Frigid winds whip by branches mocking the silence surrounding this enormous farmhouse. It’s a frozen evening accompanied by heavy snowfall. Harrison reads a book quietly on a worn, stained mattress that’s placed conveniently in the corner out of everyone’s way. Snuggling up with as many blankets he can find, he flips through each page intent on finding answers. Headlights flood through the thin bedsheet curtains accompanied by obnoxious hair metal and the revving of a classic American pickup truck. Harrison stands, looking out the window, he immediately begins to panic. Sprinting down the hallway avoiding puddles of blood and defiled animal carcasses, he begins to slam on his aunt’s bedroom door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Aunt Lynn? Aunt Lynn, George’s here! Get out, he’s coming!” he warns.
Scurrying back to his mattress, Harrison attempts to hide under a plethora of blankets and sheets. The music cuts along with the engine as the headlights fade amongst the desolate snow-covered field. Lynn runs into the living room frantically searching for Harrison. George’s truck door slams followed by his vomit hitting the cold, concrete walkway.
“Get out here, boy!” George demands seemingly inebriated.
“Harrison? Harrison, where are you?” Lynn whispers.
Harrison peaks his head out from underneath his blanket.
“Do you have the book?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer.
“Do you have the book?” she eagerly persists.
He nods in fear presenting the book.
“Good boy. You can’t hide here, go…go outside,” she continues.
“But I don’t have shoes on…” he returns.
“Shhh…just go,” she insists, holding her hand over his mouth.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
They both jump as George slams violently on the door.
“I know you’re in there, boy!” he continues.
Unwilling to move, Harrison tears up in fear. Hoisting him up by his forearm, Lynn drags him towards the back door continuing to silence him. Opening it, she aggressively pushes him outside into the bitter winter evening closing the door in his mortified face as he grips the book close to his chest. George continues to beat on the front door.
BANG. BANG. CRASH.
Obliterating the frail door structure, George makes his way in, wielding a malt liquor bottle by the neck. Lynn makes her presence known hoping Harrison will make his escape. Marching toward Lynn, George forcefully grabs her by the neck pinning her against the wall.
“Where is the boy? Where is the book?” he demands reeking of brown liquor and cheap cigarillos.
“We’ll die! We’ll all fucking die if I don’t get that book! Where is he? George warns.
Refusing to respond, Lynn braces for a hit. Gripping her neck tighter in frustration, he then releases her to the floor smashing the bottle across her temple. Flailing on the floor, the convulsing eventually stops as her blood empties onto the carpet.
Harrisons innocent eyes watch from the window as George frantically tears the room apart. He exits the living room to search the rest of the house. Snow continues to fall around Harrison’s nearly frost-bitten toes. His feet begin to ache in pain, so he peeks cautiously into the empty door frame, holding back tears as he leans his head low against the door frame. With a deep breath and the book tucked under his arm, he gently steps back inside. Sneakily making his way down the hallway, he finds the warmth from the animal blood oddly relieving on his icy feet. George’s boots stomp each step as he comes stampeding down the stairs. Sprinting into the living room, Harrison trips over his aunt’s corpse. Holding his own mouth, he backs up into the corner scanning the room for something to defend himself with. Following the boy’s bloody footprints, George struts confidently into the living room towering over Harrison. Curled up, Harrison hugs the book close to him as his tears mix into his aunts’ blood on the carpet.
“Couldn’t hide forever, boy. It’s over. Give me the book. Give it to me!” George barks.
Defeated, Harrison sits up handing the book to George who snatches it promptly. Beginning to sift through the literature manically, Harrison secretly folds up a page he had torn out placing it in his pocket.
“C’mon. C’mon! Where is it?” George says to himself becoming increasingly more irritated.
“It’s gone. Where is it? Where is it!” he concludes looking to Harrison.
Charging Harrison, lifting from under his arms he slams the boy against the wall.
“Where is it, boy? Tell me. Tell me!” George insists continuing to bash the boys head against the wall.
Conquered, Harrison smirks, glaring comfortably over George’s shoulder. Children with hair as white as the snow on the mountain caps and pastel blue skin, like the frozen waters of the lake, chuckle wildly as they begin to devour him from the tips of each limb.
© John Marrows All Rights Reserved