Christmas Visit by Stuart R. West

Sometimes the best Christmas gifts are the most unexpected ones...

* * *

The snow fell outside Aubrey’s window. Ice webbed across the panes. Veins of Old Man Winter, her father used to call them. She blew condensation on the glass, wrote with her finger. I miss you.

Christmas Eve used to be fun, one of Aubrey’s favorite times of the year. Even if it was impossible to go to sleep. But it wasn’t excitement keeping Aubrey awake, not this year. Rather, she missed her father, couldn’t stop thinking about him. The first Christmas she wouldn’t spend with him since she was a baby.

In the hallway, Aubrey’s mother called out, “Aubrey, are you asleep?”

“Yes.” She scrambled into the covers, pulled the sheet over her head.

“Doesn’t sound like it to me.” Her mother came in, sat on the edge of her bed, peeled back the sheet and giggled. “Sleeping girls don’t speak.”

“I’m trying to go to sleep.  It’s just…I miss Daddy.”

“I know you do, honey. I miss him, too.” Aubrey’s mother turned away, drew in a deep breath.  “But you know he has a job to do. An important job.”

Aubrey nodded. “Uh-huh. In Aghaffastan.”

“Afghanistan.  Fighting for freedom.”

“But…I really wish he was here. For Christmas.”

Her mother placed her hand along Aubrey’s cheek, gave her a comforting pat. “I wish he was, too. Now get to sleep, Aubrey. We can’t have you awake when Santa Claus visits.”

Santa Claus. Another reason she wasn’t in a Christmas mood. Last month Tommy and some of the other boys told her Santa wasn’t real. They said it was just their parents pretending. It couldn’t be true, they were teasing her, she just knew it. But…how can one man bring toys to children in the whole wide world in just one night?

“Mommy?”

“Hmm?”

“Is Santa Claus real? Or is he make-believe?”

Her mother blinked at her, puckered her lips like she’d just bit into a lemon. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I dunno. Some of the boys told me he wasn’t real.”

“What matters is if you believe in Santa. Do you?”

No. “I guess so.”

“Well, there you have it. He’s real, then.”

* * *

Aubrey dreamed of her father, how he used to swing her high in the air, tossing her onto his strong shoulders. His handsome smile. How he made her feel safe, protected. Loved. A dream so sweet, yet sad. She woke up, tears stinging her eyes and an empty gnawing at her stomach.

Then she heard her mother yelp. 

“Mom?”

Footsteps clicked down the hallway. Her door opened.

“Dad?”

“Hey there, pumpkin! Merry Christmas!” Dressed in his military uniform, he swept off his hat, tucked it beneath his arm.  Still dreaming?

“Daddy!” She jumped out of bed, ran into his waiting arms. Nope, not a dream! He hoisted her high, nearly banging her head into the ceiling. 

Behind him, Aubrey’s mother grinned, the happiest she’d looked in a while. “Honestly, you two!” 

“I can’t believe it, can’t believe it, can’t believe it! It’s a Christmas miracle. Daddy I’ve missed you so much! Can’t believe it, can’t believe it, can’t believe it!”

“Slow down there, pumpkin. It’s really me. Let me get a good look at you.” He set her down, smiling at her. She bounced on her toes, doing the bathroom dance. “Yep, my little girl’s growing up. Now let’s get you back in bed.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m way too excited to sleep, Daddy!”

“Let’s give it a try.”

“How long are you gonna be here?” She climbed into bed but sat up. No way was she sleeping now. “Do you get to stay for Christmas?”

He sat next to her. “Afraid not. It’s a short trip, sweetheart. But I couldn’t just stay away from my two girls. Not on Christmas Eve!”

“How’d you get here? I mean, I thought you were in Gaffannastan!”

He laughed. “I was. In Afghanistan. But, ah…a friend gave me a ride. Best Christmas gift ever!” 

“You’re the best Christmas gift ever, Daddy!”  Afraid to lose him again, she clung to him, burying her face in his chest. “Please don’t leave, Daddy! Please.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Afraid I have to. In fact…” He squinted, looked out the window. “I think my ride’s wanting to get going. But know that I miss you and your mother. And I love you both very much.”

“Daddy…please don’t go.” She wanted to be a big girl, she really did. But she couldn’t stop the tears no matter how hard she tried. “Please…please…”

“Oh, hey now, let’s have none of this. Where’s my big girl?”

“Here?”

“I need you to be strong, sweetheart. To help look after Mommy. I’ll be home for good before you know it.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart. And speaking of hearts…” He tapped on hers. “I’m always with you, right inside your big ol’ heart. When you miss me, just look inside. That’s what I do when I miss my two gals.” He kissed her forehead, gently put her back in bed. “Love you tons and tons and bunches and bunches.”

“Love you, too, Daddy.”

“Now, I’ve got to go.” He stood, cleared his throat. Aubrey’s mother went to him and hugged him. “Love you too.”

“I know.”

“Goodbye.”

He dabbed at his eyes, put his hat back on. Quietly left, hushed as a whisper.

Aubrey’s mother climbed into bed next to her. “No more tears, honey. This is a happy occasion.”

“Okay.”

“Now…let’s watch Daddy leave.” Her grin grew, the kind that said she had a secret. With the palm of her hand, she cleared a spot on the window.

Through the falling snow, her father stepped into the sleigh and sat next to a fat bearded man. Reindeer clomped their hooves, crunching the snow. Ready for lift-off.

“Mommy? Oh my gosh! Mommy!” Her mother laughed and waved out the window.

“Merry Christmas, Aubrey!” yelled Santa. Her dad held his hand up, waving. Santa tugged on his reins, knocking her father into the seat next to Santa. Still laughing his wonderful, deep laugh, loud as thunder. The sleigh lifted, shot out of sight, leaving behind a swirl of magical snow.

“Best Christmas ever, Mommy!”

* * * 

There you have it, folks! Stuart R. West here and I am done with twelve short stories for the Lightning Quick Reads Blog! Yay! I'd like to thank Kai Strand for hosting the blog and all of the other wonderful writers I've been sharing the blog with.

Okay, folks. I'm either committing career suicide or writing my funniest novel yet:

Bad Day in a Banana Hammock.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. My first straight-up comedy. Sorry, sorry, sorry... 

Mafioso Holiday! by Stuart R. West

“Shut up, shut up, already.” Carmelo stood, hefted up his jogging sweats. “I know it was hard for some of you to come out today, so thanks to all you guys.”

“Anything for you, Don.” The men around the table nodded. Even though the suck-up ritual bored Don Carmelo, so predictable, he’d have it no other way.

“Alright, it’s Thanksgiving. We got lots to give thanks for.” Carmelo tilted his wine glass toward his nephew, Sammy, then considered dumping the contents on him. Always with the same satisfied after-sex-looking, nobody home smile. Clearly the boy’d inherited his mother’s genes, not Carmelo’s smarts. “Alright. Who wants to start dinner with a prayer?”

Grmmmbbb, gurm, spack, tack, tack tack…

“Damn it, Sal!” Carmelo slammed down his wine glass onto the table. The stem broke, spilling red wine onto the tablecloth. “Sal! I thought you were closing down the bowling lanes today!”

Sal’s sun-burned head popped in, a towel over his shoulder. “Sorry, Carm. I’ll kick ‘em out now. Thought the word got out we were shut down today. I­—”

Carmelo didn’t wait for his cousin to finish, kicked the door closed.

“Alright, alright, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He patted the air with one hand, tugged his sweats tight with the other. All these years, his wife still didn’t know how to fit him. He reclaimed his spot at the head of the table. “Prayer. We need a prayer. Sliver Jimmy?”

Jimmy groused back and forth, a groundhog checking for his shadow. “Ah…okay, I’ll give it a shot.” He crossed himself, the others followed. “Dear Mary, mother of God, please, ah…give us thanks for…our money. Help us not to get busted for the protection we offer, ‘cause it’s a good thing…the gambling—”

“Whoa, whoa, stop!”  Like a referee, Carm kicked at the table. “You can’t use the blessed Mary’s name in vain like that, idiot! Have some respect! Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout our work in the same breath as Mother Mary.”

Jimmy offered up begging palms. “What’d I do? What?”

“Shut up, that’s what. Howie? How ‘bout you do better? Can’t get any worse.”

Howie trumpeted his nostrils, worse than a sick elephant, then crossed himself. “Thank you, God, for all the sick, the needy—”

“Why’re you thankin’ God for the sick, dumb-ass?” offered Gordon. “Should be askin’ God to cure ‘em.”

“Shut up, Gordo. Let Howie finish.” Sweat streamed down Carm’s forehead. His kids were easier to manage then his work zoo.

“Thanks, Carm….and, um, God. Anyways…” Howie zipped through a quick body cross. “…fix the needy, the sick, the stupid…” Snickering from around the table tossed Howie off his religious game. He licked his lips, clamped his eyes down hard as if summoning his inner angel. Howie was no genius, the proof was in the prayer. Carm could practically count Howie’s brain-cells struggling to form a real thought, visible stress lines folding his forehead. “And, dear God, thanks for not letting us get whacked like Mikey did last year. It really sucked and—”

“Whoa!” Carm brought down a gavel-like fist. “Just shut that right now! You hear me?”

“Why, boss?” Howie’s eyes roved left, right, up. “Feds listenin’ in?”

“No, numb-nuts! But God is! Does anyone here…anyone…even know what Thanksgivin’s all about?”

No one spoke. Eyes wandered. Voices hushed. The way Carm liked it. Respect.

But there’s always a fly in the ointment.

Milo frowned, one of his two expressions. “Carm…not that I’m complainin’ or nothin’ but…ain’t Thanksgivin’ ‘sposed to be about good food and crap like that?” He tapped his cheeseburger down on his plate like a pack of cigarettes. Dink dink dink. “I mean, listen to that…friggin’ microwave burgers got bread like cement. Not that I’m complainin’.”

“You like cement, Milo?”

Milo displayed his second expression: deer in the headlights. He shook his head, wisely said nothing.

“Doubt you’d like to wear it either. So shut your hole. This is about celebrating. Sal was nice enough to provide us with a turkey day dinner—”

“But, boss, it ain’t turkey.”

Carm couldn’t believe the lack of respect. Without him, his men—his brothers­—would be nothing, have nothing. Now they had the gall to gripe about a meal he gathered them together for to celebrate the holiday. As Carm’s wife always reminded him to do, something she brought back from her expensive therapy sessions, he took a deep breath. A couple more. Tried to think mindfully (whatever the hell that meant, like there wasn’t any other way) and send bad thoughts away on a cloud. Once he’d passed Defcon-2, he dropped his finger from the gun he had squirreled away in his jacket.

“No, Milo, it ain’t turkey. You jackasses rather eat tofurkey?”

“What the hell’s tofurkey?”

“Dunno. But it tastes like ass. It’s what my wife’s creatin’ right now. You guys rather go to my house for Thanksgivin’?”

More jowls shook than a dog-pound packed with basset hounds.

“Then shut up already. Eat your burgers, be damn grateful.” Carm ignored his nephew’s less than manly attempt at a hand-clap, fingers-splayed and barely making noise.. Goofy kid stood out more than a festering pimple. “Anybody else wanna’ give a prayer a stab? Try and nail Thanksgiving? Do it up right?”

No one volunteered.

“Fine, whatever.” Carm sighed, making a huge production of it. Bright Broadway lights and “a-oogah” horns were the only way to get into these numbskull’s noggins. “I’ll take it. I always do.” He crossed himself, looked upward with a head-shake. Felt a kinship with Jesus for his suffering. Not that he’d place himself in the same league, of course. “Okay…” He cleared his throat.

“Dear Mary, mother of God, Jesus and, you know, God Himself…we’re all gathered here today to give thanks. Thanks for everything you’ve granted us. Given us. Will give us in the future. Knock on wood.”

Table taps danced all around. A few “amens.” One idiot offered a “salud,” any opportunity for a drink.

“We’re blessed with good health…” Jimmy hacked out an unhealthy sounding cough, a reminder of his three packs a day habit. “…mostly. And we’re blessed with beautiful families…” Carm peeped open an eye, checking to see that his nephew was still there, not just a bad dream. “…for the most part. “But, you know—”

Brrrm brrrm brrrm spack tak tak!

Carm heard the noise—felt the noise—deep into his bowels. He wanted to scream into the bowling alley, blast a cap in the errant bowlers’ direction. But, no…deep breaths. Don’t lose cool. Lead by example. Hell with it. “Sal! Sal, dammit! Get yer ass in here before I rip you a new one!”

Sal, redder then his usual blustery burgundy, stuck his head back in the door. “Yo, sorry, Carm. It’s their last game. You know…I thought I’d let ‘em play it out. Spirit of Thanksgivin’ and all.”

Carm considered himself a softie at heart. He’d give Sal a beat down tomorrow. Wouldn’t be appropriate on Thanksgiving. “Fine. Just get ‘em outta’ here already.” Sal slowly left, looking like a kicked dog.

“Alright. Jesus….I mean, sorry.” For extra protection, Carm crossed himself again. He knew enough about the protection game to not hedge his bets. “Sure, God, we make a lotta’ bank by providin’ protection. Sometimes it hurts some people. But, you know, they’re bad people. And we’re doin’ good work. Protectin’ the good people of our land. Just like the Pilgrims.”

“Well, howdy, pahd-nuh, I reckon—”

Carm castrated Howie’s pathetic John Wayne imitation with a slashing glare.

“Forgive them, God, they don’t know how stupid they are. Anyway…the Pilgrims I was talkin’ about. Our great ancestor, Christopher Columbus…” Whispers derailed Carm’s train of thought. “You idiots got somethin’ you wanna’ say?”

“Is Christopher Columbus Uncle Benny’s cousin?” asked Milo.

“No, dumb-ass,” said Howie, “it’s that TV detective with the glass eye. You know…” He pulled his collar up and hunched over. “Just one more thing—”

“Shut up, already! Columbus was our Italian ancestor who discovered America!” Carm pounded the table until his fist felt numb. “Buncha’ idiots! You gonna’ let me continue or what?”

Silence supplied the answer. “As I was sayin’, God…the great Columbus showed us the way. Swoopin’ in, takin’ what’s rightfully ours. The strong shall inherit the earth as the Good Book says. Wipin’ out the weak and makin’ bank. So, in the name of the father, the holy spirit, the three wise guys, Mary, of course, and all that other stuff…Amen.”

Blank stares met Carm. “I said, ‘Amen!’” This time a wave of affirmation met him, the proper response. “Now…let’s eat.”

“Um…Uncle Carm?”

Carm had a forkful of spaghetti raised, ready to devour. Leave it to his idiot nephew to ruin an appetite. “What now, Sammy?”

“I, um, don’t really think that’s what Thanksgiving’s about.” Sammy ducked his head into his polo shirt, a yuppie turtle. First time the boy’d ever spoken out.

“Oh, yeah, school boy? You think you know better?”

Sammy’s cheeks blushed. But he nodded. More cajones than Carm thought he had on him. Still disrespectful, though.

“Well…please. Enlighten us all.” Carm waved his hand out. Everyone laughed. Unlike his nephew, his family—his real family—knew how to show respect.

“Okay. Everyone…let’s join hands.”

The men looked at one another, more embarrassed than a priest at a nudist colony.

Humoring his nephew, Carm said, “Fine, just do it.”

Tiny Dancer coughed, dabbed his mouth with his tucked in napkin, and said, “Come on, Carm. This is—”

“Shut up, Tiny, just do it!”

Hands were grasped, awkward glances shared. Things they’d never speak about again.

Sammy closed his eyes. “Dear God, thank you for gracing us with people we love. People we break bread with. Like the Pilgrims and the Native-Americans did on the original Thanksgiving…learning, sharing and giving. Uniting us into a nation-wide family, one that goes beyond the bonds of blood. We’re thankful for those bonds of love. Nothing’s more important than love. Amen.”

An uncustomary hush dropped over the room. Even Tiny Dancer’s oxygen machine-like mouth-breathing lowered a level. Sammy smiled, nearly beatific, practically farting haloes.

A strange surge of emotion overwhelmed Carm. Unbelievably, his nephew’s prayer moved him. But he wouldn’t show it, not professional.

Leaning over, Carm slapped the back of Sammy’s head. “Show some damn respect next time, Sammy. You’re only here ‘cause of your sister. Now let’s eat.”

While the others dug into bowling alley cuisine, fully invested, Carm nudged his nephew with his shoulder. Gave him a loving, family-style wink.

###

Hey! My first book, Tex, the Witch Boy is FREE now through the end of November! If you're late to the party, pull up a chair and feast on a YA paranormal, mystery, thriller, comedy, romance tale. Tex, the Witch Boy. Did I tell you it's free, just a click away? Nothing to lose, thrills guaranteed. (Plus, if anyone guesses the identity of the murderer before book's end, they'll get a special "attaboy" call-out from me).

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

 Brand spankin' new and creeptacular trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway: 

While I've got you here, and if you're feeling particularly adventurous, check out my book, Zombie Rapture! 

Last Rites in Beckham County by Stuart R. West

     Country living can be peculiar; dying is worse...

*** 

     The summer afternoon had been a bright one, hotter than a three-alarm fire. Hardly a proper send-off for Mrs. Sauers, town witch and killer of cats. At least those were the stories around these parts. And around these parts, the stories grew taller than well-tended stalks of corn, gossip fattening the tales until they were good and plump and ripe enough to scare.

     Pa made sure I didn’t buy into such nonsense. It was hard enough growing up in a funeral home without all the campfire tales burning a path into my nightmares.

     But the day Harry (“Harry’s Hearses: Going out in Style”) rolled Mrs. Sauers in through the back door proved to be anything but ordinary. The cluster of cats gathered at the back door should’ve been enough to tip me off. They mewed and hummed the way cats do, rubbin’ up against one another, their tails swattin’ at the flies that had gathered.

     A feline clowder of mourners; or maybe well-wishers.

     From my upstairs bedroom window, I watched. Pa’s red scalp peeked through the long spider legs of hair he combed over, fooling absolutely no one except maybe himself. He conferred with Harry, grown-up talk with down-turned faces. Harry helped usher Mrs. Sauers down through the cellar steps into Pa’s work area. An area Pa only let me visit if invited. Not that it was a nifty place to hang out, mind you (although I’ve had more than several passing acquaintances—around here, my friends don’t tend to last—beg me to take them down there), but sometimes I got the feeling Pa kept secrets from me. Even though as a man of mountain-tall pride, he claimed he was an open book, as honest as ol’ stovetop Abe.

     But Mrs. Sauers held a special fascination for me. In life, she was a peculiar person; death only cast more mystery upon her. The legacy she’d left behind had been built on stories most people only reckoned to be true. But true or not, the tales were enough to keep me out of her pasture, off her front porch at Halloween, and dodging her at the general store.

     Suzette (a rightly beast of a different kind, expensive braces hiding her fangs) swears to the fact that one night, while bicycling by Mrs. Sauers’ house, she saw the body of Tommy Talipin swinging from the ol’ elm tree in the front yard. Most folks say Tommy—a handsome teen of a movie star fashion, but troubled by wander-lust—just took off, tired of the country way. I might’ve believed it, too, if Tommy’s folks hadn’t done got Sherriff Landry involved, sniffing out the less-travelled woods. I can’t imagine a soul just up and leavin’ one night without letting his folks know his whereabouts.

     Other stories meandered on at great lengths about her practice of witchcraft, the details muddier than a country road after a rain. Take, for instance, the tale about ol’ Sy Norton. Everyone knew Sy liked to tip at the bottle, no secret there. But rumor had it he made the mistake of sayin’ some mighty disparaging words about Mrs. Sauers down at his favorite tipping hole. Once word got back to Mrs. Sauers (and ‘round here, word travels faster than electricity), ol’ Sy found his foot rotting away, the end shriveled up like a sun-baked walnut. Course, Pa brought me up to believe in science, explained Sy’s leg away with an educated diagnosis. It sounded good to me, science being much more preferable than witchcraft.

     It was hard to know what to believe.

     But the stories that remained constant about Mrs. Sauers, the ones that rarely changed, all had to do with the cats. Now, a missing cat in the country isn’t an unusual occurrence. Like Tommy, cats are prone to wander, following lust of a different sort. And in Beckham County, cats are mighty plentiful. You can’t swing a, well, a cat without hitting another. But story has it, every time Mrs. Sauers fancied dropping a spell on somebody, she’d sacrifice a cat to her god, who I assure you was a far cry from my God.

     Guess what I’m sayin’ is even Job himself would surely have his patience tested by having Beckham County’s biggest mystery lying flat on her back in his basement.

     So, that night, after Pa’d tucked himself in with a nightcap, I stole downstairs, quiet as a whisper. Two flights down and I entered Pa’s workshop. The cold air struck me first. Pa never said it, but I imagined he kept it that way to preserve the mortal remains for as long as possible. I flipped on the light switch, hoping to chase away a chill of a different sort.

     Clak, chak, chak…

     Like dominoes of lightning, the overhead fluorescents clacked on, one after the other, painting the room in a moon-glow of white.

     For what I imagined to be one of the messiest jobs in Beckham County, Pa always kept his work space cleaner than fresh laundry. His tools were lined up, biggest to smallest, orderly like soldiers, on his cart: all manners of scalpels, something he called a trocar, various ointments and disinfectants (both for him and his projects). Several tubes snaked from the great chugging, grey beast of an embalming machine. The sink, longer than the tallest fella Pa’d ever buried by a foot, remained sparkling, good-as-new looking. On my few visits down there, I’d never seen nary a drop of blood.

     But the body beneath the blue blanket drew me, surely as a magnet attracted metal shavings. Mrs. Sauers’ brillo-pad grey hair stuck out, wiry and mean. Her toes peeked out the bottom, tiny blue veins wrapping around them and exploding into corns the size of thumbs.

     I didn’t know what I expected to see but was pretty dang sure what I didn’t want to see. Sometimes you don’t get what you want.

     Slowly, I tugged the blanket down. Her eyes stood open, milky and nobody home. Peculiar. Pa always closed the project’s eyes first thing. He said he did it out of respect for the deceased. But after seeing Mrs. Sauers’ open eyes, I suspect he did it to keep the dead from watching him.

     I wanted to stop, I really did. But I’d come this far, and if nothing else, I wanted to prove to the nay-saying voice in my head that I could do it, wasn’t a chicken at all.

     The blanket rode the ridge of Mrs. Sauers’ nose, a crooked blue snow jump, until her nose popped out. Little tiny hairs drooped from her nostrils. And I swear what I saw next was only a trick of the bad blinking overhead light. One hair pulled inside a nostril, blew out again.

     That’s what I thought I saw, at least. That’s what I didn’t want to believe I saw. My brain told me to run, go crawl into bed. But my feet didn’t listen, holding to the old adage, “In for a dime, in for a dollar.”

     As I pulled the blanket down below her chin, my hand shook worse than ol’ Sy’s three day tremors. I withdrew my hand fast as a jackrabbit, afraid of things that might bite.

     Her mouth opened. Not an involuntary movement caused by gas either, the way Pa explained sometimes happened. She gasped. No, that wasn’t quite right. More like a hissing radiator.

     Shhhhhhhssssssss…

     Spit gathered at the corner of her mouth like condensation. It ran down her pale chin in teary streaks.

     I slapped my hand over my mouth and turned tail outta’ there, forcing my legs to cooperate.

Behind me, the gurney rattled. A rustling of cloth. I didn’t want to look, but…

     Now, she was sitting up. Head turned at a sharp, unnatural angle. Chin cocked. Looking at me. The milk had siphoned out of her eyes, now fully clear. And full of anger.

     “I…didn’t do this.” That was all I said. All my addled brain could muster, a weak apology so I could stay out of Hell, for surely that’s where she intended on sending me.

     Varicose veined legs swung over the side. Meaty toes dangled above the linoleum. I was doomed, damned for messing with things beyond my ken. Had I not been so terrified, I would’ve dropped to my knees right then and there, and prayed loud enough to wake even the snooziest of angels.

     My heart jumped. Something scattered across the room. Soft pitter pats of hesitant rain. No, not rain. A golden cat, walking toward Mrs. Sauers, white paws prancing about like horseshoes. Striding toward her, more determined than Mr. Jones and his prized pig at the fair.

     Mrs. Sauers framed an ugly oval with her mouth and hissed between gaudy red lips, part feline herself. The cat took no heed. Jumped right on top of her, claws digging into the blanket. Mrs. Sauers gasped again, then lay back down where she belonged. The cat strolled up to her face, lowered its head, a strange mouth to mouth resuscitation ritual. Only it had the opposite effect. Mrs. Sauers’ eyes closed. Her chest rose once more, dropped and stayed that way.

     The cat looked at me. Licked its chops like it’d just eaten the plumpest mouse in the county.

     As soon as the cat hopped down, I bolted like lightning out of there. Straight up to my room. Blankets over my head. I don’t recall (as you may well imagine, there were quite a few other things to recall) sleeping, either.

     I never told Pa what happened that night down in the cellar. Not only did I not want to get punished, but I reckon I wasn’t rightly sure what did happen.

     It’s hard enough being young, deliberating between science and religion, navigating the rough and turbulent waters of school, without having something new introduced. Something no one could explain, something horrible.

     They say that life in the country is different, I reckon so is death.

***

 Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah, I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine Morgan Freeman narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

Brand spankin' new and creeptacular trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway: