Yes, it's the
Halloween season again, and I feel peculiarly obligated to do something about
it. Here's a little story of charm and
male bonding (well, in a manner of speaking) to give you goose bumps, or maybe
just an irritating itch somewhere among your private parts. The trouble with writing fiction fit for the
season these days is the sad fact that world events are more terrifying than
much in the universe of storytelling. By
the way, I remind you that I'm really not any good at writing fiction in any
form, so should you decide to read this and you hate it and it absolutely
sucks, it's your own fault. You've been
warned. Or is that warmed?
INDETERMINATE
(Never Waste Words)
(A
Delightful Halloween Story)
by Robert Barrow
Copyright 2013
(fiction) by Robert Barrow
(Any
resemblance to persons living, dead or undead rises far beyond my ability to
fabricate an unusual name that might actually belong to somebody.)
Brutally active
winter storms should have yielded to the first idyllic hints of spring weeks
ago,
but the unforgiving north winds continued unappreciated mountain visits,
transporting an unrelenting cascade of oppressively wet, heavy snow.
Few understood
the situation's gravity better than Dalton Fentweather, a local handyman who
resembled a slightly older version of country singer Hunter Hayes, a heartthrob
observation which delighted many young women of the sparsely populated rural
area. Though living alone in a small
cabin in the woods, just a few yards off a logging road, he was never lonesome
for female companionship -- generally acquired in a revolving door manner, with
feminine faces arriving and departing with some regularity.
But romance was
the last thing on Dalton Fentweather's mind during this snowbound
afternoon. Despite the raging snows,
mounting more than an inch in depth per hour, when Dalton peeked out a window
and looked toward the logging road he could barely make out the shape of
something -- or somebody? --
thrashing about in a snowbank.
Of course, he
hesitated before investigating. Who
wouldn't? What if the snowy lump was an
enraged bear, somehow awakened from hibernation? Or some rabid animal?
After a few minutes
of careful thought, Dalton donned a parka, grabbed his shotgun and carefully
opened the cabin door, being careful not to allow winter winds to blow in any
more white than necessary. Cautiously,
he walked to the road, aware that the lump's movement had ceased.
As he approached
the indefinite shape, its identity thoroughly masked by the blizzard's effects,
Dalton proceeded even more slowly, until he ultimately stood just a couple of
feet from it. Extending the shotgun, he gingerly
nudged the figure with its barrel for a possible response.
"Ow!"
shouted a human voice, as the figure of a tall man recoiled, arose and then
stood almost upright. Dalton fell
backwards in surprise, his fall broken sufficiently by the snow's depth on the
ground. The stranger spoke, timidly:, as
he reached out, gesturing with his left hand toward Dalton. "Help me. .
.please, help me. . .I. . ." The
man then collapsed onto a snowbank, motionless once more.
Footprints from
way down the road could barely be seen as wind-driven snows obliterated every
trace of their existence.
*****
With
considerable difficulty Dalton dragged the man into his cabin and lifted him
onto a sofa, and the combination of height and weight provided no easy
chore. Apparently sleeping or
unconscious, the man dressed only in jeans and a torn black t-shirt would offer
no resistance as Dalton looked him over.
While no tattoos or other markings were evident on his arms, his wrists
clearly displayed circumferential red marks -- as if they had been tied very
tightly to a pole or tree, or perhaps handcuffed. Now Dalton allowed himself a measured degree
of worry and fear.
He picked up the
landline phone to call the sheriff, but its connection was dead. That wasn't unusual when the snow grew deep
and winds took down poles. Like this
week's snow.
Suddenly
enlightened, Dalton whipped around to turn on a lamp switch and discovered that
the electricity was also out. Same
damned pole, he rightly presumed. He
needn't have bothered with his cell phone, for that was out of energy and
hadn't been charged for weeks, but he tried it anyway just to impress upon
himself the hopelessness of summoning help.
Great, now what
do I do about you?
Dalton wondered, staring at the stranger on his sofa. Approaching the sofa, he knew he must, at
least, try to determine an identity, so he took the liberty of exploring the
pockets of the stranger's jeans. To his
surprise, there was no wallet, no keys, nor pocket change -- but the left front
pocket revealed a short strand of a material appearing to be from a thick white
polyester cord . Again, Dalton focused
his eyes upon the painful-looking red marks on his guest's wrists. Maybe an escaped prisoner? Maybe somebody abducted and tied him to a
tree? Did some jealous husband or boyfriend
do this? Of course Dalton
Fentweather would conjure up a husband or boyfriend, for he suffered his own
occasional encounters with jealous significant others who discovered his
affairs with their supposedly faithful ladies.
"Uhhhhhh.
. ." muttered the stranger, apparently awakening. Dalton stepped cautiously to his side.
"Are you .
. .can you hear me?" asked Dalton.
The bearded
stranger glanced about, ultimately fixing his gaze upon Dalton. "Where. . .what is this?"
"I pulled
you from the road -- you were huddled in the snow. The storm, you know."
"The. . . storm.
. ."
"Yes. How did you -- where did you come from? What happened to your wrists?" Dalton
inquired gently. The stranger seemed
startled and sat bolt-upright on the couch.
Dalton took a timid step back, but then stepped forward and guided the
mysterious man to a horizontal position once again. He appeared remarkably weakened from some
ordeal, or perhaps simply exhausted from his journey through the snowstorm.
"You. .
.need to get. . . away. . .go. . .away," the stranger said, his voice
almost inaudible now. Dalton strained to
hear him speak. "You. . .you. .
."
"Who are
you? What can I do to help?"
"I. . .am.
. ." he said, his voice trailing
off, but Dalton heard a part of one more word or sentence.
"What? Did you say rope? Did somebody tie you with a rope?" The stranger shook his head no and
then passed out. There was something
uttered before what sounded like rope, but words seemed to break up.
Dalton retrieved
a jar of tea from the refrigerator, taking care to close the door quickly in
order to keep precious cold air from escaping.
The afternoon grew later and, despite the strange predicament before
him, Dalton was grateful for a wood stove in the corner which kept the small
cabin pleasantly warm. Having poured a
small cup of cold tea for his guest, he gently shook the man, hoping to awaken
him and force down a drink. Maybe then
the man could speak more easily. His
eyelids twitched and the lids opened.
"Wha. .
.oh. . .I remember. . ."
"Here,
drink a little of this, it's tea," Dalton offered. The stranger drank a bit and then swallowed
more and more until the cup had emptied.
"What's your name?"
The man needed
to think, but replied, "They. . . call me. . . Austin."
"Austin. And my name is Dalton. Now, I gotta ask you, man, where are you from
and how the hell did you get this far?"
Austin seemed
puzzled, and a bit embarrassed. "I
don't. . .don't. . .look. . . you got to. . . run away from me. You aren't safe here!" Austin was becoming rather frantic.
"What do
you mean? Are you a convict? Did you escape from prison?!"
"Get away,
get away!" The stranger slumped
back onto the sofa, again with words drifting off as he mumbled, seeming to
say ". . .can. . .rope. . ."
"Can
rope? Are you from a rodeo? Is that it?
Did you fall off a rodeo bus or, or a circus train or something?" But Dalton's words went nowhere. Austin was clearly asleep once again. Dalton grew frustrated -- immensely curious,
but frustrated.
*****
Afternoon slowly
gave way to evening's curtain, sweeping away the snowstorm as a bonus. Unfortunately, the phone and electricity
remained out of service, and there seemed no reason to anticipate any repairs
-- or visitors -- until tomorrow at the earliest, for Dalton Fentweather
resided in a very secluded area. But he
entertained other concerns as he rocked forward and backward in his
long-deceased grandmother's favorite wooden rocking chair, creating creaking
sounds as he moved. What else would
tomorrow bring? What should he do about
his unexpected guest? When could he
phone the sheriff? Or should an
ambulance be summoned when circumstances allowed a call? Who is this guy? Sick?
Crazy? Dangerous? Amnesia?
Is he faking anything? Is his
name even Austin? Is he listening to
every squeak of the rocking chair right now, only pretending to be asleep?
Suddenly, the
rocking chair ceased rocking. Dalton
detected motion on the sofa where mysterious Austin slept. Rising from the chair, Dalton walked to a
small closet in the room and retrieved a battery-operated lantern. He switched it on, bathing the one-room cabin
in the cold, unpleasant glow of small fluorescent bulbs. He threw another log in the stove, then
walked over to the sofa.
"Awake?"
Dalton inquired.
"Where am
I? I. . .oh. . ." Austin's tense words seemed a little more
difficult to understand, almost as if he had cotton in his mouth. But he didn't. Austin, as if suddenly remembering something
important, directed attention to his wrists.
He held them in the air and examined the substantial red impression
around each. "Ties. . .gone. . .got
away. . .my bonds did this. . ."
Bonds did
that? pondered Dalton to himself.
Who would tie up a -- who is this guy? Dalton decided to let that revelation go
without questions because Austin's anxiety already hovered near the explosive
realm.
"Dude, you
said something about roping, that you could rope?" Austin appeared puzzled.
"No, I
don't rope, don't know where you. . ."
Then a mental light bulb switched on in Austin's head. "You didn't hear. . .everything I. .
.said. . .you. . .missed. . .I. . .miss. . ." Words were becoming hard for Austin to select.
"You worked
with a rodeo or a circus. I know it, I
just know it!" insisted Dalton.
"I
DON'T!" shouted the bearded man, his voice reverberating throughout the
cabin. He was becoming more excited,
causing his words to make less sense.
"No! I. . .lie. . .lie. .
."
"What's a
lie? Are you lying to me?"
"Not lie. .
.not a lie. . .I. . .you. . .miss and. . .rope. . .tha. . .tha. . .lie. . .the
rope. . .missed word and. . .the. . .rope" said Austin, frantic in his
inability to say exactly what he meant.
His eyes grew wide in the lamplight.
"Run! Run!" Ru. . ."
Austin collapsed again, seeming to pass out.
What the hell? Dalton questioned out loud. He felt his own heart pounding in his chest
as the stranger's breaths grew labored and frequent. Missed word and -- the rope? Or did he mean miss or even miz.
or -- or? Dalton remembered a word he
heard on TV now and then, not often, but enough so he remembered it. He grabbed a dusty dictionary off a
shelf. Dalton never used a dictionary,
but it had been a gift and he kept it around just so folks wouldn't think he
wasn't smart.
He thumbed slowly
through the book's pages, for word searches were never his thing. Finally he came to the M section. But how to spell the word? With considerable effort and eye strain,
Dalton at last stumbled upon what he thought the stranger might be attempting
to say. The word was misanthrope. "Hmm," Dalton said as slumped over
the dictionary, "it means somebody who dislikes other people. Miss-an-tharope." Dalton turned his head and looked at Austin's
tall form, lying unconscious on the sofa, and then returned his attention to
the dictionary. Well, that word
certainly seemed to fit him, unless he meant somebody else who doesn't like
people, thought Dalton.
*****
"GET
OUT!" Austin yelled, and a dozing Dalton Fentweather fell out of the
rocking chair, landing on his knees. He
stood, focusing upon Austin, who now sat straight up on the sofa, his legs
planted on the floor.
"Oh. . .um,
Austin -- calm down. You're so. .
."
"You must
go. . .quick. . .I. . .the headaches. . .I. . ."
"Were you
telling me," Dalton began, gingerly broaching the subject, "that
you're a mis. . .a misanthrope?"
Austin's dark
eyes widened as, for a change, he was the one looking upon the other as
possibly crazy. "What?"
"A
miss-ann-tha-rope," repeated Dalton, slowly this time.
Austin's head
cocked sideways. Then he spoke again, his words
even more difficult to understand than previously. His words seemed so jumbled and
uncertain. "Lie. . .you missed. .
.lie. . .I. . .can. . .the. . .rope."
Dalton shook his
head in discouragement. "Sorry dude,
I don't understand." Austin pounded
a fist on the sofa, frustrated in his lingual disability. To make matters worse, the lamplight started
to flicker, its batteries obviously failing.
Dalton glanced at a wall clock and noted the time was nearing nine o'clock. He threw another log in the stove so at least
warmth would get him through the night.
And his guest, of course. "I
have a gas range, so at least I can fix us a can of soup," Dalton
explained. Austin said nothing, and his
silhouette showed him running thin fingers through his hair.
Dalton turned
his attention to a cupboard filled with soup cans. Though the lamplight was almost extinguished,
he was grateful for light from the full moon, just rising over the eastern
horizon, its welcome beams shining through tree limbs outside and deep through
the windows on that side of the cabin.
"Well, I
don't know what you like to eat, but I can do chicken noodle or vegetables and
beef, or clam chowder. Anything there
appeal to you?" Austin remained
silent, just sitting motionlessly.
Dalton focused upon a few other cans.
"If not, I have corn chowder or onion soup, or maybe beans and
bacon, and I have. . .what was that you said?" Dalton heard something in a low tone, but
couldn't make out any words. By now, he
was used to that kind of response from his strange guest. He received no reply. "Um, okay, well we have to choose
something. I mean, you have to eat, you
know. I'm sorry about the power failure
and the phone -- and, goes without saying, the food available. Okay, let's go for something simple --
chicken noodle. Just have to find a can
opener."
Dalton fumbled
through a drawer in the moonlight, finally locating the necessary
instrument. He began opening the can,
though the process was slow. But he
heard a noise and stopped cold. It was
the sound of something, something like the ripping of fabric over by the
sofa. "Oh," Dalton responded,
"I never thought to get you out of those wet clothes, though I didn't
think they were all that wet. But go
ahead and shed 'em if you want, I'll get you a robe or something." Dalton continued opening the can. Again, he paused. "What are you doing? No, really, what?"
In the
moonlight, Dalton saw his dictionary lifted into the air by a tall figure,
standing, that of Austin himself. As
Austin began thumbing through pages, Dalton thought he detected considerably
more hair covering his guest's face, and deep guttural sounds seemed to emanate
from Austin's throat.
"This. .
.this. . .lie. . .can. . .the. . " Austin ripped a page from the
dictionary and propelled it toward Dalton, who picked it up from the floor. "Now. . .read. . .read!" Austin
seemed to growl in demand. The page was
from the L section. Dalton wasn't
quite sure what to look for. "Lie.
. .lie. . .lie with a why. . ."
Lie with a why? Oh, this guy has to be nuts, thought Dalton,
holding the page in the moonlight, running his finger slowly down the
entries: "Lycaenidae. . .lycaenid
butterfly. . .Lycaeon. . .lycanthrope. . .ly. . .wait, lycanthrope? Lycanthrope?
Is that the word?
Austin?" Dalton assumed he
found the right word, because Austin had ripped a little tear just above and
below the word.
Heavy breathing
sounds reverberated throughout the cabin, but suddenly Dalton wasn't sure of
the exact direction. "What is
that? Wait, let me see what it means. It says, a monster who changes from human
to wolf, particularly when the moon is full. Well, that's crazy, isn't it? Why would you tell me. . .hey, where are
you?"
As if in
response, a huge, furry shape rose from a crouched position, blocking the
moonlight, growling and swinging thick, canine-like upper extremities as it
howled with a sound creepy and emboldened enough to wake the dead -- or even
enough to wake those among the living who were usually consumed and entranced
by electronic games, unaware of their physical surroundings.
Shocked, Dalton
dropped the dictionary page, momentarily mesmerized by the hulking animal-like
figure just feet away and slowly approaching in a menacing fashion. He suddenly longed for his shotgun, forgotten
somewhere in the darkness, and surely out of reach.. Helped by the occasional flicker of the
nearly useless lamp, Dalton retrieved the can of chicken noodle soup and flung
its contents at something called Austin, covering the creature with what the
can's label described as home-cooked style soup to please the whole
family. In a lightning-fast follow-up,
Dalton shoved the sharp-edged can into a mouth containing large, white teeth
reflected in the moonlight, and instantly recalled that he paid handsomely for
that soup -- but then, regaining his wits as the creature screamed in pain, he
rushed to the door, flung it open, slammed it shut and ran off into the woods,
leaving Austin's fundamentally transformed self
trapped in the cabin.
The deceptively
serene moonlit evening evoked a terrible chill, but Dalton didn't care as he
leaped and stumbled his way through deep snowdrifts, attired only in a flannel
shirt, jeans and sneakers. The night
seemed so still, aside from distant howls and the sounds of breaking glass. Dalton's fearful and racing thoughts included,
rightfully, assumptions that tomorrow would bring no trace of Austin, but one
heck of a cleanup challenge at the cabin after he notified the sheriff of,
frankly, his unbelievable story.
Unfortunately
for Dalton, however, though he didn't notice at first, in his haste to get
away, his tomorrow would never arrive, for he was running right into the path
of something horrible coming his way, an unrestrained, frenzied werewolf twice
as large as Austin. As the terrifying,
deeply fur-coated creature leapt, knocking Dalton Fentweather to the ground,
all business as it prepared to sink its long, yellowed fangs into his chest
cavity, the last things Dalton would ever see were portions of a heavy white
nylon rope wrapped around the monster's front legs, dangling in the snow and
ready to fall off. It momentarily,
tragically, occurred to the young man that the missing rope segments may also
have confined Austin until he broke free, along with his companion, leaving
those red marks on his wrists. Indeed,
the lycanthropic beasts had probably been trapped in their bonds by some
unknown captor, and he, she or they who confined the two -- if only two --
likely lay dead, somewhere far away.
Dalton attempted
to scream, but before he could produce more than just a gurgle, the full moon
above was briefly traversed by a spray, a bloom really, of reddish mist,
accompanied only by the sounds of teeth crunching through ribs, and distant
wolfish howls.
-- THE END --
