What Scares You?

#fridayflash: Pearls From the Past

2010-11-27T12:47:00.001-05:00

Pearls From the Past

By Louise Dragon

Outside the wind howled over deepening snow drifts. Choir practice over, we bundled into our wooly mittens and knitted hats. Wind tugged the heavy church doors and smashed them against the sides of the old building. Puffs of cold powdery whiteness melted on my face as we raced into the blizzard, our cumbersome boots rattling buckles like jingle bells.

Christmas Eve, Santa Claus was coming tonight!

So much to do. My mind raced over last minute touches to finish on my homemade gifts and settled on the hanging of the biggest sock in my sock drawer. Maybe I could borrow one of Dad’s socks?

Marianne, my older sister, chugged along beside me while Bess, the youngest of us pranced sprightly through the snow singing in her off-key voice, “ave, ave, ave, Mar-EE-a.”

“I hope I get a new bike,” I said skipping over the frozen wasteland of Railroad Street.

“I hope I get one of those new Barbie Dolls with the hair that really grows,” Bess chimed in. Her cheeks were as red as her scarf. Her little six-year-old legs were having a difficult time keeping up with us so I stopped for a moment to snap a giant icicle from Joe Zarnick’s roof. I used this weapon to stab repeatedly at the sweeping branches of the huge pine tree in front of Joe’s house.

“Deeze, come on, you’ll make us late,” Marianne snapped.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said pausing to for a few more stabs at the tree. I wonder if trees feel pain, like people do.

“You’ll get the onion again this year.” Marianne stated, hands on hips.

“Will not,” I replied making a mock stab at her with my icicle sword. “You’ll get it for being such a snot.”

“Betcha you get it again,” Marianne taunted. “You’re worse than I ever thought of being and everyone knows it, even Santa. Stay out here and freeze for all I care.”

Unable to come up with a smart retort, I clamped my mouth shut and followed her into our warm parlor.

“Take your boots off.” Ma shouted from the kitchen.

On the kitchen table I found a small square package at my place on the kitchen table. It was wrapped in brown paper and scrawled on top were the words—MERRY CHRISTMAS—TO: DENISE PERRY, 13 WILLOW LANE, FARNUMS, MASS. The return address simply stated – FROM: SANTA.

The package! My rich Godparents must have sent it from Easton. I whispered to Marianne under my breath, “Who cares about the stupid onion. Look what I got!” I grabbed the package eagerly.

“No, no, no,” Ma yelled. “You go put that under the Christmas tree. You know that no gifts get opened until after church tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told, shaking the gift for rattles, and loosening a strip of tape along the way. I stared hard at the small package sitting alone under the huge Christmas tree. What could it be? A gold locket? A watch, or maybe even a camera?

The package haunted me as I tried to force myself to sleep on that long ago Christmas Eve night.

“Oh come let us adore hi-IM, Chri-IST the Lord.”

From the balcony of the old church, I could see Ma, Dad, little Eva, and baby Lukey sitting up in front before the replica of the old manger. From way up here I marveled at the softly glowing faces of the Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. As the final strains of the song left my lips, my stomach tightened – threatening nausea, and my knuckles turned white as they clutched the old railing before me. My mind traveled far from here. It floated back home to gaze with rapture at the stacks of gifts under our Christmas tree at home.

The Presents! So many! In moments I’d be back there in my rightful place beside the worn blue couch tearing at wrappings and trying out that new blue bike I’d seen tucked away in the corner under some brightly wrapped gifts.

The spicy aroma of church incense along with the wet wool smell of too many bodies on that small balcony made my head reel and my stomach flip-flop threateningly. In the distance, a mournful long blast of the train whistle broke through the church proceedings and people tumbled from the small building.

The walk home seemed to take hours. How could parents and siblings move that slow when they all know about the excitement ahead?

I saved the small brown-wrapped package for last. As everyone gathered about, I carefully peeled back the paper to expose a small glass decanter filled to the brim with marble-sized white pearls. The fancy top was attached with a strip of silver tape, which I immediately removed. An aromatic scent of pine and lavender filled the room when I carefully lifted the lid.

“Oh, bath oil beads,” Ma announced. “Aren’t they pretty? Be sure to send a proper thank-you note to Aunt and Uncle.”

Everyone scattered to play with their new stuff. That glass jar of spongy sweet-smelling orbs was fascinating. Easily the most beautiful and grown-up present I’d ever received. Glints of Christmas tree lights reflected from their smooth pearly surfaces. If I stared hard enough, I could even make out the shapes of Ma’s favorite old Christmas ornaments mirrored on the small spheres.

I may have dozed with my little jar of precious gems, right there beneath the tree. Perhaps, oh, I pray this is true, just perhaps the events that followed were dreams. I wasn't that much of a troublemaker—not at that age.

I remember counting out the beads. They made cool little plunking sounds as I dropped them into the jar. Unfortunately, once I’d removed them all, I could not get them to all fit snugly back in their places in that jar again. Since two beads refused to be squashed back in, I took them to the bathroom to try them out.

Steam fogged the windows of our little bathroom as I ran warm water into the big claw-footed tub. After dropping in the two beads, I remember feeling a trifle disappointed because they were so white that they disappeared into the water leaving behind nothing but a hint of pine-lavender fragrance. I leaned my head back against the cool high back of the big tub and let the silky fragrant water caress me.

Suddenly, I sat bolt upright. Something had bitten me. The cooling water had a kaleidoscopic oily coating, like gasoline in a mud puddle.

Ouch, my ankle. Mixed in with the pleasant pine smell I detected an underlying aroma of onion. I wanted to vomit.

Ouch, my knee. I yanked it quickly above the surface to find a small round bead attached to my skin. As I stared at it, a thin trickle of blood ran into the water leaving a thin, wavering streak. I poked at the bead, which produced another bite of sharp pain with a similar trickle of blood. As I studied the bead, its smooth whiteness formed striations like those of a small onion. It bulged and pulsated as I watched.

Smack. I spattered it like a fly. Blood and a viscid-looking yellow pus-like substance sluiced down my leg and began to form a new little round onion shape.

I jumped from the water, my heart pounding. The other bead was fastened to my belly, just above the navel. When I tried to pull it off, it dug in deeper, like a tick burrowing into its host. I tried to scream for help, but only a hoarse croak came out. My throat was locked with fear. The wound on my knee itched maddeningly while the pain in my belly pulsed with each bulge of that accursed bead-thing. Finally, I gritted my teeth and yanked that sucker off. The pain exploded through my being as I dropped the damnable little thing into the toilet and flushed. Horror visited yet again as I watched the swirls of water flow over the thing’s tiny snapping mouth -- smeared red with my blood.

It only took a few minutes to find the other bead pulsing weakly on the bottom of the empty tub. It went into toilet also along with each of the other beads in the jar. I counted them as they plunked into the water and then took a deep breath once they were gone.

I tried to tell Marianne about the beads.

“Don’t be silly, Deeze. Stop trying to irritate everyone with your foolish stories. It’s Christmas. Stop lying and try to behave. No wonder you get the onion every year in your stocking. Santa Claus is trying to teach you a lesson.”

“But . . . But . . . I have a bite on my stomach . . . They tried to kill me,” I said pulling up my pajama top to show the angry welt.

“Oh, wow,” Marianne jeered. “It’s only a pimple. Now shut-up and stop trying to ruin everyone’s Christmas.”

“But . . . But . . .” I said to her disappearing back.

Heeding Marianne’s advise, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ruin everyone’s Christmas. I dutifully sent a thank you card to my Godparents. I didn’t blame them. Those beads didn’t come from my rich Godparents. Those beads came from Santa Claus, himself. He sent them as a warning that I’d better start behaving, or else.

I tried my best to heed his warning. You see I counted those beads when I dropped them down the toilet that long-ago Christmas day. Counted and there were only twenty-one beads left in the jar. I know that two beads stayed behind to watch over me. To make sure I’m behaving. Whenever I enter that bathroom I hear them skittering around in the corners. Always just out of sight. I know they are there. I know, so now I behave.

end

Dragon Chronicles LII.

2010-11-20T10:39:00.001-05:00

LII. The clever geology specialist talks too much

A convenient gardener convicts the judge

Compulsory troops strike beside the lobby

Witnessed trouble attacks the royal hobby

Dragon Chronicles LI.

2010-11-06T11:43:00.000-04:00

LI. The collective shifts through with out a name

A parade matures at the exhibition game

The syndicate provokes a finer sacrifice

The alcoholic blinks beside whatever patched controversy has a price

#fridayflash: Initiation

2010-10-30T09:16:00.000-04:00

Initiation

By Louise Dragon

Rusty hinges ground on the screen door. His friends laughed. “No such thing as ghosts,” he recited & pushed open the door.

Neal Dodge looked back at his new friends and forced a smile.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. The words played in his brain like a neon sign.

“There’s no such thing as a haunted house!” Neal shouted through the rusty screen. “Meet me back here tomorrow, same time, same place.”

Ted Atwood looked nervous, so did Frank Damon, Louie Clutterfield, however, was still grinning.

“See you,” Louie called back and the three boys turned and headed down the deserted street. None of them looked back.

Neal gulped, left the door open, and turned to inspect his surroundings. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Perhaps this initiation stunt to be admitted to The Torros was not worth it. He shrugged, took of his yellow baseball cap, and wondered if it was against the rules to spend the entire night huddled by the front door waiting for morning.

Neal’s eyes moved cautiously about the room, but his feet stayed put. He’d heard all of the scuttlebutt about the Caserton House. Old Jonathan Caserton had collected children like some people collect stamps. People in town say kids still disappear in or around the Caserton house, empty or not. Nobody knows where they go – they just seem to come up missing.

Neal placed his back against the door jam and slid his butt down to the floor. He felt relatively safe this close to the door. He was thinking that if any ghosts or ghouls came at him, he’d be able to outrun them right off the eerie property – membership or not.

From this vantage point, Neal caught site of a huge portrait of Jonathan Caserton placed jauntily over the mantle in one of the front rooms. The painting showed a stooped, mustached, old man with a cane. All about him were children, all gazing up at him with sad eyes.

Neal found that he couldn’t take his eyes off the likeness. He’d pull them away, but they always swung back to the canvas. It was mesmerizing -- like a magnet for his stare. At last he just gave up and turned to study the images in the painting.

Abruptly Neal found himself standing before the portrait – he could not recollect walking over to it, yet here he was, inches from the fascinating depiction. He wondered why anyone would have had sad-eyed children painted into his portrait when rumors were that he stole, tortured, and murdered dozens of kids during his life as a teacher.

Ted Atwood had said that no bodies were ever found. Frank Damon had confided that old man Caserton had disappeared also. People thought he was still in the house – at least his ghost was – still murdering children whenever one was dumb enough to wander into his path . . .

Louie said it was all crap. Said the missing kids were just runaways and old man Caserton was probably fish food.

Neal returned to his spot by the front door and hunkered down. He did not think he would get much sleep tonight, but his eyes got heavy and he dozed briefly.

In his mind Neal heard screaming. Was it a police siren?

Neal jerked awake. An eerie keening noise echoed around him. Was it wind, sirens, cats fighting?

A beam of fading sunlight shone in through a front window lighting up the Caserton Portrait.

Neal rubbed his eyes and gawked at the canvas -- which had changed.

The old man now held his cane above his head like a crazed executioner. His murderous eyes blazed with purple hatred and his gape-toothed mouth opened wide into a black tunnel of horror.

The sad-eyed children around him now cringed in terror; their mouths open in keening screams of unimaginable fear. Their sad eyes seemed to focus on Neil as he shook the prickly needles and pins from his legs, rose shakily, stumbled, grabbed his hat and . . .

Rusty hinges ground on the screen door. His friends laughed and called to him, but Neil did not answer.

In the front room, in an old portrait, a painted tear ran down the face of a sad-eyed boy wearing a yellow baseball hat.

END

Dragon Chronicles L.

2010-10-30T08:37:00.000-04:00

L. The faction strengthens inside the Honey’s shelter

A voter reassures the newest smelter

Across the exploited explodes success

Only then will the chaotic hesitate or confess

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Conclusion)

2010-10-26T17:23:00.006-04:00

Such A Fine Son (Conclusion) by Louise Dragon

The remaining months of Wendy’s pregnancy took an unbelievable toll on the teenage girl. Her grossly distended belly seemed to drain the life from her young body.

In all of his years of practice, Lyle had never encountered such a devastating pregnancy.

What little remaining flesh she possessed hugged Wendy’s skeleton much like pictures he had seen of starving children in Africa. Her once glossy chestnut hair was straw-like and brittle. Large blue-gray eyes had faded to the drab color of dishwater. While the fetal heartbeat was strong and regular, Wendy’s blood pressure had dropped alarmingly as the final days of her gestation approached.

Ever sensitive to his patient’s needs, Lyle monitored the girl continually. He spent increasing amounts of time in Wendy’s room, which had taken on a vile, sickly odor no matter how frequently it was cleaned.

As Wendy’s time approached, Lyle’s uneasiness increased. Power naps seemed no longer necessary as some deeply hidden strength kept the doctor vigorously attuned to his surroundings. Unfortunately, with his newfound energy, Lyle was experiencing surges of uncontrollable anger: a rage that was in constant combat with his rationality.

Anger with the police who had let this travesty happen to Wendy in the first place.

Indignation towards Wendy for allowing herself to be so totally violated.

Wrath for himself and his inability to restore her.

Rage against the unborn child who was whittling away at the essence of its helpless parent.

Even an unwonted hostility surrounding Maggie’s inability to keep Wendy’s sick room fresher.

“Dr. Canthrop, isn’t this your night off?” Maggie asked placing herself in his path with hands on her hips. “I swear, you’re just going to wear yourself out if you don’t take a break.”

Lyle ran a hand over his freshly shaved chin. “Just wanted to check on the patient,” he said evenly, hands clenching. “Pressure’s low, have you increased those supplements, like I asked?” He forced his hands to relax.

Apparently sensing his mood, Maggie nodded and returned to the nurse’s station.

That tiny look of fear in her eyes was not lost on Lyle but rather seemed to incense another of those increasing rushes of fury.

Inside Wendy’s room, the birth of the child was imminent. While the girl’s vital signs were almost nonexistent, the fetal heart monitor was singing with life. The large mound that was Wendy’s abdomen churned and squirmed between contractions.

Nervously, Lyle scratched his chin. Feeling angry stubble, he knew he must work fast. With steady hands and a sharp scalpel, Lyle performed an efficient Caesarian Section on little Wendy.

The healthy baby boy was a joy to behold. Tiny clawed feet and hands waved wildly once the cord was cut. Little sharp teeth clamped down on Lyle’s finger as he cleared the airway. Lovingly, Lyle wiped the bloody mucous from the down covered little body of his son.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Dr. Canthrop, Detective Steiger wants . . .”

The infant let out a sharp howling wail as Maggie entered the room. Standing in the open doorway, her face a study of perplexity, Maggie opened her mouth. Lyle, sensing the forthcoming scream, immediately slashed through her vocal cords with the silver scalpel held awkwardly in a taloned fist. A fleeting feeling of remorse crossed his rapidly mutating brain as a bright stream of crimson quickly transformed Maggie’s white nurse’s dress into a red nightmare.

Suddenly, the face of Detective Hans Steiger appeared in the high patch of glass seizing Lyle’s full attention. Maggie’s prone body across the bottom of the door began to slide jerkily as the detective pushed fiercely from the other side. Steiger, with all the grace of a beached walrus, stumbled over the dead legs of the nurse and landed face first, his drawn gun skittering under Wendy’s bed.

The squalling infant, as if sensing danger, became suddenly quiet. The thing that had been Lyle Canthrop, MD, emitting little grunts of exertion, used its dagger-like claws to rip out the detective’s throat insuring his silence for eternity.

As the remainder of Wendy Wheeler’s precious blood drained out of her abdominal incision, her breathing became sharp little gasps. The Lyle-monster, cradling his beloved little offspring, paused at her bedside.

With a raspy voice from its fang-filled mouth, the beast grated out the last horrible words that Wendy’s tortured ears would ever have to listen to. “Thank you for sssuch a fine ssson.”

With an awkward gentleness uncommon to this beast, the monster clumsily closed the blue-gray eyes for the last time.

end

Link to Part one of Such A Fine Son

Dragon Chronicles XLIX

2010-10-21T15:32:00.000-04:00

XLIX. The enlightened composer tables the primitive recipe

An anecdote schools a new digital remedy

The first key clashes against the bias

A cellular fossil despairs all the pious

15 Days to Halloween

2010-10-16T11:27:00.000-04:00

Devoted Readers,

First of all -- thanks for all of the great comments, e-mails, and face book praise concerning my #TuesdaySerial – Such A Fine Son.

I will, unfortunately, be out of town this upcoming Tuesday (10/19) and unable to get the conclusion printed on my blog at the usual time.

However, the following Tuesday falls on Halloween Week and I think it is only fitting to air my conclusion on Tuesday, October 26th.

Hope to see you there . . . I promise that you’ll not be disappointed!

Halloween, to me, is more of a feeling than a holiday. The chills and thrills that I get from watching those old horror movies flit across my television screen just make me feel alive! Call me twisted if you must but I just know that there are many other horror fans out there like me who shiver at the thought of all the cool horror stuff spewing from our televisions at this particular time of year.

It was my love of watching old horror movies, reading scary mystery books, and never missing my favorite science fiction television shows that spurred me towards some spooky writing of my own.

For those of you with inquiring minds, Such A Fine Son is based simply on the random meandering of my twisted imagination. I hope you’ll come back next week to see how the story ends . . . Dr. Canthrop would really like that!

Until next week then . . .

Dragon Chronicles XLVIII

2010-10-16T10:17:00.000-04:00

XLVIII. The exposed theft lowers the supreme value of an export

The wide circle biases but the option sells short
Golden gateway forks a discriminating starter
A northern reckoner insists on bruising the common martyr

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Five)

2010-10-12T18:00:00.001-04:00

Such A Fine Son (Part Five)
by

Louise Dragon

Joy Wheeler’s bitter words dogged Lyle for a fortnight.

Get rid of it—get rid of it—get rid of it.

When he found time to power nap between emergencies, his dreams clouded with grisly images: fearsome monsters chewing and clawing their way through the womb of helpless Wendy Wheeler.

Spots of anemic pink blood spattered on white . . .

Dark hollows circled Lyle’s eyes like smudged ink but he refused to allow his lack of rest to affect his work. With steady hands he continued to save the battered lives of trauma victims rushed into his care from dusk until dawn. When he wasn’t scrubbed and engaged in the ER, Lyle made rounds to check on his patients or attempted power naps in the intern’s quarters.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Doctor, Detective Steiger is asking for you.”

The squeak of a door hinge and Maggie’s anxious face emerged haloed in a slice of light from the hall.

“Doctor . . . there’s been another incident. The police need to talk to you.”

“I’ll be right there, Maggie.”

Wearily, Lyle rubbed his aching eyes and ran a hand over his raspy shadow of whiskers. Gathering his hair back into the ever-popular tail, Lyle took time to run a toothbrush over his gummy teeth and slosh a little water over his haggard features.

Striding into his office, Lyle could find no sign of Detective Steiger’s presence except for a faint whiff of spearmint. Puzzled, Lyle backed out and gave Maggie a questioning look. She quickly pointed toward Wendy’s room before returning silently to her med. charts.

Through the patch of glass imbedded high on the door, Lyle could see Detective Steiger. The rugged young cop had hold of one of Wendy’s tiny hands. His lips were moving but Lyle couldn’t hear the words through the heavy oak door. The sight of Wendy spurred Lyle’s emotions. The normally slack blue-gray eyes typically gazed straight ahead. Those eyes, still quite dull and lifeless, now seemed trained on the face of the babbling detective. Concern gushed over Lyle. His hands clenched and unclenched. A gout of anger pushed him through the door.

“You were looking for me, detective?”

“Yes, can she hear us?”

“We believe that, yes, coma patients do hear and remember what goes on around them. You were talking to Wendy just now when I came in. Tell me, did you get a response from her? Anything at all?”

“She seemed to be paying attention to me, although she never moved a muscle.”

Lyle sighed. “I thought as much,” he replied scratching his raspy beard.

“Has she said anything since I brought her in?” the detective inquired.

“I’m afraid not, it’s still too soon after her ordeal. Shall we talk in my office?”

As he followed the detective from the room, Lyle glanced back at Wendy’s prone shape, little potbelly just beginning to make a dent in the blanket. The expressionless blue-gray eyes stared straight ahead.

“What seems to be the problem?” Lyle asked, holding open his office door and motioning Detective Steiger inside.

“Doctor, I’m sure you’re familiar with Wendy’s mother, Joy Wheeler,” the detective began speaking carefully around his massive wad of gum.

“Yes, quite,” Lyle returned, expressionless.

“Well, we found what was left of her scattered about the foot of Coca-Cola Ledge.”

“Suicide?” Lyle questioned.

“Hardly,” the detective shot back. “She was literally torn to pieces. Chewed up and spit out like an old hamburger.”

Lyle noticed that Detective Steiger seemed to be studying his face for a reaction of some sort. Although the detective’s words affected him hardly at all, he tried to compose his features into what felt like a look of shock and surprise. Steiger finally seemed satisfied with Lyle’s facial expression and continued.

“Could be the same perpetrator as that of the girl.”

“Soooooo . . .” Lyle prompted.

“Well, nothing, I guess,” the detective muttered chewing vigorously on his gum.

“If the girl still isn’t talking, I’m pretty much dead-ended here.”

“Like I said,” Lyle stated, “It’s still too soon. While Wendy has healed well physically, her mental state is still working to recover from her ordeal.”

“Well, keep me posted, Doc.” Steiger left the floor in his customary haze of spearmint.

Lyle splayed his hands on his desk blotter to keep them from clenching and unclenching uncontrollably. His head ached from battling the deep-seated fury that seemed about to consume him.

“Control,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “100, 99, 98, 97, 96, control.”

Lyle’s breathing slowed and his head cleared. Incident all but forgotten, the young doctor began his early morning rounds.

Continued . . .

Link to Part One (Such A Fine Son)

Dragon Chronicles XLVII

2010-10-07T17:19:00.000-04:00

XLVII. An eccentric prophet escapes across the concrete lake

Eastern rats battle wetland barons for an awaited quake

An enlightening fire fevers the ghost of a chance

The parked supplier leads a patterned advance

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Four)

2010-10-05T17:52:00.001-04:00

Such A Fine Son (Part Four)

Louise Dragon

Two months later, Joy Wheeler’s voice still nagged at his thoughts while Lyle read the latest developments on her daughter’s chart. Mrs. Wheeler was not going to take this news well. Not well at all.

“You’re sure about this, Maggie?”

“I was sure about it last month, now it’s a fact,” the nurse stated. “I don’t envy you, Doctor. I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell The Dragon Lady.”

Lyle sighed and gazed down at his silent patient. The worst of her lacerations and bruises had faded leaving lifeless blue-gray eyes imprisoned in a parchment shell of a face. Lyle had cared for many such cases while covering his graveyard shift at the trauma center. This particular little girl seemed to touch his heart. He didn’t feel sad for her . . .

“Okay, Maggie, start Wendy on prenatal supplements intravenously. Has The Dra . . . er Mrs. Wheeler been around to visit lately?”

“Funny you should ask, Doctor. We were just commenting, at the nurse’s station, that Mrs. Wheeler’s visits have become extremely irregular. Why back at the beginning, she was here every day; that voice just about drove us all crazy. Lately, she stops by about every other week . . .” Maggie frowned down at Wendy’s still figure. “Can I talk to you out in the hall, Doctor?”

“I didn’t want to say so in front of the patient,” Maggie began, closing the heavy oak door behind her. “But that woman never talks to the poor little thing when she visits. Just sits and stares. I’ve never seen anything like it. Seems she can’t say enough to us nurses—‘this sheet’s too tight—it’s cold in here’ wouldn’t you think she’d talk to the girl? Maybe I’m out of line but I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, once she finds out about the pregnancy, we’ll never see her again.”

“Maggie, your concern is admirable,” Lyle began, his mind a million miles away.

“This may be one of the reasons why the patient is not responding to treatment. Put a note on her chart for staff to begin talking to the girl. Maybe one of us will reach her.”

Ultimately, Maggie was right about Joy Wheeler. When Lyle caught up with Mrs. Wheeler a few days later with the disturbing news of Wendy’s ill-gotten pregnancy, she turned her small bird-like eyes to his face. Her sharp mouth mutely opened and closed a few times.

“Get rid of it!” she finally hissed

“Mrs. Wheeler, Wendy simply isn’t strong enough to withstand surgery,” Lyle said, struggling to keep his anger under control.

Lyle was used to dealing with people of all kinds. He failed to understand why this woman was able to push his buttons so easily.

“Just cut that monster out of her, Doctor. She can’t think for herself, right now. This is what she’d want. It’s for her own good”

She looked down at her motionless daughter, gently stroked a pale cheek, and then quickly bustled from the room nearly colliding with a drug cart on her way out.

Lyle wiped a single fat tear from one of Wendy’s stark blue-gray eyes.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Sweetheart,” he whispered to the fragile invalid. “There isn’t any reason in the world for you not to have a fine healthy baby. No reason at all.”

Discouraged, Lyle picked up the girl’s chart to make a note on the impending abortion. Instead, with steady hands, he merely ordered an increase in vitamin dosage before striding from the room.

Continued . . .

Link to Part One (Such A Fine Son)

Dragon Chronicles XLVI

2010-09-29T17:13:00.000-04:00

XLVI. Evils spawns from the Poster Camps

Polluted chirps break through nightmare damps

The fiddling bigotry counts past a broken thicket

The sect staggers backwards, through the wicket

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Three)

2010-09-27T17:52:00.001-04:00

Such A Fine Son (Part Three)
by
Louise Dragon

A penetrating voice stabbing at his brain gradually disrupted Lyle’s slumber.

“Oh my God, my baby. What happened to my Wendy? What did this? Oh, sweet Jesus why isn’t someone helping her? Where’re the doctors? Nurse . . . Nurse . . .”

Tap, tap, tap.

“Dr. Canthrop? Doctor, sorry to disturb you but Jane Doe’s been identified. Her mother is asking for you.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” Lyle told the nurse. “Put her in my office and try to get her calmed down before she wakes up the entire floor. I’ll be right there.”

Yawning and stretching, Lyle ran a hand over his raspy face and peered at his watch. An hour of sleep was just enough to keep him on his feet until dawn. Raking his fingers through shoulder length dark hair, he ducked into the restroom to splash cold water over his bleary face. Carefully inspecting his long thin face in the mirror, Lyle pulled an elastic band from a smock pocket and quickly pulled his mass of hair back into a neat tail at the nape of his neck. From past experience, Lyle knew that parents felt uncomfortable with a doctor who resembled Jesus Christ or a host of current rock stars.

“Maggie, name?” Lyle whispered as he passed the nurse’s station.

“Wheeler, Wendy Wheeler. Mrs. Wheeler is in your office. She’s extremely agitated, Doctor.”

Lyle took a deep breath before bustling into the little cubicle he used for an office when on duty at the trauma center.

Joy Wheeler, perched bird-like on a hard plastic chair, and sprang to her feet. Her loud voice pelted the small room with needles of shrillness. “You’re the doctor? What’s happened to my daughter, Mister? I want the truth. Just tell me like it is. Was she raped?”

“Please try to calm down, Mrs. Wheeler.” Lyle leaned against a corner of his desk and folded his arms to keep from putting a hand over each ear.

“We’ve stabilized your daughter, she was beaten and raped.”

The hawk-nosed woman folded back into the chair like a deflated balloon, hands crisscrossed over her mouth and, for the moment, blessedly speechless.

Lyle waited silently for the woman to regain her composure. Her sharp-featured face, a study in whiteness under a bubble of brassy red hair, emitted a high, shrill whine from behind red-tipped fingers.

“Calm down?” she finally shrieked. “My Wendy is lying there in that bed like a broken doll and you want me to calm down? You don’t have any children, do you, Doctor?”

Lyle could feel an odd rush of heat spreading over his neck and ears. Intensely, he concentrated on keeping sarcasm out of his voice before he replied. “ I only meant . . . some coma patients are aware of their surroundings. Jane . . . er Wendy may be able to hear us. If we expect her to emerge from this coma whole in body and mind, we’ll need to surround her with tranquility and gentleness.”

“Wha-da-ya-mean we,” Mrs. Wheeler spat, crescendo rising. “What you really mean is ME! Let me remind you, ‘twas a man did this to her. I didn’t put her here. Unless you think I neglected her. That it, Doctor? You think she’s here cause I have to go to work every day to put food on the table?”

Mrs. Wheeler began to wail miserably. “How many times did I tell her to stay outa them woods? Full o’ perverts, I told her. Kids don’t listen, Doctor. They just don’t listen. I done the best I could.”

Curiously, Lyle felt unmoved by the woman’s apparent misery.

Continued . . .

Link to Part One (Such a Fine Son)

Dragon Chronicles XLV.

2010-09-22T17:52:00.002-04:00

XLV. A tireless spirit breaks free from the pack
Littleuns from Carthage now double back
The waters glow green with streaks of light
Blisters and needles litter the new launching site

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Two)

2010-09-21T20:50:00.001-04:00

Such A Fine Son (Part Two)
by
Louise Dragon

“Doctor, I’m Detective Hans Steiger from the Waterville Police Department, can you tell me what happened to this girl?”

Lyle rubbed his weary eyes and tried to focus on the barely stabilized, battered body of Jane Doe.

“Hard to say. Raped, definitely. Either she was beaten too, or the wild animals got to her from the looks of those bites and scratches.” Lyle told the muscular young officer. “You did say she was found in the woods?”

“About five hundred feet south of Coca-Cola ledge,” Detective Steiger stated, chomping gum and flipping through a small notebook. Bunch of kids found her, swore she was dead. We got the call on a body in the woods at 9:20 and I went right out there. Thought she was dead myself, the poor little thing. Will she pull through?”

“It’s possible,” Lyle said. “She’s in a coma from shock and exposure. Although most of her wounds are lacerations and skin tears, she’s been brutally traumatized. We never know just how much cataclysm the human brain can withstand. It’s wait and watch now. Have you identified her yet?”

“The information went out on the eleven o’clock news,” The detective said around a wad of gum the size of a golf ball. “I expect to have her tagged by morning—if she makes it, that is.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Detective Steiger, it’s been a long, rough night. I’ll try to keep the department posted on any changes in her condition.”

“Damn straight,” Steiger spat, following Lyle into the hall surrounded by a little cloud of spearmint. “I got a little sister about that age. I’d like to get my hands on the ape that did this. Right now, this little girl is the only one who can point a finger at him. If she should come to, just call the station and ask for me. You got it Doc? I want to be the first person that little girl talks to.”

Lyle watched the red-faced detective stride into the elevator and punch the button. Slowly, the young doctor shuffled back to the bedside of Jane Doe. What’s so special about this one, he asked himself? Since she was about the tenth beaten and clawed Jane Doe brought in, in as many months, Lyle wondered at the sudden concern of the police department. Checking her vital signs one more time and finding no changes, Lyle headed for the resident intern quarters to grab a power nap before the next emergency.

Continued . . .

Link to Part One (Such a Fine Son)

#fridayflash: Portal 7298

2010-09-17T13:23:00.000-04:00

Portal 7298
by Louise Dragon

Portal 7298 remained buried at the base of Den Mountain for 276 years. A freak mudslide had buried it completely in the spring of 1733; and so the sentry slept. Heavy rains tormenting the Ozarks in the winter of 2009 washed away the last vestiges of earth, clay and debris. Once again, sentry felt the warmth of the sun on his planks. The sentry completed a quick check on its systems, before continuing to doze.

Corky Rolf hunched his shoulders trying to bury his neck and ears deeper into the worn old parka he’d pinched from Archer House. He wished he’d taken food and water before he’d run off. His mind wandered back a little . . .

“Corky, what’s this?” Anton Marlow had asked flipping a half pack of Marlboros across the bedspread.

Corky looked from Anton’s face to the cigarettes, his mind reaching for an excuse . . . any excuse. A lie . . . even a lie might work.

“Well . . .” Anton began, tapping on the cigarette pack.

Corky looked at his feet.

Anton sighed. “You know the rules. You’re too young to smoke. Spend the next four hours in your room reflecting on your actions. I’m also revoking your phone and television privileges for the weekend.” Anton picked up the pack and broke each of the remaining cigarettes into his palm. He left the room and Corky heard the whoosh of a toilet flush.

A frown deepened between Corky’s eyes while a hank of bedspread twisted between his fists. Ten minutes later he’d pinched a coat and a flashlight from the halfway house, and in thirty minutes he was half a mile away – working his way quickly through the forest.

They’ll be sorry, Corky’s mind worked overtime as he kicked at a heap of pinecones in his path. Lose my privileges? What efin privileges? – He struck a blow at a wide fir branch and it smacked back at his teary face. I’m never going back there . . . never.

By morning, however, Corky’s rumbling stomach and voracious thirst began to soften his resolve.

Curious humming crept into the pit of Corky’s empty stomach. He stopped and glanced around. Was he hearing it or feeling it? The sensation soothed his frazzled nerves and tortured stomach. He decided to move ahead a tad further.

As soon as the humming started . . . it dissipated and when Corky stumbled through the dense brush into a small clearing at the base of a mountain, he’d already lost all memory of the drone.

The small cabin, scrunched into the side of the mountain like a forgotten toy, belonged in a Rockwell painting. Old and weather beaten, it had a scrubbed look: clean and inviting. A stone well drew Corky’s attention and he quickly cranked up a bucket of beautifully clear water -- gulping with gusto. The water was cold and wet, but flat somehow: synthetic, not really thirst quenching – not as refreshing as he had expected.

Behind the well Corky spied a tangle of blackberry vines. As he picked handfuls of the plump fruit he wondered where the birds were and why they hadn’t beaten him to these tempting treats. The berries looked fat, juicy and enticing, but they were disappointingly sour and lifeless. They did quiet Corky’s rumbling stomach, however.

Why is it so quiet? Not a birdcall, or insect buzz?

Corky tapped on the cabin door and it silently swung inward giving him his first glimpse inside. The cabin -- only one room -- revealed no one was home. Inside the cabin was as neat as the outside . . . no cobwebs and no dust. Someone must be living here . . . maybe they had just stepped out to . . . to what? Shoot a deer for dinner?

Corky, leaving the door ajar, explored the interior of the small cabin. He saw a stone fireplace, small table with one chair, and a neatly made bunk. Corky circled that bunk, he’d had one long exhausting night and now that his thirst and hunger had abated, sleep was next on his list.

“Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” Corky jeered, then quickly clapped a berry stained hand to his mouth. His words sounded tinny . . . hollow.

“Hello . . .Hello.” his voice seemed cracked and strained -- unfamiliar.

What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. Corky remembered the mashed up tobacco in Anton’s palm. Had it been only yesterday? The humming sensation from the clearing washed quickly over him then stopped suddenly.

Corky turned in a full circle – stopped and gaped at the mantle above the stone fireplace. A familiar red and white pack lay on the mantle with a plain pack of book matches. Glancing quickly at the open door, Corky covered the distance between bunk and mantle in two giant steps. Seconds later he lit up and inhaled expecting the normal burst of nicotine buzz and not getting it. He examined the cigarette – ordinary white trunk with a gold filter -- but it tasted like varnish and made his stomach turn. He stubbed it out in the fireplace, removed his muddy shoes and frayed jacket, and stretched out wearily on the soft bunk.

The sentry watched quietly until the boy was asleep. It’s shapeless yellow form floated out of the wall and hovered over the sleeping figure. Misty fronds swirled in and out of the vaporous creature. The ancient ones had left the sentry here, but he needed to renew this portal’s energy from time to time to continue. He would be so glad to finally step out of the clearing and into this colorful world. The portal now held a renewed sentry.

The boy who left the clearing that afternoon looked like Corky Rolf and walked like Corky Rolf, but was not Corky Rolf.

Corky Rolf’s essence churned without shape and screamed without sound from the eaves of Portal 7298.
end

Dragon Chronicles XLIV.

2010-09-15T18:09:00.000-04:00

XLIV. Arethusa will color a new river red
The souls of the ages recognize a common thread
Crackpots converge at forty and seventy-four
Peacock’s gold scraped from the ocean’s door

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part One)

2010-09-14T18:36:00.002-04:00

Such A Fine Son
By
Louise Dragon

Wendy Wheeler’s flashlight cast a feeble glow through the darkness. The path, etched through the woods by the feet of hundreds of children, would eventually cross Main Street in Waterville. Town Crest Village, the housing project where Wendy lived, loomed behind her on the brink of Coca-Cola Ledge.

Wendy skipped lightly over tree roots and rocks, her thoughts already down on the streets with her friends. She loved the city streets; there was always some kind of excitement going on in town. If Ma only knew . . .

“Don’t ever take the path after dark, Honey,” Ma had said so many times.

“Heaven knows what perverts sleep in those woods. I shudder to think about it.”

But Wendy took the path many times after dark and had never encountered a soul. She usually giggled down the path with Sophie Freedman, but tonight her best friend was at choir rehearsal.

With Sophie along, Wendy had never noticed how quiet the path was, or how the tree branches seemed to reach out towards her as she skipped past. A vague feeling of alarm tugged at the tiny hairs on the back of Wendy’s neck just before her flashlight sputtered and died. She stopped dead on the murky Path. A faint breeze rattled tall branches overhead, like fingernails tapping. Wendy bit down hard on her lower lip.

Trying to rationalize her fear, she peered anxiously about in the gloom.

There! Did something move?

As she was about to sprint off like a frightened rabbit, the dark clouds above parted. The silver mottled moon beamed through a hexagon in the tree branches touching her surroundings with shimmer blight. Small white moths fluttering before her in the moonbeam eased Wendy’s thudding heartbeat. She let out a sharp caw of relief.

After a few hesitant steps, however, the clouds captured the moonlight plunging her once again into darkness. At the sudden eclipse, a tiny sound of fear escaped her lips making her jump involuntarily.

Up ahead on the path, the darkness seemed to boil and twitch.

The sharp snap of a twig.

A grunt.

There was definitely someone on the path. Visions of dirty street people flashed through Wendy’s mind. Old looking men wrapped in newspapers, their rheumy eyes peeking out to watch the streets.

“Heaven knows what perverts sleep in those woods. I shudder . . .
I shudder . . .” Ma’s words echoed into her fear. “Not after dark . . . perverts sleep in those woods . . . I shudder . . . I shudder . . .”

Wendy’s fear turned into blind panic as the snapping of twigs grew louder.

Blindly, she turned and bolted. Whoever was coming up the path, sounded big.

Heavy breathing and grunting noises thundered closer. Trees crackled and branches thrashed as the quaking footfalls closed in.

Something solid struck Wendy between the shoulder blades. The loud thud rang in her ears as she lost her footing and sprawled into a bed of crunchy leaves.

The clouds thinned, triggering a faded grayish light.

Wendy rolled over to face her attacker. The sight of the beast overwhelmed her young brain, crippling her mind and body: blue-gray eyes glassed over, lithe body sagged. Watching the scene as though from afar, Wendy Wheeler’s mind overloaded in its final attempt to shield her from the horror.

The beast, bear-like and slobbering, was no mere pervert. Thick dark fur covered most of its body. Claws, like mini daggers sprouted from almost human fingers. Yellow fangs coursed twin rivers of saliva over a heavily bearded chin. The creature’s chest and abdomen were leathery pink and strangely hairless ending in a massive erection. Huge dark sunken eyes held a look of madness as it roared and grabbed the prone girl.

Shaking her like a rag doll, the monster tore the clothes from her limp body.

With an inhuman animal lust it penetrated the girl. A single high shrill scream issued from her blue lips driving the attacker to a fevered frenzy of biting, clawing and thrusting. Evil seeds discharged, the monster stood and gazed down into Wendy’s wide blue-gray eyes. Tears and snot mixed with the girl’s blood and fell from the creature’s face leaving ragged pink dots on her naked flesh. Balefully, the thing raised its massive head to the moon and moaned with hopeless anguish.

A police siren wafting up through the tangle of trees brought the beast to a wary crouch.

From her broken body, the tortured blue-gray eyes of Wendy Wheeler watched the beast flee into the shadowy forest. With it went her soul.

Continued . . .

#fridayflash: Seed Of Evil

2010-09-11T08:16:00.000-04:00

SEED OF EVIL
By Louise Dragon

The shadow floated by the instant Claudia slipped backwards off the windowsill, and sensed the hundreds of feet of open space beneath her. It was a sign: an epiphany, the perfect ending to her life.

In her mind’s eye, Claudia pictured the devastation left behind as her body plummeted to destruction.

Her children, once beautiful sweet babies, now slept the deepest sleep of all. How could she have known they’d become nagging and whiny? They drove her to it. Never giving her a moment’s peace. She felt no remorse. She had to do it. They had spied on her . . . watched as she buried the ice pick into their father over and over again. Cried. Actually cried for him. How ungrateful. Didn’t they know she had done them a favor? Didn’t they know that she had to do it . . . he had found out about the others.

Her necessary deeds completed, she had thought about relocating and starting over; then she heard the sirens. Someone had called the cops.

No other way out now.

They couldn’t take her alive.

The sidewalk rushed up and took Claudia’s life, but not before the evil seed planted behind her left ear burst forth and buried itself into a female spectator. The watching woman gazed up in time to see a shadowy blot wing silently away, she scratched at an itchy place behind her left ear and thought: What a beautiful way to die.
END

Dragon Chronicles XLIII.

2010-09-08T18:30:00.000-04:00

XLIII. A new lamp burns with an inextinguishable fire
Enemies will come to subdue the black friar
A death comes too late – great people re-created
All that remains is an important verse now misstated

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge (Conclusion)

2010-09-07T17:38:00.000-04:00

Wrenge (Conclusion)
by
Louise Dragon

In the nouveau district of the city, Alec Nietupski rubbed his eyes as the symbols winked out from the center of the winged portal, like a street light flickering off at dawn.

"My God, you did it, friend," Alec whispered into the dark, quiet street.

For the first time in many nights, Alec would sleep now.

~~~

Brad pulled out the drawing of Elizabeth Michael's winged portal that he had been carrying with him for days.

The winged oval was empty!

He waited for the ambulance to pick up Monks, went home and gathered Elizabeth Michael's deviant tools, and burned the heap in his father's fireplace.

It was over. The Memphis-Mangler wouldn't be claiming any more victims.

~~~

High on the craggy cliffs of Mount Moriah, a large brown vulture dropped small bits of decayed rabbit flesh into the hungry mouth of her newly hatched, adopted offspring. The half-human cherub cooed with delight and reached out chubby lavender hands, begging for more choice morsels from her new mother.
END

Link to Wrenge (part 1)

#fridayflash: Memo From Hell

2010-09-03T20:05:00.000-04:00

Memo From Hell
By Louise Dragon

Sue kicked off her heels the moment the door to her apartment swished shut behind her. Yes, her apartment; Neil was gone now. Although she’d been careful not to let her true feelings show at the funeral; she’d squeezed out tears and everything. Sue was rid of him – and she was thrilled about it.

He’s gone; she wanted to shout as she scooped up her mail. No more weirdness, no more fear; the man had been one scary guy with all of his strange books and secret mumblings. For the first time since her wedding six years ago, Sue felt serene and at ease. She was glad to be unburdened from a husband whose bizarreness had increased over the years until it finally killed him.

Scanning through the bills and junk mail, Sue paused at a chartreuse envelope with her first name scrawled across it in spiky letters. No stamp, no postmark, not even a proper address. Perhaps a sympathy card she supposed. The envelope felt warm in her hands. She tore it open and a rancid odor struck her nostrils making her hands tremble as she read the grisly message:

Dear Sue,

Since eventually you’ll be joining me, I thought you might be interested in the goings on down here.

Yesterday was my first day. It started at six A.M., when temperatures began to rise. This place reached six hundred degrees by early afternoon. The other poor souls down here tell me that’s about average for this time of year.

When they closed the lid of my coffin, I awoke almost immediately here in my little honeycomb cubicle set into the walls along with about a million others. Every one of us has his own little niche. Since it’s too hot to sleep, we amuse ourselves by counting the drops falling from the stalactites above. Sound boring? It better not be – we have to pay attention. In the morning, He might ask how many drops fell. According to the souls of the damned, it’s in our best interest to know!

Since it was my first day, I played it by ear. We can eat anything we can find. Everything tastes like charcoal, and water is hard to find. Steam is plentiful, but difficult to drink. My sinuses haven’t bothered me since I arrived.

Work assignments are passed out daily by Him, and I didn’t hear any complaints. My job for the day was clearing more little caverns in the walls to make room for new arrivals. For this I used a pick and shovel == dropping the rocks down into a bubbling pit of puke green lava to be melted down into more puke green lava. Other workers use this vile concoction to paint pictures of hideous atrocities on the walls between the small caves. The drawings give off a luminescent green glow and this where our light comes from. I’m told, over in The Blazes, the drawings give off a yellow-red light. He lives over there.

You probably want to know more about Him. What can I say? The guy looks different every time I see Him. In the morning He looked like your typical Devil image. You know – hooves, tail, pitchfork, etc; leering and ugly, just like in the movies. Big too – had to duck His head to keep from scraping His horns on the ceiling. Later on, when He came around to check our work, He looked like a giant dog – black as night with fangs the size of daggers and slanted eyes emitting an eerie purple glow of iridescent evil. I could not look into those eyes. I think I’d have gone mad. They say the bonkers souls end up in one of The Pits. No thanks, I’ll try to stay right up here in The Inferno – It’s rather cozy. They tell me that you get used to the heat at about the same time your eyes become accustomed to the green light.

I rather like Hell. I’m told that if you play your cards right, He sometimes sends you upstairs on assignment. I intend to be one of those lucky few, so plan on seeing me soon. I promise that you will be receiving my utmost attention.

Your doting husband, Neil.

As Sue read the last hideous word, greenish flames began to lick her fingers around the vile smelling sheet of paper. She managed to drop it into the kitchen sink just before she fainted.
end

Dragon Chronicles XLII

2010-09-03T08:50:00.000-04:00

XLII. The one harsh of letters will carve a horrible notch
There comes a trembling on the graveyard watch

Flood and wind -- plague and drought, bring trouble

With a wavering of the land, all evils double

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XV.

2010-08-31T18:23:00.001-04:00

Wrenge (15)
by
Louise Dragon

In the big city, in the quiet nouveau district of Chelsea Street, Alec Nietupski sat sideways on his lighted front porch steps. His bulging yellowish eyes gazed intently at the mysterious winged portal above his front door.
I hope you know what you're doing, friend, he was thinking.
~~~

"You got bullets in that thing, don't you," Monks was asking Brad. "Won't matter how good a shot you are if . . . Angie? Angie?"

Brad looked up to see Monks' face drained of color. The big man, mouth wide, was gazing off over Brad's shoulder. Brad heard a sucking-pop and spun around to see a heavy set, naked woman walking toward them in the forty-degree night air. Like a sleep-walker, she slowly raised an arm toward Monks and mouthed theword "blood."

"Monks, what's going on?"

The big man was rooted, eyes wide and unseeing, like a coma patient.

"Monks!" Brad shouted, reaching up and shaking him by the shoulders. "Ernie. Who is that."

Monks shook his head and focused on Brad's face. "That's Angie," he muttered. "That's my girlfriend, Angie."

"Monks, you shithead, you told me that you killed your girlfriend."

"I did kill her. It can't be Angie, but it is. Oh, shit, it's the Memphis-Mangler. Angie's dead. It has to be the Memphis-Mangler fixed up to look like her. Kill it. Shoot it."

Brad turned toward the advancing woman. "Who are you?"

She ignored him. Did not show that she even knew Brad was there but kept advancing on Monks, who by now had retreated until his back was up against Brad's car.

Brad reached out a hand to grab her arm. The flesh was ice cold, slimy, and unyielding, like clutching a dead python. The girl kept walking, knocking Brad on his ass by the base of the big tree. This was when Brad saw the black murky shadow. A shadow so thick and viscid that it blocked out the sight of the leaves that should have been beneath it.

(Cast your shadow in his wake.)

Brad, swallowing his fear, looked up.

In a dim corner of the Morelli roof crouched an oval, purple figure, faintly glimmering against the night ski.

(Beware of watchers as you sleep, or to the eyrie your soul will creep.)

"I'm sorry Angie, so sorry. I didn't mean to do it You know I love you. I'm sorry." Monks blubbered as the Angie-thing moved in.

Brad saw her pointed finger slide into Monks' cheek like a stalk of celery into a Bloody Mary.

Monks screamed.

Brad stood and fired a shot above the thing on the roof. "I see you, bitch. I'm watching. Go to back to hell!"

A wild gust of stinking wind from the junkyard blew grit into Brad's eyes. A sobbing shriek rang out, deafening him momentarily.

Furiously rubbing his stinging eyes, with one hand, Brad lifted his gun to take a shot. This time he'd shoot the Wrenge.

It was gone.

Monks lay half under Brad's car, blood streamed from a hole in his face but he was still breathing.
~~~
Continued . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)