. What was going on? Why, of any number of potential motels, did I choose this one? I could have driven twenty miles further on and stopped at Strongsville; the city was big and had a half dozen places to stay. What drew me here? I was tired, true, but not falling asleep at the wheel. I just couldn't put two and two together. But what I did know was that I was really, really hungry. I started the Buick, backed out of the spot, and drove what proved to only be about a mile to the diner. And when I say diner, I mean just that: Diner.

It was small, but spread out. There wasn't a starkly visible sign anywhere. Just a placard on the front that read (in bold, blue letters on a dingy white background) 'Mom's Dive'. It was lit up- well, half of it was, and it pulsated with cheap fluorescent bulbs. The lot was actually pretty full; pick-ups, old beater cars, hard-driven minivans, and even a few motorcycles. I cruised in and parked next to the newest looking vehicle in the bunch: a Toyota hybrid. Obviously a traveler like me, judging by how it stuck out. I stepped out of the car and was immediately assailed by what was obviously cooking away in the kitchen; savory-sweet, toasted, roasted, and enough to make my mouth water. A rectangle of light lanced through the far right end of the building, proving that the back door was open and a man with a cigarette pressed into his mouth was leaning against it staring into the night. His white apron was mottled with any number of stains from various foodstuffs, adding to the fact that he was certainly one of the cooks. He didn't see me as I made for the glassed front doors and pushed my way in.

To say the place was far more bustling than it even appeared from the number of vehicles outside was an understatement. It was no wonder I smelled god things cooking, because the place was just that: cooking. The diner atmosphere was palpable: red Naugahyde booths, black-and-white checkered floor tiles, a long counter with a dozen spinning stools, a rather eclectic supply of whimsical crafts and artwork festooning the walls, a smog of coffee fumes and grease, and the cacophonic din of chitter-chatter. It felt cozy, homey, and just a little out of time... but mostly inviting. I stood by the entry way and the sign proclaiming: PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. There was a little wooden island with a dingy cash register and a crooked spindle jammed with receipts. Gum, Life Savers, a March of Dimes collection can, and a tray of business cards surrounded the perimeter of the cash machine, and just behind, having trundled up from one of the tables, was quite possibly the most singularly cylindrical woman I had ever seen. She was plump, but packed into her strangling uniform like a blushing sausage. Her cheeks were rosy in a way to make Santa Claus jealous, and her tightly knit mass of curly reddish-gray hair balanced perfectly on her head, with only two wooden needles jutting out like Martian antennae. She was, in short, adorable. Her ample and equally compressed bosom help present a time-worn name tag on which was written in cutesy script: DARLA.

She offered me a genuinely appealing smile. "Howdy, there, buster! Can I get ya a table?"

I smiled back, doing all I could not to chuckle. "Absolutely, Darla! I'm about as hungry as I've ever been!"

She did laugh at that one. "Well you've wandered into the right place, then, haven't ya? C'mon, I got a booth with your name on it!"

"Actually, Darla, any chance I could get a table... somewhere in a corner maybe?"

She gave me a once over and realized that with my relatively large frame a booth was definitely uncomfortable, which was what I was hinting at in the first place. Darla nodded, grinned knowingly, and led me around to a small, two-seat table near the kitchen door. I told her it was perfect as she dropped a menu in front of me and expertly wheeled around to snatch a glass of water from the counter.

"Coffee?"

"Um... sure. Why not?" I replied, really wishing I had opted against, yet knowing full well sleep was a long way off.

"Leaded?"

"Definitely. Cream and sugar, if you don't mind."

"Not at all! Be right back."

And with that Darla sprang into action like a well-oiled machine. I sighed and began looking around. The faces were all in motion: eating, talking, laughing, drinking, yawning... it was alive with human emotion and activity. And it was then that I spotted her.

In a booth near the door was the very woman I'd seen not an hour ago with her daughter in the lobby of the hotel. And maybe it was the light -maybe the ambiance- but she was stunning. Nothing about her was visibly different. Apparently she and her daughter had checked into their room and left immediately for a meal. But, wow: she practically glowed with allure and femininity. I sat there and stared, and I suddenly realized I wasn't even trying to hide it. She caught my eye and I quickly switched my glance to Darla who had serendipitously returned with my coffee. We exchanged smiles and she asked if I'd had a chance to check out the menu.

"Ya know what, Darla, why don't you tell me what you recommend tonight."

"Tell ya something, sugar: I recommend the same thing every night! The chicken-fried steak. It's Norm's specialty. It comes slathered with sawmill gravy, a side of mashers, and corn. It's divine, if I do say so myself. And I'll clue ya, its really not complete without a piece of our peach cobbler to end it all, if you know what I mean... a' la mode, even."

"Sold." I said. It sounded more than divine. It sounded like Heaven.

Darla swished away and I returned my gaze to the woman from the lobby. She was engaged in conversation with someone, likely her distracted daughter. It seemed to be going about as pleasantly as one might expect: there was some obvious finger wagging, head shaking, eye rolling exaggerated enough to be seen from as far away as I was. I estimated they were maybe fifty paces away, but I was getting at least an amalgamated gist of what was likely going on. For the life of me I couldn't look away, and when Darla returned with my steaming plate -a thing of pure beauty and southern over-indulgence- I was startled out of my gaze.

"Sorry, suga', did I wake ya?"

"What? No... no... I was... well it's been an incredibly long day. Most of which I spent driving. So, ya know..."

Darla smiled wanly, "Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know I could almost feel the line of your gaze as I wandered over here with your meal. It's that sweet little thing by the window, ain't it?"

I choked on my first forkful. Tears immediately welled up in my eyes and I needed to take a few gulps of ice water before I could talk. "Who? How did you...?"

"Easy, stranger. I don't pass no judgement on anyone. I just call 'em as I see 'em. Besides: she's damn near the cutest young thing in here. I wasn't born last night, ya know. I can see when a fella gets googly eyes for a lass." She grinned again and I could tell there was something behind the warmth; something she wasn't telling me.

"Well, I'm just going eat my food now, so..." I said carving into another bite of quite possibly the best chicken-fried steak I'd ever laid mouth on.

Darla sighed and let her sassy stance fall apart. She dropped her arms to her sides and leaned in a bit with a look of concern on her face, "Confidentially, you might want to re-think your approach, especially considering the, uh... company she's keeping."

And with that she turned on her heel and trundled back to the counter.

Company she was keeping? What did that mean? Why was her daughter someone to be concerned with? Now I really was intrigued. Confused, but intrigued. As I tucked into the remainder of my meal I decided I needed a well scripted plan to meet this woman with whom I was suddenly infatuated.

Fifteen minutes passed. I cleaned my plate so thoroughly there might have been no need to actually wash it. And I was full. I sipped my third cup of coffee; I liked being at one of those places where they actually left the carafe right at the table because I hate having to signal for refills. As I sat back, relieving the pressure on my loaded gut, I returned my attention to the booth with the woman. She was looking out the window into the night, nodding along with what her daughter was telling her. I couldn't make out what it was as the noise level was still at a fevered pitch; as often as people left, the same number replaced them. It was a busy joint, no doubt about it. And in a way, it's popularity played to my benefit as I spent an inordinate amount of time taking this woman in with long, drawn-out stares. Finally I spied movement in the boot. A head popped up from the side that wasn't in my view, and the person who stood was most definitely not the woman's daughter. In fact, the Fedora with its remarkable amulet was a dead give away: Mr. Christopher.

To say I was shocked was to say I didn't nearly spill my coffee, and both of those things were instantly true. When did he get here? Was he here the entire time? I'd never dropped my sight from the woman for more than a few seconds at a time to eat and converse with Darla. What was going on? It suddenly occurred to me that this was was what my observant server was talking about when she said 'The company she was keeping'. Mr. Christopher rose to his full height, nodded at the woman, and turned to head out, dropping several bills on the table from his wallet. I diverted my gaze and turned my body to look down at the floor. I had no desire to let the man see me. I waited a full thirty-count and returned to a proper sitting position.

Mr. Christopher was sitting in the other chair directly across from me.

"Mr. Miller! How fortuitous!"

I swallowed and heard my throat click as it tightened, "Apparently."

I looked over the strange man's shoulder and saw Darla. She looked at me with wide-eyed surprise and set what was obviously my dessert back on the counter. She was visibly unnerved, and quickly turned away.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Christopher?"

"Ah, but it is I who am prepared to help you... as you no doubt remember."

"I remember." I said flatly, "But I still don't understand. Not to mention the fact that you sat at my table without being invited. I'd suspect even you would understand how rude that is."

"Tut-tut... semantics. Besides, no one was using the chair, for one thing. And for another, I'll be but a moment of your time. A moment you can scarcely afford to dismiss."

I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that this man wasn't going to leave until he'd spoken his peace.

"Go on."

"Excellent. What I have for you is information, of that bit you have been previously regaled. But in actuality, it's a warning." He laced his fingers, nodded once, and sat still.

"A warning. And what makes you think I need a warning about anything? You don't even know me."

"Mmm... perhaps I don't know you directly, true. But I knew you were coming."

I looked at him side-long, "Yeah, it didn't take a magician to assume I was coming here, considering it's likely the only restaurant for miles in any direction."

He nodded yet again, and let a wry grin dance across his lips, "You misunderstand me, Mr. Miller. What I meant was that I knew you were coming here: the motel... this town."

I couldn't help but bark a rather loud laugh, "What? What kind of crap are you trying to feed me?"

"Eloquent. No.. (ahem) crap intended, Mr. Miller. Most certainly not. No, I only arrive at the motel when I am... shall we say, directed. Directed to do so. And as such, I was made privy to your eminent arrival."

Ignoring the obviously crazy man, I signaled to the newly interested Darla to bring my cobbler and ice cream. But she hesitated.

"Oh, Darla won't come here. She's... not too fond of me, I'm afraid."

"What? Why?" I asked suddenly not smiling anymore. In fact, this whole situation had gotten a little too bizarre.

"It matters not. What does matter is the warning I have yet to relay to you. You must listen, and hear me very well. Then I will be on my way."

I sipped my tepid coffee, scowled at it, and nodded for him to go on at the same time.

"Stay away from the woman."

I froze.

"Uh... wha-what woman?" I stammered, knowing exactly whom he meant.

"Please, Mr. Miller. Let us not feign stupidity. You know about whom I refer. I reiterate: stay away from the woman. It is in your very best interest to do so."

And with that, he thumbed his hat with a nod, quickly and quietly rose, and left the building like some kind of ghastly wraith. I sat stunned and numb, and watched as though I were in another place, in another time -outside of my own body- as Darla returned to my table with dessert. She, too, looked unwell.

"He was the company she was keeping, I'm guessing." I said, barely hearing my own query through the sudden timpani of buzzing in my head.

"Yeah. He was. He's absolutely one of the most... frightening men I have ever met. I'm sorry I held up your cobbler."

"No, no apology necessary." I rubbed my temples and squeezed my eyes shut to force away the ringing in my ears. "What his deal, anyway?"

"He comes in here every time he's in town. But I guess that's not really the issue since we are the only rest'raunt for a few miles... it's just his, what's the word... demeanor? Is that right?"

I nodded and forced a smile, "I'd say that's just about perfect."

"When he first started coming by -maybe a year or so ago now- he pretty much kept to himself. But eventually, he sort of got nosy. Anyone who'd arrive while he was in town he'd... well, he'd scare the pants off of, that's what. Talking about information and warnings and crazy threats if folks didn't pay him mind. And people started staying out. He'd never bother the regulars -folks who live here- but he'd sure get under the skin of passers-by. I'd had enough one day, after he made a woman cry, and I told him he had to leave. He nodded politely enough, but his eyes looked daggers right through me. Since then... well, I can hardly stand to be around him." Darla explained as she looked off into the distance of the diner, and likely the distance of her past.

"Well, that answers that. He told me you'd never come to the table with him there." I said as I poured more coffee to warm up the room-temperature beverage in my mug.

"And I'm just saying, here... it might not be a bad idea to... uh, listen to him." She said, returning her gaze right to my eyes. It startled me a little; her face was ashen and pallid.

"What? I thought you just said..."

"I know. I know. The man is a kook without a doubt. But here's the thing: his warnings always come true. Or pan out... or whatever you want to say. Somehow... he just knows."

I looked at her and nodded. Was Darla serious? She must have seen the question in my eyes because she went on.

"About eight months ago... yeah, that would be April... he was in town on one of his regular visits. He came into the diner, and at this point I had now seen him about half-a-dozen times. Anyway, he came in and met with a fella much like yourself: a guy just moseying through on his way anywhere else. The fella seemed nice enough, so I chatted him up much as I'm doing with you. And then Mr. Christopher gave him his cock-and-bull story, but the man refused to listen. He flat out told me it was hooey and left. The next day he was gone. They found all his belongings up in his motel room, but the fella had just vanished."

I shivered so much goose-flesh erupted over my skin like a flurry of tiny pox. Didn't Ted tell me the exact same thing? The story of the man coming up missing and just leaving all of his stuff? I shuddered again and I must have looked like someone walked over my grave.

"Are you okay? I've never seen a man turn that white before!" Darla announced as she took a step back.

"Fine... fine. But I'm not hungry anymore. Thanks for the dessert, though."

Darla waved me off, "You look like you need to lie down. Let me pack that cobbler to go, I'll just scrape off the ice cream so it don't melt all over." She left and returned quickly with a foam clam shell.

I paid cash. Darla and I exchanged pleasantries and I said I'd be by for breakfast. She told me she was always there and looked forward to seeing me again. She also insisted I heed Mr. Christopher's urgency. In fact, she made me promise. I said I would, and left. The night was cold and I could see my breath puffing out in grey clouds. Just then the fact that I was exhausted slammed into me like a wall. It was definitely time for bed.

Before I could settle into the car, I saw the woman leave the diner; her features illuminated by the halo of the restaurant's lights. I'd then wondered where her daughter was? Did she leave her back at the motel? That didn't seem particularly safe to me considering she was likely only in her young teens, if even that. And why would she eat alone when she had her child with her? It didn't make sense, but then, none of this evening made a whole lot of sense. I watched for a minute more as she got into her vehicle, started it, and drove off. One final thought popped into my mind: what on Earth was Mr. Christopher talking to her about? Was he giving her a warning, too? And if so, was it about me, as mine was about her? I had no idea. And I had no idea what made me care so much. I was mentally drained and I really needed some sleep. I slid into the driver's seat, fired the engine, and left for the motel.

The knock came at 1:13 a.m. I had fallen asleep atop the bed covers, in both my clothes an my shoes. The TV was tuned to ESPN's SportCenter and it was on incredibly loud to my formerly-soundly sleeping ears. Another knock at 1:14.

"I-I'm coming... just a sec." I said groggily. I rolled over and allowed gravity to tug my weary frame to a sitting-leaning position.

It took a few seconds to wipe exhaustion from my eyes, but I managed to bring the waking world to focus and stood up. I peeked out the peep hole before opening the door, since my head hadn't completely cleared yet I pictured Ted in his pajamas carrying a peach cobbler... wait, what? But the image was of the woman. Alone.

I dropped the chain latch, unbolted the dead-lock, and opened the door, "Yes?" That was all I could manage.

"Uh... hi. I mean, hello, sir. Um, I'm sorry about the very late hour... but I need to... speak with you."

She was visibly upset, that was obvious from the streaked mascara that ran inky rivulets down her flushed cheeks. Her auburn hair was a tousled nest, and she stood there looking anxious as she wrung her hands. She was even pretty in her current bedraggled state: not too tall, not too short, beautiful eyes -despite their watery sorrow- and features a guy like me could definitely enjoy. I couldn't help staring, as I'd done at her the length of my stay at the diner hours previous And it made matters all the worse that I was still almost half asleep and my mind was hammering out thoughts of raciness and indelicacy. She wore a T-shirt maybe just her size and her ample breasts jutted out. It was then I noticed she wasn't wearing a bra, nor a coat, or shoes. Her feet must have been freezing. She looked anew at me with concern and abject worry. I leaned against the door and ushered her in without saying a word. She took the offer and stepped inside out of the cold. Warning be damned: this woman was in dire straights.

She sat at the little table that was positioned by the heat register near the only window. The curtains were down, but she stared through the little crack where they didn't quite fill the void. I went to the little coffee maker that sat in the bathroom, brought it out to the TV hutch and plugged it in while shutting off ESPN. She continued to gaze out at the parking lot through the gap in the fabric as I prepared the little coffee filters that came with the room; nothing spectacular, but enough to warm us up for what I was sure was about to be a lengthy stay. I poured water into the back and flipped the switch. Soon the smell of brewing Maxwell House filled the room.

"So... can I offer you a plastic mug full of second-rate coffee?" I comically inquired.

She turned to me with a face that looked like something out of a horror movie. Her eyes were huge, her face wan and colorless, and her lower lip quivered as she nodded an answer. I could do little more than look at her and feel terrible for whatever it was that had happened. I looked away as the crackling gurgle of the coffee maker signaled its complete brew cycle. I poured two mugs, walked the seven paces to the table, and joined her.

"Thank you. I'm, ah... Miss Bonny... well, that's what my kids call me. At my school. I'm a second-grade teacher at Woodhill..." She quickly sighed, brushed hair out of her eyes, and smiled soullessly. It was all too apparent that she had been through something.

"Hi, there... Miss Bonny. Nice to finally meet you."

"I saw you at the diner tonight." She said, not letting any irritation at my constant ogling show through.

Regardless, I flushed with a bit of embarrassment, "Yeah... the diner. Great food, wasn't it?"

"Sorry, I wouldn't know. I never ate."

I recoiled in sudden question, "Then why were you--"

She cut me off, "Because he asked me to meet him. Mr. Christopher. He asked me to meet him there."

I sat there dumbfounded. At some point between when I first saw Miss Bonny in the lobby and when I finally made my way to the diner, Mr. Christopher made his move on her, too. And by the looks of it, he'd frightened her out of her wits. But that was hours ago. And it was very evident that she'd been quite recently crying.

I decided to angle the line of questioning back to when I'd first seen her, "Who were you with when I saw you in the lobby?"

"What?" She asked with an overtly genuine raise in her voice.

"Yeah, you smiled at me -almost making me think you wanted to ask me something- anyway, you smiled at me, and left with who I assumed was your daughter."

She blinked twice. "I don't have any children."

It was my turn to sit in disquieting silence. "Wait... then who was that little girl who followed you out of the lobby? Your sister?"

"Sir- what do I call you, anyway?"

"Mr. Miller... since we're going by formalities for the time being... Miss Bonny." I said with an air of sarcasm.

"Mr. Miller... I don't know what or who you are talking about. I don't remember seeing a little girl. And I certainly don't remember acknowledging anyone else there... aside from you, that is."

"You're kidding! She was right there in the old chair in the lobby! Messing with a phone or something! Are you serious! She wasn't with you?" My inquisitiveness had reached an oddly fevered pitch.

She solemnly and slowly shook her head, "I saw no one. And as I said, I have no kids. In fact, I'm here alone on my way to a Teacher's Convention in New York. I could have flown, but I like to drive, so..."

I was flabbergasted and not a little bit dismayed. I saw the girl. I knew it. How could this woman possibly not have seen her? She walked right past her and the little girl followed her out the door. I shivered despite the warming heat of the coffee. Maybe she was just in a hurry. So what if it wasn't her kid, I guess it's possible that her gesture was just a coincidence... but maybe there wasn't a gesture. Maybe I just assumed there was because I also assumed she was her child.

"I'd like to tell you why I came here... Mr. Miller." Miss Bonny said breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Of course. I'm sorry... go on."

She took a sip of the coffee, peered once again out the window, "When Mr. Christopher came to my room earlier this evening he petrified me. Look, I know I'm a young woman traveling alone without much concern for trouble... and I regret that, but I just felt I'd be safer stopping at this motel rather than one in a bigger city with more people... more strangers. Ya know? Anyway, when he came to my room I felt all of my latent fears bubble to the surface. Especially after he told me what he forcibly said he had to tell me."

I nodded. I understood how she felt. Mr. Christopher scared everyone, "I get it. I really do. Go on."

This time she merely looked at her cup, "He warned me I was being followed. He said to always check the shadows. Can you believe that? Who says that to someone? 'You're being followed! Check the shadows!' What is going on with this guy? He alarmed me so much I lost it and broke down right in front of him."

"And this was before you went to the diner?"

"Yes." She wiped the fresh tears from her face as I offered her a tissue, "I guess he felt bad for me because he invited me to dinner. I couldn't figure out any other reason why. Until I met him there."

I looked at here again. I didn't understand what she was getting at. "You mean he had more to tell you?"

"Yes." She took a long drink of her coffee, "As we sat there he asked me about myself and if I'd ever had any feelings of being followed... like, mysteriously so. I told him I didn't think so. He asked me if I ever felt that someone or something was 'there' when I was otherwise alone. I told him again that I didn't think so. He nodded, but he said nevertheless that I was, indeed, being followed by something... and he reiterated about checking the shadows. He went on to tell me about the waitress at the diner who was serving you and that situation. And he even explained about a very unlucky individual who chose not to heed his warning--" She trailed off and took a deep breath and looked once again out the window.

Tears welled up in her eyes and I could think of nothing else to do but take her hand. She turned to me and smiled.

"Funny thing is," I began as I laid my other hand on hers, "He told me to stay away from you. That was my warning."

"I know. When I first saw you in the lobby today, that's exactly what I was going to say... for some reason I was going to tell you to stay away from me. And now it makes sense why."

"You're kidding? You were going to tell me to stay away from you? Seriously?"

"I was. I had no idea why. It wasn't like you looked like a creep or anything... even if you were staring at me." She smiled.

"Well, you and the little girl in the--"

"Wait a minute." She said suddenly, "You don't suppose..."

We could do nothing more than look at each other. Tears trickled down her face and I had to do all I could not to literally scream. I don't scare easily; I love horror movies and the unknown, but this was just shy of completely and fully insane.

Little else was said the rest of the night. Few words were shared; she warmed up to allowing me to hold her as she silently sat and shivered in my arms. Nothing made sense anymore. I had been in town for literally just shy of a full twenty-four hours and I had somehow slid into a severely outlandish set of circumstances. I was at a loss as to where to go next, but my intuition said to pack up now and get the hell out. But what of Miss Bonny? A name that just tickled me as almost unreal. She obviously was unsafe. Whether or not it was because she was actually being followed, or from Mr. Christopher himself... I didn't know. But I was implausibly worried. As I sat there in the chair cradling a woman I didn't know in my arms, I found myself rocking her back and forth; I slowly pulled ribbons of her hair away from her tear-soaked face, staring intently at her shuddering form. A maelstrom of feelings and plots stormed through my head, not the least of which was, 'what am I going to do with her?'. She moaned a little, and pushed at me gently attempting to sit. I released my soft grip, and watched her as she raised from my arms.

"I think I have to leave." She said, matter-of-factly as she wiped her eyes on the wadded tissue in her hand.

"What? Are you sure? Are you okay?"

"No... I don't know. Maybe. But I know I have to go." She stood up and once again looked out of the slitted gap made from the too-small curtains.

I looked at here askance. "Are you... sure?"

She sighed, swiped her hair from her face leaving a thin trail of the remaining mascara that had run down her sodden cheeks, "No. I have no idea. It's been a... bad night."

I nodded. In both agreement and weariness; I was definitely tired, even if I was buzzing from the caffeine. But I was only feigning agreement, because deep inside I was scared for both of us. Rather than let her freeze on her way back to her room, I offered her a hooded sweatshirt I'd packed in my luggage. But she refused, and said her room was just number 30 (an answer to a question I realized I'd never gotten around to actually asking her). I opened the door, and through an obviously forced smile and a put-on facade of momentary alacrity, she thanked me, and followed with two words that would haunt me the rest of the night:

"He knows."

I stood there a heartbeat and watched as she quickly closed the short distance to her room. And I counted the steps: 32.

The door closed with its stuttering swish and click, and I stared at it half expecting Miss Bonny to return, while half expecting something -anything- else completely maddening to occur. In the few minutes it took me to realize how much I needed the bed, and to notice that it was pushing three a.m., nothing happened. I kicked off my shoes, shrugged out of my shirt and pants, and laid down. I flicked on ESPN again, but I was out before the fuzzy picture settled into clarity on the age old screen.

"... He knows..."

Fear sits on your chest and suffocates the life from your body. Fear comes in forms as innocent as a baby and as diabolical as a banshee. The fear I felt that night as I pitched and sprawled through three nearly broken hours of fitful sleep was as palpable as the cloying, wet sheet I was knotted up in. I awoke from a blissfully sporadic and short nightmare where Mr. Christopher was steadily burying me in dirt. I fought to claw my way free, but the relentless shovelfuls kept piling on the earth. I screamed for help and watched in terrified disbelief as Miss Bonny stood atop the open grave and just masked her face with her hands. The gaunt and sinister soothsayer continued his ceaseless scooping and flinging of dirt as he kept repeating the mantra, "He knows!" over and over. Yes, that night fear perched atop my petrified form like a poltergeist and supped on my wavering sanity. I woke, breathless and exhausted. I was drained and drenched with perspiration. I knew right then I had no choice but to leave. And soon.

I had to shower first. I was literally sopped with the night sweats and I had to get out of my sodden clothes. I stepped in to the steaming tub (the water pressure left a lot to be desired, but such was the bane of motel bathrooms) and let the hot spray rinse away as much of the previous night as it was able. Sadly, much of what I saw; what I felt and experienced, remained. What I couldn't seem to heat through was the chill that marched up and down my spine like icy fingers. I stayed under the warming cascade for a while and let my thoughts play out. Part of me already had my keys in the ignition and was nearly backing out of the parking lot... yet the other thought held me fast and told me I had enough unfinished business with the haunting and mysterious Miss Bonny. The shower's rapidly depleting water temperature did little to really sway me either way, and so as the mist turned tepid, I turned it off and stepped out onto the bathmat.

I glanced at the mirror. A habit, though I knew I wasn't as cleanly shaven as I would have otherwise preferred. Imprinted in the fogged glass were two hand prints. Child-sized hand prints. Condensation had just begun to pool and run little rivulets through the haze that coated the surface. I dropped my towel and listened. Someone had to be in the adjoining room.

My heart was thrumming in the back of my throat. I looked again at the prints; prints that had certainly not been made by me... or any adult, for that matter. I began to breathe in halting gasps as I reached over on instinct to touch the markings left on the vanity. But I stopped inches before I could. I was scared to even be in the same room with the ghostly figures, and why I thought I wanted to touch them suddenly seemed horrifying and disgusting. But I didn't want to leave the bathroom. I stood there and shivered unsure of what to do. Was someone still in my room? How did someone even get in? I knew I locked the door behind-- wait, did I? I shut the door, but I didn't chain it. No, that wasn't possible: motel room doors lock automatically when they're shut, or else you wouldn't need a key. Then how... who? I ran thoughts through my head all the while cocking my ear to the door in hopes of maybe catching the intruder... or rather, in hopes of not.

Minutes passed and I'd begun to feel foolish. What was I hoping to hear, exactly? I looked once again at the mirror and what I'd thought I'd seen moments before was nothing more than damp streaks and clearing spots where the cool glass had warded off the heat of the steam. I resigned myself to just being paranoid and overly tired, and opened the door to my room.

The ethereal girl on the bed turned to look at me; her stare both at me and through me, a gaze of both sheer terror and foreboding innocence... and then vanished into the emptiness.

I remember my knees buckling but once my head hit the bathroom door, the next half hour was nothing but a white flash.

As I came to, I found myself naked sprawled like a haphazardly tossed marionette: legs akimbo and uncomfortably twisted beneath me, my temple painfully pressed into the corner of the door jamb, and my arms numbly folded underneath me. I groaned and struggled to sit, breathing past the monotonous throb in my head. A welt was forming where I'd apparently struck the wood, and it was tender and raw. I wasn't out long, maybe thirty minutes; my hair was still wet as was the floor where I'd come to rest. I had seen the little girl, of that I was absolutely positive. I had seen moist hand prints on the bathroom, of that I was slightly less positive, but still almost sure.

The ringing phone stung my aching skull and raised me a shade more quickly from the floor.

"Mmmm... Hello." I moaned.

"Mr. Miller. It appears you haven chosen in error not to heed my warning." Came the gruff, sharp bray from the other end. It was doubtlessly Mr. Christopher.

I held the receiver away from my face and looked at it in mixed puzzlement and trepidation. The tinny voice from the ear-piece echoed from my grasp, "Mr. Miller, I know full well that you are on the other end of this conversation."

"What do you want." I croaked in a voice that was not my own, yet still from my mouth.

"Mr. Miller, I am not making this call to humor you. I provided you with a very simple set of instructions... instructions you chose to ignore. This decision of yours has sent ripples in motion. Ripples I may not be able to calm. Do you understand me?"

"Look, you bastard, she came to my door! She came to my room!" I barked into the phone.

"Regardless the circumstances, Mr. Miller, the outcome -the rapidly approaching repercussions- shall prove to be... dire."

"What was I supposed to do? Turn her away? You have literally scared the both of us to--"

Mr. Christopher abruptly cut me off, "To death? This outcome may be more poignant than you can possibly imagine. I can no longer offer my assistance or cautions, Mr. Miller. You have set the cogs in gear, and I can assure you that you and Miss. Bonny are ill prepared to deal with the aftermath. Good day."

The click from the phone was deafening. I returned the set to the cradle and looked at it in an amalgam of disgust and rage.

As I threw my meager belongings in the trunk of my car, I couldn't help but argue with myself of what to do next. Nearly taking over my decision process every time was self-preservation: fight or flight; getting the Hell out of Dodge as quickly as humanly possible. However, I wasn't a jerk, and I knew that caught in the mix was an innocent school teacher suffering the same mental anguish as I was. Chivalry might me dead, but I guess I never got the memo. I knew full well I couldn't leave Miss Bonny alone. And damn the consequences. I stood by my car and stared off into the distance where the welcoming sound of the highway could easily be heard through the crisp, late fall air. I sighed, wishing I were picking up speed on the entrance ramp and heading away... far away. But I'd kick myself for the rest of my life if I didn't know she was safe. This place was making me see things. I'd only once before in my life seen what I thought might have been a ghost, but it literally paled in comparison to the image that appeared on my motel room bed. I was still shaken, but I felt a lot better just being out of the room all together. And with that, I knew I had to make a stop at the lobby. I had a key to deliver, and a little something else.

"Ted!" I shouted as I purposefully marched to the counter, "Ted! Where ya hiding, buddy?"

Silence.

The lobby was eerily quiet. The remnants of my voice echoed through the small office. I leaned over the counter and tried to peer a little further around the back corner into the rear of the room, but to no avail. I couldn't see much further than where the hall entered the back.
"Ted! Where are you, man! It's Mr. Miller!" Why hadn't I ever told him my first name? Oh well, it didn't matter, even as odd as my name sounded to my own ears without actually saying it.

I listened again, and it was then I heard a lowing emanating from somewhere further back into the office. I stood there for a second and listened a bit more intently, and sure enough the moaning continued. It sounded like someone was either hurt or in the process of being hurt. I couldn't just leave it alone. I turned the corner of the counter, quickly walked to the little hall way, and peered around the edge into the rear office.

Lord help me, I immediately wished I hadn't.

Ted was curled up in a ball on the floor. A deathly pallor hung over his face like a sheet. Tears streamed down his face, and he was visibly shaking. A few feet just above his ashen face was an ethereal, translucent form that -even from the distance and angle I stood- was unmistakably the same little girl I'd seen only an hour before. She glared at him; scowled and chastised. Ted was absolutely terrified, a fact made all the more apparent by the rapidly spreading wet spot at the front of his jeans. I stood in silent wonder as the form continued its malevolent lesson. But an audible click from my gaping mouth betrayed me.

The apparition turned, saw me, and I swear she smiled at precisely the same moment she seemed to fly directly at me... no, not 'at', through me. The feeling of sorrow and disillusionment was so palpable and real that I did all I could not to faint from the melancholia. I dropped to my knees and tried to catch my breath as I looked over at Ted. He was completely petrified with fear to the point that he appeared to be dead. I stood, walked over to him, and it turned out that appearances weren't always deceiving. Ted's breathing had ceased. I held his wrist and he had no pulse. I swallowed and immediately thought that I had to get to the phone.

Until a voice shook me to my core.

"Theodore refused to listen, too, Mr. Miller."

To Be Continued... 

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