| Short Stories
By
Rick Neal Huffman *The Blue Snowman*
The north wind blew early that fall, not so many years ago. With the wind came the first snow
of the season. The snow was wet and heavy, clinging to the branches of trees and accumulating
on the grass. Several inches covered the ground by mid morning.
It was Saturday and my younger brother Wayne and I were already outside throwing snowballs at
one another. Dad, with snow brush in hand, was working hard to clean the snow from the family car.
Wayne rolled a snowball, packed it with gloved hands til it was solid and launched it at dad, striking him
in the back. I did the same and the first snowball fight of the season was well on its way. Dad made snowballs
as fast as he could and threw them at both of us, once hitting me in the shoulder. The fight went on for about
three minutes and ended with the dad holding up his hands and declaring that he surrendered.
Wayne and I gave each other a ‘ high five’, proclaimed our selves victors and ran next door to our friend Josh’s.
Josh had just come outside and was already in the process of building a snowman as we arrived.
‘ I’m going to have the first snowman of the season.’ Josh said proudly, as he rolled some snow together,
making a wide swath in the snow that lay on the lawn.
Wayne displayed an expression of dismay and suddenly ran back to our yard, saying as he ran.
‘ Oh no, I’m going to have the first one.’
‘ Have a good time with your snowman.’ I told Josh, as I went to help Wayne.
Wayne had nearly run into dad as he crossed the yard. Dad had just cleaned the clinging
snow off his long black winter coat and had started up the sidewalk toward our front door.
‘ Be careful Wayne.’ Dad exclaimed, as he sidestepped just in time to avoid the collision.
‘ Sorry dad.’ Wayne called back over his shoulder as he made for a spot near the edge of our
yard and close to our drive.
Dad walked up the front steps to our house and the door opened as he reached for the knob.
It was mom, her small frame appearing in the doorway. Dad gave her a kiss on the cheek as
he went inside.
‘ Wayne, you and Ray make sure you’re dressed warm. You’ve already got a slight cold Wayne.
’ Mom said loud enough so we could hear her over the sound of the north wind that blew briskly
across the yard.
Wayne and I took the time to go inside long enough to put on some heavier clothing and have mom
find us some things for our snowman to wear.
That day, Wayne and I built a huge snowman. We used some black coat buttons for its eyes,
a carrot for its nose, a large zipper from an old coat for its mouth, some more large buttons for
its chest and stomach. We used some tree branches for its arms. On top of its head we put a blue
baseball cap that Wayne had worn last year. Around its neck a blue muffler, something I’m sure
mom wasn’t aware Wayne had taken.
Standing near the drive we viewed our now completed creation.
‘ Perfect.’ Wayne said. ‘ And we beat Josh too.’
‘ That’s hardly fair.’ I told Wayne. ‘ After all, he hasn’t had anyone to help with his.’
‘ You’re right.’ Wayne told me. ‘ Let’s go over and give him a hand.’
The three of us had a nice size snowman built on Josh’s front yard in no time at all. Josh was ecstatic,
yelling his thanks to us as he rushed into his house to tell his parents.
Wayne and I were wet from head to foot from rolling the snow and carrying it against our clothing as we
built the snowmen. We both went inside our house and mom made sure we shed the wet clothes,
dried off and put on clean dry clothing before relaxing on the couch.
About 4:00 p.m. that afternoon Wayne started to complain of a headache and mom gave him some aspirin.
Checking his temperature she became concerned and called a nurse at the nearby hospital. The nurse told mom
that if Wayne’s temperature went up two more degrees to bring him in and a doctor would check him over.
Mom wiped Wayne’s forehead with cool wash cloths and at first it seemed his temperature might subside.
Later that night Wayne grew worse and so mom and dad got ready to take him to see the emergency room physician.
‘ Ray, do you want to go with us or stay with Josh’s parents?’ Mom asked, as she put on her coat.
‘ I want to go to.’ I said, as I took my coat off a hanger and slid my arm in.
I was fourteen and Wayne was ten. We had always been close and I felt he really needed me then.
Wayne gave a half-hearted smile when he saw I was going too.
Dad carried Wayne to the car and placed him on the back seat. Wayne mildly protested but lay back
against the seat and gave a weak sigh.
Upon arrival at the hospital a nurse came out with a wheel chair and whisk Wayne inside, mom, dad and
myself right behind. Wayne was placed on a hospital bed with a draw curtain around it. At first all of us were
allowed near the bed as Wayne lay there but when the doctor arrived with two nurses my dad and I left,
leaving mom with Wayne.
Dad and I waited in a side room that had two couches and three cushioned chairs. There, a man and a woman sat,
close to each other on one of the couches. The man held the woman’s hand and I could see she had been crying,
for her eyes were red and she held some wet facial tissue. Her makeup was smeared around her eyes.
Dad and I quietly took a seat on the remaining couch. A half hour later a physician and a chaplain met with
the couple who sat across from us. They were taken to a room just down the hall. A few seconds later I could
hear loud sobs coming from the room.
Dad and I looked at each other sadly.
Another fifteen minutes went by and mom entered the waiting room. Dad went to her immediately,
asking how Wayne was. Mom said that the doctor was concerned about Wayne’s temperature and
severe headaches and had ordered some blood tests done. She also said the doctor had ask if he
could take a sample of the fluid in Wayne’s spine. She said she had given her consent because the
doctor expressed concern about some reported cases in the state of meningitis, a rare infection of
the lining of the brain and spinal cord.
Dad put his big arms around mom and pulled her to him. I could hear her sobbing softly against his chest.
Twenty minutes went by and the doctor who had been with Wayne came into the room with us. With a somber
tone to his voice he told mom, dad and me that tests indicated Wayne had meningitis.
Mom, who had been sitting next to dad on the couch, leaned into his shoulder and cried.
Dad, trying to be strong, asked the doctor what was to happen next.
‘ We are starting to give Wayne massive dosages of antibiotics. The doctor said.
‘ We will have to give them time to act. Our hope is that we can kill the bacteria that brought this on.’
Neither mom, nor dad, wanted to ask what would happen if the antibiotics failed.
The doctor, in a sympathetic tone, said. ‘We will continue to do all we can for Wayne naturally,
but you do need to know that this is a very serious infection.’ He went on to say.’ If you should
need something or have any questions, please feel free to ask one of our staff.’
The doctor then went back to the room Wayne was in.
Mom now cried uncontrollably as dad held her tight.
I tried to comprehend, in my young mind that could not conceive of death, what this meant.
I sat there, thinking of how, just a few hours ago, Wayne and I had played in the snow together
and hoped that he got better so we could do it again.
Dad, while holding mom, looked at me, a new strength emitting from his blue eyes.
He then spoke with a reassuring voice. ‘ Ray, your brother will be just fine, you’ll see.’
Hours went by and either the doctor, or one of his nurses, would enter the room and keep us updated
on Wayne’s condition, which still had not improved.
Mom, dad and I went to the hospital chapel and said prayers for Wayne’s recovery.
With dad’s strength to hold us together, we watched as the hours ticked slowly by.
We never slept, drinking coffee and pop and partaking of some pastries given us by the chaplain.
Mom finally asked dad if he would go back home and pick up a few things that would allow us to freshen
up a bit. Dad reluctantly did so, asking me if I wanted to go with him. I ask mom if she would be okay alone
for a few minutes and she assured me she would.
Dad and I arrived at our drive a few minutes later. As we entered the driveway I looked over at the snowman
Wayne and I had built about twenty-four hours before. At first I didn’t notice the difference because I was in such
deep thought about Wayne’s condition. Then I realized that when we had built the snowman we had placed his
arms in an upright position. We had also fixed his mouth so that he had a big grin. Now his stick arms were hanging
by his sides and his mouth was in a frown.
I brought this to dad’s attention but I could tell he had far too much on his mind to be concerned with the snowman.
He looked at the snowman and just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, ‘I don’t know.’
Dad and I rushed into our house, put together an overnight bag of things he thought we could use and then
rushed back to the hospital. There still was no change in Wayne’s condition.
The chaplain seemed to be spending more time in the waiting room with the three of us.
Six long hours later Wayne’s doctor came to the waiting room, a reassuring smile now on his face.
‘ Well, it would seem Wayne is responding to the antibiotics.’ The doctor said and then added a caution.
‘ Now he’s still not out of the woods but it is an improvement and that’s good.’
Mom and dad held each other close and pulled me to them.
The doctor went back to Wayne’s room.
Two more hours passed and the doctor returned to where we sat. The three of us now obviously more relaxed.
The doctor said Wayne was now at a safe point but would still need medical attention for about another twenty-four hours.
Dad told the doctor we would stay until Wayne was released. The time went by slowly but we were all feeling so much
better that there were no complaints made. We were allowed in to see Wayne for short periods and it was evident he
was feeling better. He was still weak but the smile we all knew so well was back in place.
Wayne was finally released and we helped him to the car. Mom received last minute instructions from the doctor before
we left. Wayne was to rest and stay inside for the next 48 hours.
On the way home I looked out at the remaining snow. Some had melted and then been replaced by a thin layer of new.
‘ Is my snowman still standing?’ Wayne asked mom.
‘ Yes he is.’ Mom replied, as she looked back from her seat in the front. ‘ But your brother said he looked really sad now.’
‘ Maybe he was sad because you had gone away.’ I joked.
Wayne smiled.
We arrived home and as we pulled into the drive I looked in disbelief. There, near our drive where he had been built,
was our snowman. His stick arms up from his sides, as if in a wave, a smile on his face and a glisten to his button eyes.
My dad saw it too and exclaimed. ‘ Wayne, I don’t understand it but it appears someone is happy to see you home
besides us.’
Getting out the car first, my dad went directly to the snowman, expecting to find fresh footprints from whomever had
changed the snowman’s expression. Finding none he could only scratch his head, shrug his shoulders and accept
what he saw.
Wayne recovered from his near fatal illness. Each year now we build another snowman with the arrival of winter.
We use the same material for his features each time and place the blue hat on his head and the muffler around his neck.
New members of the family are told of that first Blue Snowman, as we work the snow with our hands.
Books
by Richard Neal Huffman
| Short Stories
By
Rick Neal Huffman *Road Rage*
"Ah man, not this old fart again. I'll never get home at this rate," Kevin thought as he slowed behind the gray four-door Buick in front of him.
"Why is it they always pop up when you get in a no passing zone?"
Kevin slammed his fist against the dash. "Damn it!"
Accelerating, he came within inches of the Buick's rear bumper. He then honked his horn repeatedly. The Buick driver's head, its sparsely covered gray dome barely above the seat's headrest, tilted momentarily toward the rearview mirror above the dash, then back down.
"Son-of-a-bitch, a fifty mile per hour speed limit, and here I am at thirty five. Come on you old geezer, get your head out of your ass and drive that piece of crap."
Kevin honked again, watched the old man tilt his head toward the mirror once more and then stuck his middle finger up. The old man's only response to the obscene gesture was to look down. The Buick's right turn signal flashed and seconds later the car slowed, then pulled off the road and onto a drive leading to a small gray house.
"It's about time you old bastard," Kevin said, accelerating heavily.
******
Kevin Abbott, a thirty-year old with a chip on his shoulder and nothing but muscle between his ears. The tattooed words "Hell Raiser" and a devil's head on each of his heavily muscled forearms signaled how he viewed himself, and wanted others to view the same. At home, awaiting his arrival, was a refrigerator full of beer and a mousy wife who bore the marks of constant beatings. He held a job in construction, but just barely: A couple more times being late and his boss told him, "You're out the door."
******
It was now Friday night and Kevin was tired after putting in a twelve hour day.
"Have a good weekend," Bob Neal, Kevin's boss, said, getting into his beat-up old Ford pickup.
"Yeah, you too," Kevin replied, dryly. "Hope you croak before I get back here Monday," Kevin mumbled under his breath.
Kevin slid behind the wheel of his Pontiac, turned the key in the ignition and listened to the sound of the big V-8 as he gunned it.
"What a day. Twelve stinking hours. At least that old son-of-a-bitch will be off the road tonight," Kevin thought, stroking his goatee. A few minutes later he was on the expressway doing eighty-five, listening to his favorite hard rock tune. At this time of night he almost had the road to himself.
Suddenly headlights, coming near his rear bumper.
"Damn, where the hell did he come from?" Kevin thought, adjusting his rearview to cut the intensity of the overpowering beams.
"Well kiss my ass," Kevin said, giving his V-8 more gas, suddenly infuriated at the stranger getting so close. The car lurched ahead, pavement disappearing rapidly behind him.
The headlights stayed close to his bumper. The sound of a horn, much louder than most car horns, blasting though his back glass and drowning out the loud music he played.
Beads of sweat appeared on Kevin's tanned brow.
"Oh, you want to play? Well, get a load of this," Kevin yelled, pushing the accelerator to the floor.
The Pontiac's back tires screeched, sending black smoke into the air and propelling the aerodynamic body forward. Kevin felt his back press into the fabric of the seat. He looked in his rearview. No headlights. But wait, a shadow of something. Big and dark with two red coals to the upper left.
Suddenly, the lights were back, even more intense than before.
Kevin raised his right hand, trying to block some of the white fire.
A jolt of red-hot electricity raced up Kevin's spine. The hair on his neck bristled. His hands shook and his body trembled.
His thoughts were no longer of whom was behind him, but "what."
His mind raced almost as fast as his car's engine. He strained his eyes for an exit from the expressway.
"I know there's one here close. It goes to M-63 and into Saint Joseph," Kevin thought.
"If I an just get off this damned expressway, I can outmaneuver this bastard. Nothing can outdo this Pontiac when it comes to taking corners."
Suddenly, the exit was there. Kevin pumped the brakes, the car skidded on the cool night pavement. He struggled to keep control. Turning onto the exit, he felt the Pontiac lean hard to the right.
"No time to look in the mirror. Must concentrate on getting away," Kevin thought as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
At the bottom of the ramp, he blew past the stop sign, making a left onto M-63 and sending up clouds of dust as his right rear wheel momentarily left the pavement and into the graveled shoulder.
Frantically gunning the engine, he then took time to look to his rear. Nothing, just darkness falling behind his taillights.
"Ha-ha, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. Maybe you're fast, but that isn't everything. You have to know how to handle one of these babies," Kevin said, starting to get some of his overinflated ego back.
Suddenly, he saw the glint of a taillight ahead. A car parked on the shoulder of the road.
As he sped toward it he saw it was a black four-door. He swerved to the left as he passed it. He caught a glimpse of the heavily tinted windows, the large body of the car. It looked like something from the fifties.
"What the hell?" Kevin said, seeing two red coals penetrating the tinted glass in the driver's door. He nervously looked in his rearview as he passed. The car's headlights came on, moved left, then right showing the car was on the move and fish-tailing as it struggled to gain traction.
"Oh, shit man!" Kevin said, punching his gas peddle to the floor.
"Calm down. Calm down. This guy probably doesn't know this area. You do. Just remember, slow before you get into the curves, then speed up through them. There's some side roads if you feel you need to turn," Kevin thought, as he gripped the wheel tightly. At the first set of curves Kevin came to, he nearly slid off the pavement and into a stand of trees.
"Don't panic. Lighten up on the steering wheel. Right foot for gas AND brake. Remember what your dad taught you."
Kevin glanced in his mirror. No sign of the jerk. He wasn't taking any chances. He kept up his speed, went into the next set of curves, and then out onto straight highway. He then suddenly turned off and onto a two-track, then cut his lights.
The dirt road led to a wellhead owned by the City. It made a loop and then came back out.
Kevin slowly drove to the loop area and parked, cutting his engine and rolling his window down. Nothing. No sound. Only the croak of frogs from a nearby swamp and the drone of cicadas in the trees.
Suddenly, the high-pitched whine of an engine, like an airliner taking off on a runway.
Bright lights, blinding in their intensity striking his eyes. The dark car's shape appearing as the lights came alongside him.
Kevin covered his eyes, tears overflowed his eyelids and ran down his cheeks. He started to blubber, snot bubbles forming around his nostrils as he breathed out.
"Please, please, leave me alone. Whoever you are. Whatever you are."
He peeked between his fingers, not wanting to see but then needing to see, who or what drove the dark car.
The tinted window slowly came down. Kevin screamed, the darkness muffling it.
******
"I don't know, Mrs. Abbott. We found him like this, parked at the City's wellhead," Trooper Rodriguez said, standing next to Kevin as he lie in his hospital bed.
"He's in shock," explained the attending emergency room physician, Dr. Arnold.
"Is he going to come out of it?" Kevin's wife asked timidly.
"Only time will tell, Mrs. Abbott."
"What happened to his hair," asked Kevin's wife. "It was so dark before."
"Don't know. Sure is gray, isn't it?"
******
A month later, Kevin was back to work.
"See you in the morning," said Bob Neal, as he watched Kevin walking to the company parking lot.
"I'll be here. Tell your wife I said hi," said Kevin, a smile spreading across his face.
"Damn, didn't know he was capable of smiling," thought Bob, opening his truck door.
Kevin turned on his car radio and rolled his window down, sticking his bare arm out into the warm sunlight. He drove slowly toward home, thinking of the big game coming up. Three miles from home a gray Buick pulled out onto the roadway, an elderly man behind the wheel. Kevin followed a safe distance, patiently waiting for the car to make its usual turn off.
"Wonder who that old gent is?" Might as well stop and apologize for being so rude in the past," Kevin thought.
Kevin watched the turn signal flash and then the car slowly rolled into the drive. He followed it, parked, then got out. A withered hand pushed at the Buick's heavy door. Spindly legs swung from the seat, and an old man slowly emerged.
"Hey old-timer. Just wanted to say I'm sorry for being such a jerk in the past. Won't happen again."
The old man, facing the opposite direction, slowly turned.
Suddenly Kevin stared into two red coals. He froze temporarily, then jumped behind his steering wheel, slamming his door and putting the car in reverse. He backed into the street. Tires squealed and horns blared as approaching cars stopped for his unexpected entry.
Slamming his right foot onto the gas, he fled the old man's drive, looking back only long enough to see a large older model dark colored four-door where the Buick once sat.
Moments later Kevin's wife met him at the door.
"How's your day been?" she asked softly.
"Um, good I guess," said Kevin, his hands shaking as he went to the frig for a cold brew.
"Want me to fix your favorite tonight?" Asked his wife, her blue eyes full of life.
"I was thinking more of us going out to eat and then a movie," said Kevin as he took a long drink from the sweating can of beer. "But you drive."
THE END
Books
by Richard Neal Huffman
| Short Stories
By
Rick Neal Huffman *Bloodlines*
The first bullet from the .44 Magnum struck the huge beast in its left pectoral, penetrating muscle and breaking underlying bone. The second slug, fired seconds later, found its mark in the abdominal wall, just above the navel. The fiend, flung back by the impact, recovered, the torn flesh mending itself as the surface of water after a pebble drops into it. The shooter, Doug Ackerman, twenty-years-old, prepared for a third shot. The furry beast charged, knocking Doug to the cabin's wooden floor and ripping the handgun from his hand. Razor sharp canine teeth, now only inches from Doug's throat, dripped thick saliva, suspended momentarily and then released, falling onto Doug's lips. The monster's enormous lungs exhaled, sending fetid breath over Doug's face. Suddenly the fiend sprang upward, backed a few feet away and stood with its head tilted, its eyes to the ceiling. A raucous roar escaped its dark lips, a macabre rendition of a human laugh. Doug scrambled to his feet as the beast metamorphosed into human form, its guttural laugh transforming into the hearty laughter of his older brother Mark.
"Told you that puny .44 wouldn't stop me," said Mark.
The two brothers stood in the living room of their parents modest three bedroom home.
Suddenly the home's front door opened, their father's figure in the doorway, his arms filled with split firewood. He gave the boys a quizzical look and then started for the storage box next to the fireplace. His right foot struck the .44 still lying on the floor, sending it sliding across the polished wood and into a wall.
"What've you two been up to?" He asked, dropping the wood into the storage bin and then picking the gun up.
Doug looked at Mark, waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, he cast his eyes to the floor and said, "I bet Mark that your .44 Magnum would knock him off his feet while he was in his werewolf form."
William, the boy's father, shook his head, placed the handgun on a nearby stand and said, "You ever think of what would have happened if someone would have placed a silver bullet in that gun?"
Mark opened his mouth to answer but his father cut him off. "Of course you didn't. Well, let me tell you something young man I've not only seen what silver bullets can do, I survived one and I can tell you they hurt like hell. Fortunately, when I was shot, the bullet went through my thigh, didn't lodge in the tissue to poison my system."
"Sorry dad. We'll never do it again," said Mark, dejectedly.
William, raising his right hand to his face, used his open fingers like a comb to push long thick graying hair from his eyes and back across his forehead.
"Look at me," William commanded his sons.
Both boys looked into their fathers steel gray eyes, momentarily seeing a raging storm that they both had seen before, which scared the shit right out of them.
"Well, all right . . . But if I ever catch you doing something that foolish again . . . "
Mark and Doug noticed their father's lower jaw start to extend, then recede to its normal state.
Looking at the clock on the wall William said, "Better make sure this living room is put back in order, then clean up: Your mother will be home soon."
"What's for dinner tonight mom?" Asked Doug, opening the refrigerator door.
Thelma, Doug's mother, stood at the kitchen sink, her dark shoulder length hair falling to just under her chin as she scrubbed a large iron skillet.
"Oh, I thought we'd finish off that side of beef your dad brought home last night."
Doug, instinctively licked his lips, rolled his head back and howled.
"Stop that. What if one of your friends were here? Start thinking before you do that, no telling who might hear. We had to move way out here because of similar habits you boys displayed in public."
Doug laughed and said, "Hey, I wasn't the one that peed on old man Nelson's car tire, while he watched from his living room window."
Thelma, stifling a chuckle, said, "Your brother thought it was funny, until the cops showed up. It was bad enough he did it, but even worse the way he did it: Running across the lawn naked and raising his leg."
"Yeah," said Doug, taking a drink from a milk carton. "Besides, that's when the cops started noticing other things going on in the neighborhood. Such as dogs and cats coming up missing, the sound of wolves howling during the night. Reports from neighbors about wild animals kept in our home. It got so we couldn't get a decent hunt. Besides, they even started to concern themselves over the criminals we were taking off the streets. Should've been happy about that."
"Well, pardon me for saying this, but it's the humans that are strange. Killing for no reason, putting all those drugs in their bodies, always stepping on one another to get to the top of the pile.
"Speaking of strange, you talked to that guy who moved in just down the road?"
"No, I saw him at the store the other night. Why?"
"Just something about him. I walked past him the other night. He'd come out to check his mail. I got a whiff of something, not sure what it was. He sure gave me a look when I walked past.."
"Well, just leave him alone and he'll leave you alone."
Mark Ackerman sat at the swamp's edge, brushing at mosquitoes as they lit on his neck and ears. Frogs sang their choruses as an occasional nocturnal creature rustled through the dense grass along the shoreline. Mark was starting to like the country living. The solicitude, quiet nights under the stars. He'd noticed a difference in his parents too. They weren't so uptight. His father was staying away from the bottle. He hated it when his dad drank. Some of the boys at school complained about their fathers' drunken rampages, hell, they were nothing compared with his dad's. His mother once had to change into the creature, then drag him back home one night after he'd demolished a downtown bar. We moved from that town shortly after.
Mark's ears twitched, hearing a sound. A dark form was on him before he could move, its grip on his arms like bands of steel. He felt sharp teeth at his throat, and then suddenly the being was swept away, a thunderous roar carrying it into the darkness. Sounds of a tremendous struggle came from a wooded lot nearby, lasting for several minutes, then silence. Meanwhile Mark made his transformation and bounded off into the woods. The scent of his father came to his nostrils, mixed with another scent he was not familiar with. Finding a trail of bits of flesh, clothing and blood, Mark snarled and charged through the woods. A few minutes later he found his dad, lungs heaving, blood dripping from his wolf mouth. The two changed to human form again.
"What the hell was that?" Asked Mark.
"A vampire," said his father, between breaths.
"Right! You've always said there is no such thing as vampires."
"Well, I was wrong."
"How did you know it was after me?"
"Didn't, I just wondered where you'd went, so I decided to follow your scent. I picked its rotting odor up just seconds before it attacked you. It didn't bite you did it?"
Mark felt his throat. "No, I don't feel anything."
"Damn, we find a nice home and now we have a vampire somewhere nearby," said William.
"You must have hurt it badly," said Mark.
"Not bad enough it seems," said William. "We'd better get back home and tell your mother and brother."
Weeks went by and the leaves were now brown and gold, falling from their branches.
"I saw our neighbor again last night," said Doug to his mother as she straightened the living room.
"Yeah?"
"Yes, he was sitting in a lawn chair under the big Oak in his front yard."
"I found out his last name is Johnson," said Thelma.
"Sure isn't a friendly sort," said Doug. "I said hi as I walked past and he just looked at me, never said a word."
Thelma stopped her work suddenly. "You don't suppose . . . ?"
"Oh, that he's dad's vampire?"
"Well, yes. I mean you never see him during the day, and I've yet to see him buy food items at the store."
"Think we should tell dad?"
Thelma thought for a moment. "Well, I don't know. I'm just afraid he'll overreact and do something rash. I mean, if it isn't the vampire your father might kill an innocent person."
"I heard that," said William, stepping through the doorway that led to the basement.
"Now William, don't you go down there and cause a problem," said Thelma.
"I'm not going to, but I am going to find out who that guy is."
William waited until after dark and, while still in human form, walked through the darkness to just outside Johnson's house. Silently he made his way around the house, peering in windows. Stopping short at a basement window he stared down at a coffin, sitting on a cement pedestal, its lid closed.
That does it, this guys dead meat, even more so than he already is.
William made the change and broke through the back door of the house. In the dim light he saw Johnson, a large caliber gun in his right hand. The thunderous explosion shook the walls and William's experienced sensory smell picked up the odor of burned silver as it left the gun's barrel. Waiting for the terrible burn to enter his chest and end his life he suddenly heard a thud behind him. Turning, he looked down at a dark form on the floor as it writhed about and then lay still. Looking back to where Johnson stood he saw the pistol lowered and Johnson in tears. Sensing danger was over he changed back to human form.
"What the hell is going on here?" Asked William, lowering himself to make sure the dark figure was dead. Looking into the ashen face on the floor he saw the man looked just like Johnson.
"He was my twin brother," said the man with the gun, between sobs.
"You mean he was a vampire, and you're not?"
"Exactly," said the man. "Tony, that was my brother, and I went for a vacation and visited some relatives in Romania. We were living in Chicago at the time. While in Romania Tony was bit by a vampire. He disappeared and I traced him here by watching for unusual deaths across the country. I just arrived earlier today and I was waiting for him to awaken. I just couldn't bring myself to kill him as he slept. I might not have killed him when I did, but I couldn't let him kill you."
William looked at Tony's brother, his brow furrowed in thought.
"But why didn't you kill me? I mean, after all, most people would consider me a monster too."
Suddenly Tony's brother took on the shape of a huge werewolf, then back to human form again.
"I see," said William.
"Yes," said Tony's brother. I only kill those that do harm to society. I can tell you are the same, for otherwise you would have already laid waste to these weak humans you live among.
"How was that steak?" William asked Roy Johnson.
"Wonderful," said Roy, wiping the blood from his lips. "Just the way I like them, raw."
The End
Books
by Richard Neal Huffman
| Short Stories
By
Rick Neal Huffman *The Bear And I*
At the time of this writing I'm 57 years old: In those 57 years I've met and interacted with many people: Some I would classify as acquaintances, others friends. There have been a few good friends, fewer, best friends. I can, however, tell you who was the best of the best of my friends; his name was Bear. I gave him that name. You see Bear was my dog. I say was, because unfortunately Bear is no longer among the living: He met a violent end. That's why I feel compelled to tell his story. Bear is dead, but I want his memory to live on: Not just in my mind, but with you who love your pets'.
I may dramatize as I write of my Bear, but most will be fact.
When Bear and I first met, I was working for the city of Bangor, located in southwestern lower Michigan; I was a police officer. I found an ad in the local paper from someone wanting a good home for a German shepherd pup.
Part One
I drove to the address I wrote down. As I pulled into the dirt drive and stared at the mobile home it reminded me of many of the homes I'd visited as a cop; run down and in need of repair. Indeed, in need of being torn down! The front yard was more dirt than grass. A few children's toys lie about: A wagon with three wheels, a tricycle with only one pedal. I looked at the windows, either without curtains or with homemade coverings.
I walked up the steps to the front door and knocked on the thin metal covering of its flimsy frame. I heard light footsteps from within, then the door opened.
I stared into the face of a woman, thirty to thirty-five, brown disheveled hair; a cigarette hanging loosely from her thin lips.
"Hi, I'm the one who called about the German Shepard pup."
The woman stared at me, her eyes going immediately to my shoes, then up. She then looked me in the eye: That's what makes women such good witnesses, and police officers'; they are so observant.
"Yes," she said. "My dog had several pups. They're all weaned now and I just can't afford to feed them all."
"May I see them?"
"Sure. Please excuse the way the house looks, the kids tear it up faster than I can clean it."
I could see a dark-haired girl of about five peeking from behind the woman's tanned legs; exposed by cut-offs, cut way too high. As she opened the door, a boy of about eight ran to a nearby couch, launching himself onto a cushion and sending up a dust cloud.
The woman led me to a room down the hall from the living room and cautiously opened the door, "Take your pick. Just keep the door closed so the rest don't get out."
I entered the room and was nearly overcome by the smell of dog feces. The one window to the room was open but supplied little respite, as hot humid summer currents entered it. Opposite the door, on an old worn throw rug, were four pups. All but one cowered against the wall.
"Hey guys," I said in a low calming voice.
"Woof," was the reply from the one pup daring to challenge my entrance.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said, as I slowly made my way to where the pups huddled.
Again, "Woof," came from the brazen pup.
I stared at him. He was more black than brown, typical Shepard markings; however I found it hard to believe he was 'pure bred.'
I took a doggy treat from my shirt pocket, knelt down and offered it in the palm of my right hand. 'Mister adventure' slowly walked to my hand, smelled the morsel and quickly snapped it up. I took a second snack out. This time I put it in my left palm. The pup came to me a little faster this time. As he nosed toward the snack I extended my right hand and softly stroked his thick coat. I saw his tail, curled over his back, start to wag.
"You're a lot huskier than your brothers and sisters. You remind me of a young Bear, yeah, a Bear."
When I left that day, Bear lie on the seat next to me. I left behind an authoritarian suggestion to either provide a cleaner living environment for the rest of the pups', or take them to the animal shelter. I reinforced this 'suggestion' by the purposeful disclosure of the badge I wore on my pant belt, usually hidden by my untucked tailed shirt.
As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Bear and I closely bonded. My departure for work each evening found Bear staring out my living room window, his countenance showing his displeasure that he was not going with. In the wee hours of the morning, when the rest of the world was sleeping, I would pull in the drive and see Bear's face at that same window; his mouth slightly opened, as if in a grin. His body twitched with excitement as he bound for the door to meet me, tail wagging madly: Shrill yips coming from his growing lungs. Only after much petting, and a few of his favorite doggy treats, would he settle down; at my feet as I watched TV. If, while in my recliner, I slipped into sleep, I would awake to his body heat against my legs.
Bear and I shared long walks. I never gave Bear any formal training, but while on these walks I did make it a habit of keeping him on a tight leash at my left side. There were two reasons for this. One, I wanted him to get use to staying near, not just straying all over. Second, I looked to the future of taking him on my 'beat.' If he were to walk with me while I was working, I wanted him on my left side; leaving my right side clear in case my weapon had to be drawn.
Working as a cop for the city of Bangor, I found myself working alone much of the time. Bangor, a small town, didn't have the budget for a large police force. There was only the Chief of police, a lieutenant, a part-time officer and I. The department had unpaid reserve officers, but each one had their favorites to whom they liked to work with; I usually was the last choice. I guess I wasn't dynamic enough. I dedicated most of my time, when not taking complaints, to providing an aggressive foot and mobile patrol. Except for of the Chief, who had too many administrative duties to get out on the street much, the other officers' liked to work traffic enforcement. This of course was what the reserves' craved. Anyway, this worked out well for Bear and me.
After he matured enough, I felt comfortable in bringing him to work with me. I wouldn't usually take Bear with me as I did my mobile patrol. I did take him on foot patrols.
It was during one of these foot patrols one summer night that Bear met some of the 'low life' his master had to deal with. I was working with a fellow full-time officer, Bill Gant. As Bear, Gant and me walked down the sidewalk we came to the entrance to a restaurant. It was about 11:00 P.M. and the business was closed. Bear, as usual, was to my left and I was to Gant's left, near the street: Farthest from the business entrance.
As we approached, I noticed two young men, in their late teens, early twenties, in the recessed doorway. I recognized both men: 'Scooter-bags.' That's my terminology for lowlife people that have no purpose in life, nor want one.
As Bear, Gant and I passed by, one of the thugs remarked, "That dog bites me and I'll sue you."
That enraged me. Bear had done nothing to either man.
"Don't worry about the dog, it's his owner that bites," I replied.
A few weeks later I sat behind my desk at the police department, typing a report. It was not uncommon for me to check out of service with the county dispatcher after 3:00 A.M. and then, on my own time, catch up on reports.
Bear lie on the carpeted floor nearby, his head on his extended paws, his eyes closed. I knew he wasn't asleep; every minute or so he'd open his eyes, sometimes raise his head, look around and then lay his head down again. The office I worked in was to the rear of the building. A nearby door led to the alleyway outside. I'd parked my truck just off the alley, to the rear of the department.
As the keys to the type writer (yes, in the 'old days' we used typewriters) clicked with each touch of my fingers I heard a low rumble coming from Bear's throat. The rumble turned to a growl.
"What's the matter Bear, someone out there?"
Bear kept his eyes on the door leading to the alley, his head now up; his ears reminded me of radar antennae: Both were standing straight, but would rotate slightly every few seconds.
Bear didn't give false alarms so I knew someone, or something, was outside the door. Bear stood up, his head cocked to one side, a short bark escaping his lips. I went for the door, unlocked it and slowly turned the knob: Wanting to only open the door slightly. Suddenly, Bear launched himself at the small opening, forcing it open further: Escaping into the darkness. Bear's shrill barks echoed in the alley as the sound of leather striking the pavement came to my ears.
"Get away! Get away!" Came a man's voice, somewhere down the alley.
"Bear!" I yelled, trying to get him to return.
I looked at my truck, seeing my radio antennae bent at a 45-degree angle.
"Son-of-a-bitch! I hope Bear tears you a new ass hole," I yelled down the alley.
I stepped from the semi-darkness of where my truck was parked, to the street-lit alleyway. I saw Bear returning, at a slow trot.
The night air was humid, its currents bringing smells of decaying foodstuffs and stale beer from earlier activities at the nearby bar.
"Did you get him, Bear?" I asked, as I lowered myself on my haunches.
Bear came to me, his tail wagging. I found a dot of red on the end of his snout. I checked him over for injuries. None.
"Yep, you nailed him. Good boy," I said, reaching into my uniform shirt pocket for a doggy treat.
A couple of days later I stopped for gas, in my personal car. Frank Enders, the 'scooter-bag' who'd said, "That dog bites me and I'll sue you," was inside the store when I went in.
Frank grabbed his pop from the counter and brushed past me, his eyes avoiding mine. Frank held the pop in his left hand: A bandage on his right.
Bear and I were real buds.' If I were late getting home, which I was many times, he was still glad to see me. If I were too busy to play with him some days he never growled at me. By the same token, if he had an'accident' on the floor, I'd clean it up and never scold him. When he chewed up my favorite baseball hat, I bought another and never berated him. Bear was good with people who approached me, never growling or nipping at them.
Having said that, heaven forbid anyone would ever raise their voice to me; or worse yet act as if they were to attack me. Bear made it plain, on more than one occasion, that he would not tolerate any hostile moves on his master. In each case, and there were only two I can recall, a hefty growl and the showing sharp canines convinced the 'scooter-bags' it was in their best interest to cease and desist.
After several years with the Bangor police department I took a job with the Covert Township police. Unfortunately I had to move closer to my new job. In so doing I went from a home in the countryside to an apartment in the city. The apartment owners' would not allow pets so I ask a friend of mine to take Bear. It broke my heart to give him up, but I knew I'd still be able to see him.
Every chance I got I'd stop in and see Bear. He'd see me coming and he'd go into a frenzy, jumping about and wagging his tail. I'd pet and hug him as he licked my face. We'd share precious moments and then I'd have to leave. Bear would watch me go, and if he'd had tear glands his eyes would have overflowed; mine did.
One day, about two years after I'd let my friend take Bear, I went to see him. When I pulled into the drive, I looked to where Bear usually stayed, near the garage. I didn't see Bear so I walked to the garage and then to its rear: No Bear. My friend, seeing me out his kitchen window, came out.
"Hey Al, where's Bear?" I asked.
"He nipped at my son, so I shot him," Al said, coldly.
"You what!"
"I shot him. He bit my son."
Al's son, A.J., was about three-years-old at the time.
"Bear would never bite your son," I said, my voice breaking. My eyes filled with tears and I felt my face flush.
"Well, he bit A.J. so I had to get rid of him," Al said, as if he'd just crushed a bug.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing: My Bear, dead?
"Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you just give him to animal control? Something!
You didn't have to kill him!"
I thought back to when Al and I had worked together. I recalled once when he and another cop had found an injured dog on the side of the street. A citizen had called them about the animal. Al and his partner had taken the animal to a secluded wooded area and shot it. I thought, when I'd heard what they'd done, that it wasn't right but maybe they'd just wanted to put the dog out of its misery. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe Al enjoyed doing that stuff.
I was devastated. I was so mad I couldn't stay near where Al stood, so I left without saying another word.
Part Two
I'm retired now. I still miss Bear so much. I'm a firm believer in life after death, for animals too. I know that Bear now runs through fields of green, never to be hurt again. When I pass over, I look forward to seeing and being with Bear again.
Books
by Richard Neal Huffman
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