The Sleepwalker

The Sleepwalker

By: Roger Alderman

To this day I am unsure why I have been tasked to witness the evils of this small town, Port St. John Florida. It seems as if I am cursed to only awaken from the empty void of nothingness for no other reason than to hear the tales of depravity that for some reason people choose to share over a quiet meal in an unremarkable roadside diner. Who am I to judge why people do the things they do?

This time I was awoken from my slumber by the arrival of a pair of forty-year-old professionally dressed women, Gail Woods and Tanya Hunter. They had arranged their late afternoon luncheon to discuss the passing of a client of Tanya’s. Robert had been a client of hers for the better part of two years due to “incidents” that he was experiencing during episodes of sleepwalking. 

The delicious scent of the day’s special was stuffed green peppers topped with shredded pepper jack cheese. The food was cooked until the cheese had turned a light brown. This created a wonderfully burnt pungency that only seemed to add to the atmosphere of the small-town diner. The aroma clearly worked its magic on the lunchtime customers, as there was no plate empty of this day special.

The waitress presented menus and eating utensils, “Can I start you off with drinks? While you look over the menus?” Gail and Tanya smiled and took the menus from the kind waitress. They each ordered a sweet ice tea and settled into their booth across from one another. 

“I know we’re not supposed to do this, but I need to talk,” Tanya whispers to not alarm the Diner’s other customers. Gail took Tanya’s hand in hers, “It’s okay to talk to me. Though I would have preferred my office for this discussion, we gotta eat.” Tanya nods at Gail’s statement, “It’s about my client Robert, the sleepwalker.” 

The waitress returned with the condensation covered sweat ice teas in plastic soft drink cups and placed them on the tables' drink coasters. She offered a smile to Gail and Tanya, “Have you decided on what you would like?” Tanya shook her head in a defiant, No. Gail smiled at the waitress and eagerly asked, “Those stuffed peppers look amazing,” as she gestured to an elderly couple eating the lunch special nearby. 

Tanya saw the elderly couple’s plates and asked, “I’ll take the stuffed peppers. They look amazing.” The waitress nodded and smile in understanding. Gail quickly added, “I’ll have the same.” The waitress took the menus and walked away to place the new lunch order.

“Go ahead?” Gail pleads after seeing the tormented form on Tanya’s face in just mentioning her client's name. Tanya nodded and slid a worn leather journal across the table to Gail, as she sipped at her Sweat Ice Tea. Gail seemed reluctant to take the journal at first, but Tanya’s insistent look help persuade her otherwise.  

Gail opened the journal and began to read. The waitress returned with their lunch order. They spread their napkins across their laps and dug into their meal, as Gail started the journey of a fallen man’s words. 

Gail seemed taken back at the very first sentence contained in the volume that read, “I am cursed.” Her training kept her to task and she began to devour the contents of the journal. With each new page, she took another bite of her lunch. 

The following was the story of one man’s descent into the darkness of being cursed by Voodoo. (real or imagined)

I have been into landscaping since I was old enough to use a push mower. It helped keep me too exhausted in my teens to go out and get into trouble. I am the type of person that became addicted to working after that first bit of cash was given to me. After completing a good afternoon’s work. 

The biggest issue with working so hard for me comes in the form of sleeping deeply. I swear, I could probably sleep through a volcanic eruption according to my wife. Not that I ever want to test that theory. 

My wife asked me to get checked out by my doctor to make sure my deep sleeping is not due to some unnoticed illness or something. So, I made the appointment and the doctor ordered a bunch of tests, but everything came back normal. After my last visit with him I left angry and depressed after he told me, “Robert, some people are just deep sleepers. Try not to focus on it so much. You’re healthy as a horse.” 

John, a friend of mine and a fellow landscaper, asked me to help him out with a few clients after that last hurricane. I agreed almost immediately as the clients were close to customers of mine. Everything was going fine until the last client an elderly black woman named Miss. Edna. Her lawn was overgrown like everyone else’s, but the debris was bad. So, we cleared the lot, mowed, and trimmed the property.

When Miss. Edna arrived, she parked quickly and rushed out of her car screaming in hysterics. I ran to her side making sure she was okay, but to my surprise, she slapped me across the face. Her diamond wedding ring cut a gouge across my cheek. 

I stood holding my cheek as blood poured from the wound. “What the fuck!” I demanded from the elderly woman. By this point, her neighbors were watching through their windows or they had joined us on the lawn. “What did you do?” She asked through clenched teeth in her thick Jamaican accent. 

I stood there shaking my head not understanding what I had done. Man, hindsight is always twenty-twenty and if I only knew then what I know now. “You destroyed my husband’s memory tree!” she yelled. I was tempted to explain that I had never been told about the newly planted “Memory Tree.” However, with all the judgmental looks and shaking heads of the growing crowd, I offered apologies.

The apology was not enough for her no matter how heartfelt it was. She slapped me again across the face and spat at the ground. She stormed into her house her hand covered in the blood from my facial wound. Some of the neighbors snickered others left in disgust at what had just occurred. 

At this point, I had enough of all the drama after all I apologized and offered to plant another tree. I couldn’t replant the tree as we feed all the debris through the wood chipper. There was nothing left of the memory tree that was able to be planted. I was sure that offering her the wood chips to her would not help the situation. 

We left Miss. Edna’s and sure enough less than a block away John called. “Dude, what did you do?” he asked. I explained the situation and he sighed loudly, “I forgot to tell you about the Memory Tree for her husband.” I yelled angrily at him so much my helpers became uncomfortable and John apologized to me for not telling me about her property.  

“Poor Guy,” Gail offered as she stopped eating long enough to drink some of her sweet tea and wipe her mouth. “Robert says later that Miss. Edna called him and started talking gibberish,” Tanya flipped several pages forward in the journal and pointed. Gail looked down and read the passage, “Okay, he felt that Miss. Edna put a curse on him for destroying the memory tree?” 

Tanya nodded a vehement “yes” at Gail’s observation. Gail immediately shook her head, “do you know how racist that is? I mean seriously an elderly black woman with a Jamaica accent is also a voodoo priestess?” Gail shook her head in disbelief at the thought. “I understand, but it comes from a small town with limited exposure to other cultures. Robert got it honestly,” Tanya sat back in her seat and looked around at the locals who occupied the other booths. 

Gail chuckled, “My, how absolutely judgmental of you.” “Keep reading he talks about the starting of his sleepwalking after the call form this Miss. Edna,” Tanya gestured to the journal. Gail sighed and flipped forward until Tanya motioned for her to start reading again. 

Becca, my wife, told me over my morning coffee that last night I was sleepwalking again. “What do you mean, again?” I asked. She told me that for the past few nights I had been sleepwalking through the house. I asked her, “Why didn’t you wake me up?” She said she had read somewhere that waking a sleepwalker was very bad. She tried to explain it to me, but to me, it was all just nonsense. 

I went to work and thought about it for the rest of the day. The next morning, sure enough, Becca told me that I was sleepwalking again. I nodded in understanding. What she told me next was very disturbing. Becca showed me a bandage on her right forearm. I immediately asked what happened? and Did I do that?

Becca explained that last night she was awakened by a loud crashing sound like silver wear scattering across a tile floor. She said I was not in bed. She grabbed my old wooden bat from little league and made her way through the house until reaching the kitchen. That is where she found me standing eyes closed holding a large kitchen knife to my wrist. 

Becca pointed and showed me where I had begun to cut myself with the serrated edge of the large kitchen knife. I was floored by the revelation. She explained that even though I was sleepwalking she had to me to fight to take the knife and in exchange, she had been cut across the forearm. She was protecting me and did not deserve any of this.

I called off work and we went to my doctor’s office once again seeking help to stop these nightly episodes. Again, after several tests, we learned nothing. That is when he recommended seeking out psychological help as sometimes there may be a mental reason for these events. I agreed as things were turning violent and becoming more and more dangerous each night.

Gail shook her head at what she had just read and gestured to Tanya, “That is when he became your client?” Tanya sipped at her sweet ice tea while nodding as she held a remorseful expression on her face. Tanya sat her drink down and interlaced her fingers as she rested her arms on the tabletop, “I thought it was a simple case of sleepwalking triggered by his guilt and sense of duty.” “Was it?” Gail asked. “I am not so sure, Gail. Maybe I missed diagnosed his condition altogether.” 

“Why would you think that? You can’t blame yourself for his death. You gave him the tools he obviously didn’t make use of them,” Gail declared defensively. Tanya shook her head gently, No at the thought. “Each appointment was worse than the time before. He was clearly spiraling down and I missed all the signs.” Gail walked around to Tanya’s side of the table and embraced her friend trying to calm her racing thoughts. 

Tanya sobbed as her friend offered to comfort her, “Just don’t know how I missed the signs?” “He was clearly hiding them from both you and his wife. I bet if we continue to read. He will more than likely admit to it.” Gail flipped a few pages past where she had left off in her previous reading. 

It’s like the whole world is closing in around me. Choking me trying to strangle the life from me every day the noose seems to tighten that she put around my neck. The majority of my clients canceled our contracts due to the confrontation between Miss Edna and I… That was over six weeks ago now? 

Last Night in my Dream… Nightmare, I was being chased through a forest by an army of shadow people. The forest dead-ended at a cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the ocean below. As the shadow people closed I knew I needed to jump. So, I got ready to leap, but at the last second, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and was surprised to see Miss Edna standing there in weird and frightening face paint. I was terrified and when I started to speak she pushed me back off the cliff.

I was awoken by Becca screaming my name and immediately lost my balance. I fell from the roof above our front door and landed on the porch. I almost broke my ankle but was sent home with a severe strain and a torn ligament. I hope Dr. Hunter will see me on such short notice. This sleepwalking has to stop before I kill myself. 

No one believes, me not my Becca or Dr. Hunter. I have continued to plead with both. They both are unconvinced about the curse Miss. Edna put on me almost three weeks ago. Everything is falling apart around me I tell you everything I touch turns to shit.

I have decided against my wife and the doctor’s opinions to go and once again try a to smooth things over with Miss Edna. She has to understand I did not mean anything against her or her family when I accidentally cut down the Memory Tree. Pray that she is understanding by this point in time. 

Gail looks up from the journal and sees the tears still streaming down the cheeks of Tanya, “was this?” Tanya wiped the tears and her nose with a napkin, “yeah, that was his last entry in the journal before they found him.” Gail lowered her head and embraced her dearest friend again, “I’m so sorry.” Tanya planted her face into the chest of her friend, as other customers attention shifted to the crying woman in the booth.

“They found him in the kitchen of his home. He had open slit his arms with a kitchen knife from elbow to wrist.” Tanya exhaled loudly. She blew her nose and continued, “But he had also stabbed Becca to death in their bedroom.” “Oh My God, honey, I’m so sorry,” Gail gasped. 

“That’s not the worst part though,” Tanya continued. A puzzled look filled Gail’s face, “What do you mean?” The color left Tanya’s face as she looked into Gail’s eyes, “I went to tell Miss Edna to ask her to forgive Robert, as he had passed. But before I could say anything she slapped me and her ring cut open my check. Then she spat on me and began screaming at me.” “Crazy old bitch!” Gail declared angrily. 

Tanya shook her head as her mascara continued to mix with her tears marking her face with long black stains running the length of her face. “What’s wrong, Tanya?” Gail asked. “My husband has caught me sleepwalking,” Tanya cried out. 

That house on Falcon has spirit

That House of Falcon has Spirit

By: Roger Alderman Jr.

The jail’s private guest meeting room smelled of sweat and mildew were the first things Paul Andersen noted when he entered. That odor was quickly trumped by the stench that came from the old inmate sitting in his aged wheelchair. The old man wore tattered prison blues and a stained off-white undershirt. His face was worn and dark from prolonged exposure to the sun from the recreation yard. 

The old inmate, Glenn, stunk of body odor and urine. Paul noted a small slow flowing stream coming from the lower corner of Glenn’s catheter bag. Glenn’s pant leg was wet with urine from the improperly placed catheter. This resulted in a slow leak from his penis as urine built up. Paul realized that the medical staff of a prison had little time to deal with such things.   

The inmate was covered in a blue warming blanket that had definitely not been washed in the past few weeks. Paul watched as bugs roamed across the surface of the blanket and no doubt below as well. Glenn scowled at the man standing across from him, “What the fuck do you want? They said you were my attorney.” Glenn clearly did not like being disturbed and thought to himself, who is this fucking guy? Especially by some clown in his white button-down shirt and black slacks.

“I am here as part of an investigation,” Paul sat down on the chair across the metallic green and rust covered table. “What investigation?” Glenn demanded. “When I talked to the Sheriff’s deputy he said you can tell me about Port Saint John Florida,” Paul started. Glenn nodded and cleared his throat.

 “Sure, I suppose, I lived in Port Saint John Florida nearly all my life,” Glenn said with a tone of remorse building in his voice. The sickly old man shifted in his wheelchair under the filthy warming blanket, as the younger man examined his statement for red flags. Paul flattened his mustache with his right hand careful to not jab himself with his medium tipped blue ink pen. “Okay, Glenn, what can you tell me about the house on Falcon?” Paul pointed at Glenn with his pen in hand.  

 “What’s your interest in that old place?” Glenn glared clearly offended by the young man’s presence. Paul looked down at his yellow legal-sized tablet to quickly remind himself of the bullet point he needed to cover with Glenn. “I and My team were asked to help a young couple that moved into your family’s old home,” Paul found himself pleading with the unhappy older man. “What’s that got to do with me,” Glenn demanded. Paul stood up and stretched, “Look last night was a long night for us. We need you to tell us about your time there? Can you help? Or am I wasting my time?”

Glenn glared at the impatient man as he clenched his liver-spotted fists under the blue blanket. Paul walked to the locked metal door and signaled the guard through the small thick glass window. Paul turned to face the old man in the wheelchair, “Last chance, Glenn, once I leave no one will ever believe your story.” Paul banged on the metal door then he turned to face Glenn, “Just as some small-town psychopath. That should have been executed for all the lives you took. Is that how you want to be remembered?”

 “Everyone knows I got cancer and I’ll be dead before eighty-eight. Why bother?” Glenn asked shaking his head dismissive of the memories that begin to come forward in his thoughts. Paul watched the angry old man’s face become mournful even though his words still lashed out at the world that judged him without understanding.

“Fine. Paul, is it? Ask your questions,” Glenn snapped unclenching his fist. A nurse entered the room carrying a small cup of water and a medicine cup with pills. She moved past Paul to deliver the medicine to Glenn. He watched as the old man swallowed the pills followed by the water from the other cup. The old man opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. To allow the nurse examined his mouth to ensure the medicine was consumed.

Glenn scowled as he watched the nurse leave the room, “Well, got about thirty minutes before those pills turn me into a vegetable again best get started.” Paul nodded, sat down, readied his tablet and pen, “Okay, let’s talk about that night.” “No.” Glenn snapped. Paul’s face held growing confusion, “No? but you said…” Glenn interrupted,” if we’re gonna do this we need to start at the beginning of the story. Not at the end of it.” Paul nodded in agreement to the purposed conditions.

Glen began, “My father had the house built on that property back in nineteen seventy-four after my father’s company moved us to be closer to the space center. Previously he was a flight mechanic in the United States Air Force during the Korean War and his skill set helped him find employment quickly with a private contract firm. His job had him testing the parts sent to NASA for various space flight craft.” 

Glenn smiled as the early memories brought him back to the happiness of the time. Paul interrupted, “Your Mother? Nancy, right?” ‘Do you want to tell the story?” Glenn scowled at Paul remark. Paul raised his open palm to Glen, “Sorry, please continue.”

Glenn shook his head in disappointment and cleared his throat, “Mom was happy to move she never liked the people of our previous neighborhood. She was the kind of person who loved to travel and learn new things. She found work as a seamstress and was always at her happiest in front of the sewing machine.”

Paul interrupted again, “Your sister Maybell, told us that Nancy, your mother, had developed a drinking problem. She claimed it all started with your Dad’s long hours at the Space Center.” Glenn threw the empty water cup at Paul, “Don’t you ever say another word about my mother or I’ll!” Glenn stopped himself as an expression of terror filled Paul’s face due to his outburst. “I’m sorry. I just…” Paul pleads with Glenn. Glenn waved off the apology, “Look if you interrupt me one more time this whole thing is over. I’m sure another reporter will try to get this story from me.”

Paul recoiled at the elderly man’s words, “Wait you think I’m a reporter?” “You said you were an investigator,” Glenn looked confused. “We’re paranormal investigators, Glenn. Not newspaper investigators.” Glenn recoiled in his wheelchair, “The hell is that?” “We investigate claims of the supernatural. You know like ghosts, possession, and stuff,” Paul added. “That shits not real. You kids watch too many movies,” Glenn scoffed.

Paul exhaled and examined his notepad again, “Glenn, I need you to understand I am here to help you.” Glenn became angry, “What makes you think I want your help? You ever think maybe I’m happy here?” Paul recoiled at the verbal assault, “Calm down I need your help to help the family that not lives in your old house.” “Fuck them! They should have never moved in! That was our house!” Glen blasted and reached for Paul. Paul was thankful that Glenn was bound to his chair in the form of metal bracelets. 

“Ask your questions or fuck off,” Glenn flopped back into his wheelchair. “Okay, Glenn, I need you to think back to the house on Falcon.” Glenn exhaled loudly and sneered at Paul, “Fine, we lived there for years, but no Ghost or any of that bullshit you’re talking about.” “Good, but I need you to really focus on that last week or so of your time there. Can you do that for me?” Paul begged. “Yeah, I suppose, but you know. All these questions about the house. Why are all of you so interested in it?” Glenn asked.

“How many other people have talked to you about it?” Paul’s brow furrowed as his concern grew. “Several. They all said the same thing that they would help me get out of this place and blah-blah-blah. But no one has helped me yet,” Glenn declared. Paul made notes after the reveal of information from the inmate’s words. “Great let's just focused on the last week or so you were there. That way we’re not just saying the same old thing,” Paul explained. Glenn jutted out his bottom lip and nodded in agreement. 

 “The last week when everything went down were very rough on the family. Mom and dad’s relationship had fallen apart. She was drinking and arguing constantly. Dad was raging and we were getting hit for no reason,” Glenn admitted with building remorse and rage starting to stir. “Just focus on your story for me. Don’t let your emotions drag you away from sharing your tale,” Paul reminded the old inmate. 

“They were set for divorce, but dad always threatened that if he could not have us then no one would,” Glenn studied Paul face for insight into his line of questions, but none was to be found, yet… “So, he openly told you about his plan to kill your family?” Paul quickly wrote on his notepad. “Yeah, but I didn’t think he meant it, you know I thought it was just a threat. No real intention, but I guess I was wrong,” tears streamed from the corner of Glenn’s weathered old blue eyes. “What happened next,” Glenn exhaled, “well I guess everyone knows what happened.”

Paul flipped the page of his notebook stopping on an empty sheet, “Please, Glenn, continue.” Glenn wiped at his tears, “Friday Night. It was a great day I was excited to come home and show my folks my report card. It was not perfect, but it was definitely an improvement over the last one.” Paul took off his glasses and wiped at the corner of his eyes, “So, you came home and what happened next, Glenn? Think real hard about it try and remember what actually happened at that house.” Glenn looked confused by the remark.

Glenn lowered his head as his eye darted back and forth, “That’s when I walked into the house and found her. My mother lay on the floor face down just inside the doorway. The wood floor was sticky with the blood that had left her body. I was in shock and wanted to cry, but that’s when I heard Nancy scream for help.” Glenn’s attention snapped up to Paul anger claimed his body language. Paul pushed away from the table. 

“That son of a bitch had her hiding in her room from him. I saw him in the hallway ax in hand. The door had little left of it and I knew he would kill her too. That’s when I rushed him, “Glenn slammed his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. The whole room seemed to shake. Paul looked around and wrote again on his tablet. “I grabbed the ax handle and we fought for control of it. I looked into my dad’s face and it was not him. I mean it was his body, but his face was twisted and full of rage,” Glenn clenched his hands as if he was holding the ax again. 

Paul began to smell the pungent metallic stench of blood filled his nostrils. The walls quivered as he began to look around the room. “Okay, Glenn, I get it your angry, but I need you to calm down for me. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.” Glenn glared at Paul, “What the fuck are you talking about. Other than my dad I have not hurt anyone.” Paul stepped away from the table and to the door. 

Glenn’s feeble hands shook as he held them above his head, “Get back here you wanted the story. Let’s finish this! Why won’t you people leave me alone?” Paul looked back at Glenn and was floored. Glenn’s features began to shift and change. Glenn was suddenly much younger was holding a long-handled wood ax in hand. “Okay, Glenn, let’s calm down now,” Paul attempted to get control over the situation. Glenn suddenly stood up from the wheelchair, “My family died that night. Why does everyone keep fucking with me about this.” 

Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “Glenn, your father, and mother did die, but…” “I know that!” Glenn stomped across the floor towards Paul. Paul could feel Glenn’s hot breath as he stood before him. “The family that lives in your old house called us because the house is haunted by a violent ghost!” “Bullshit!” Glenn yelled as he swung the ax high above his head.

“The house is haunted by the ghost of someone who does not know they are dead,” Paul withdrew a mirror from his front pants pocket. “Horseshit! You’re a liar!” Glenn screamed and the room shook violently. Paint chips fell from the walls revealing metallic green under the paint on the prison walls. “Nancy asked me and my people to come here,” Paul pointed the mirror at Glenn. Glenn paused as the ax came down stopping inches from Paul’s head. The reflection in the mirror gave Glenn pause. The smoke-like image of himself froze Glenn mid-swing,” What is this shit?” 

Paul unclenched his eye as he had instinctively recoiled from the ax swing, “Glenn, this is what has been haunting the people that live here. You have been haunting them. You refused to move on into the light.” Glenn lowered the ax as he searched for words to express his confusion, “But...” Paul took Glenn’s hand in his, “You refused to move on. After saving your sisters life the guilt you had from killing your father created a prison of your own making.” 

“But all those reporters? And their questions,” Glenn stared confused at Paul. “Glenn, they were psychic just like me and were trying to lead you into the light and out of your personal hell.” “I don’t remember haunting my house?” Glenn asked. “That’s because you crafted your own world here. You projected your world onto those that came before me and those that lived here.” “Really?” Glenn shook his head.

“But how did I die then? If I am dead like you claim?” Glenn demanded. “When the police arrived, they shot you dead as you stood in the hallway begging your sister to open the nearly destroyed door. They saw your mother and fathers chopped up bodies. They decided to take no chances as you turned to them. You were pronounced dead at the scene.” Glenn's face went blank, “but I just wanted to save my sister.” 

“You have been pounding on that door and throwing things around inside the house for over fourteen years, Glenn. I think it’s time for you to rest,” Paul opened the door to the room. A brilliant light flooded into the room Glenn raised his arm defensively against the brilliance of the illumination. “Paul, just one last thing,” Glenn looked at his rescuer. “What’s that Glenn?” Paul questioned.

In the center of the living room, Paul Andersen sat in his trance-like state surrounded by his fellow investigator. The entire team waited patiently for Paul to come back to them from his entry into the spiritual world. He had always done this to confront the spirits they investigated. However; the local paper only stated “Bodies discovered in an old home on Falcon. Police search for a copycat killer.” 

The Crone of Port Saint John

The Crone of Port Saint John

By: Roger Alderman

Alan Bucannon finally turned off the engine of his truck after sitting in his driveway for some time listening to his favorite local radio station. He was exhausted after a long day of remodeling the flip house he had purchased in Port Saint John, Florida. He was sore from the day’s activities and could hardly wait to prop up his feet.

The door to the truck groaned long and loud as it swung open. Alan stepped out of the truck and stretched his aching back releasing a series of pops from along his spine. “Ouch that old oak tree really didn’t want to come down,” he ached aloud and he grabbed his back. He snatched his duffle bag from the front bench seat of the older model Blue Ford F-150. 

Alan swung his duffle bag over his shoulder and closed the truck door. He paused to cough and gag as since entering the moldy old house he had not felt well. The loud squeak of the door announced his arrival home to, Buddy, his golden retriever. Buddy immediately began to bark happily that Alan was finally home. Alan looked at his Brown and Tan two-story home along Kings Highway and chuckled at Buddy’s reaction.

Alan swiftly crossed the yard pausing long enough to collect the mail from the roadside box. Then it was time to head inside. Upon reaching the door a look of curiosity crossed his face, as he looked back to the driveway. He became curious as to where Sharon must have gone, but he was too tired.

Buddy’s demand for his attention on the other side of the front door was becoming comical to Alan. Buddy released several whimpering barks and scratching at the door. “Okay, Buddy, relax I’m home,” Alan could barely get the words out after opening the door. Buddy was six years old but stood nearly as tall as Alan when on his back paws.

Alan rubbed Buddy along his sides and ruffled the fur on his head, “Alright that’s enough.” Buddy dropped to the floor and followed Alan’s every step close behind sniffing him as he traveled. Alan closed the door and dropped his duffle bag on the love seat. “Sharon,” he called out curious. 

Alan saw no signs of, Sharon, his wife or the kids. He drifted from room to room in an effort to see if anyone was home. After searching almost, the entire the first floor he entered the kitchen and discovered a handwritten note on the refrigerator that read.

“Alan, 

The kids and I went to your mom’s house to help her out for the night. We will be back tomorrow night. Dinners in the fridge. 

Love You, 

Sharon and the Boys.” 

Alan looked down as Buddy leaned against him waging his tail. “Looks like it’s just you and I tonight,” Alan leaned down and pet his faithful companion. “You hungry?” Alan asked and Buddy responded by twirling in a circle. “Alright. Alright. I gotcha,” Alan grabbed a can of premium dog food from the panty and peeled the tab open. Buddy brought his dish to Alan after smelling the odor from the can fill the room.

Alan emptied the can into his dish and watched as Buddy gobbled the food down quickly. He snickered at the overexcited golden retrievers' action. He opened the shiny chrome refrigerator door and grabbed the clear plastic container with the red lid that held his dinner. 

Alan opened the top a smile followed the smelling the contents, “Yes, Shepard Pie!” Buddy looked up and wagged his tail. “Mine,” he responded authoritatively to the dog’s desire to eat his dinner also. Alan placed the container into the microwave and left the kitchen.

Alan entered the adjoining front room and turned on his favorite sitcom, “just in time.” Buddy climbed onto the sofa and settled next to Alan as he ate his dinner. He finished his meal as the half-hour comedy ended, “Well, I don’t know about you but its bedtime for this old man.” Buddy sniffed at Alan’s bag. 

Alan went into the kitchen to wash his dish. Meanwhile, Buddy stared sat the bag and pulled it off the table onto the floor and began to scratch at the zipper. Alan re-entered the room and saw Buddy, “Get out of there Buddy. It’s just some stuff I found in the house we’re flipping.” 

“Fine,” Alan sat back down and returned the bag to the coffee table. Buddy watched intensely as Alan opened the bag and removed the contents. Buddy acted as if he could care less for anything in the bag except a small wooden crucifix that had seen better days. Alan noticed the dogs focused attention, “I figured I would clean it up and give it to Sharon. Do you think she would like it?” Buddy looked at Alan twisting his head into an angle that told of his curiosity. 

Buddy rushed down the wall to wall carpeted hallway wagging his tail as he went barely missing bumping into a small wooden table that held family pictures. Alan shrugged, “Okay you’re right. It is bedtime. Let’s go.” Alan locked up the house and went upstairs to the master bedroom. Buddy had already run up the step and entered the master bedroom. 

Alan climbed into bed and was quickly joined by Buddy. Buddy rolled around onto of the comforter of the king-sized master bed. Alan knew this was a sign of Buddy wanting to play. Alan obliged gabbing buddy and wrestling with him for a few minutes. Buddy hopped off the bed and ran from one side to the other than would bounce back onto the bed with Alan. 

The pair became startled as the house phone ringing at the growing late hour. Alan snatched up the receiver and offered an exasperated, “Hello?” He became surprised when his work partners, Randy, voice. “Someone broke into the property and broke up a bunch of stuff.” Alan lowered his head in growing unease, “Seriously?” 

Alan could hear the sounds of other voices in the background, “Who’s there with you?” Randy took a deep breath, “The neighbors called the police saying they heard noises and banging around inside the house across the street.” Alan looked annoyed and buddy continued to try to play with him. Alan had to shove him away and yelled, “Not Now, Buddy!” Buddy lowered his head and left the room. 

“So, what are we looking at?” Alan asked as he rested his head on his palm. “Alan, they called me only after they could not reach you on your cell phone. According to the police they found a mangled cat on the porch, and the front door was kicked in, but whoever did this. They went straight to the basement and ripped up the floor. They had to be searching for something,” Randy told him. “I’ll come right down just sit tight,” Alan growled. 

“No, I got it. The police are filling out the insurance forms for us and making a report. I have already talked with the insurance people. Stay home get some rest,” Randy plead with his friend and work partner. “Fine just let me know what’s up in the morning,” Alan demanded. “Alright talk to you later, bro,” Randy hung up on that note. 

Alan turned off the light and curled up under the comforter. Before he knew it, Buddy had wormed his way under the blanket next to him. Alan and Buddy fell fast asleep spooning. 

Alan awoke to the sounds of Buddy yapping and barking downstairs, “what the?” He looked at the alarm clock in the darkness its red glowing light showed, “10:33 p.m.” Buddy barked louder to get Alan’s attention. Alan set up on the edge of his bed rubbing his face, “Fine, Buddy, let’s go!”

Alan made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He paused seeing Buddy pawing excitedly at the back door. Buddy stopped and sat staring at the door. Alan chuckled and approached. Alan stopped in his tracks as someone knocked on the door before him.

Alan turned on the light to the backyard and peered out the kitchen sink window which overlooked the backyard. He looked out the window for a long moment but saw no one. Save for the old feral neighborhood cat, Nelly.  He opened the back door and watched as Buddy dashed out into the drizzling rain to try and find a dry patch to pee on. Nelly quickly bound up a tree see buddy rushed into the yard.

Buddy quickly did his business, but just as he was about to cross the threshold of the back door. He turned to face the backyard and sniffed the air. Immediately he began to growl and bark ferociously at a darkened corner of the yard. 

Alan recalled last spring when Buddy did the same thing and nearly got hold of a rabid raccoon. Thinking quickly, he seized Buddy by the collar and drug him back inside the house. “Get in here. Before you end up getting rabies,” Alan scolded.

Buddy was a dog possessed he barked and raged even once the back door was closed. Alan continued to scold his companion, as the barking became agonizing, “That’s Enough!” Alan paused when he realized he had drawn back his hand ready to strike Buddy, “You’re just trying to protect me aren’t you?” Buddy winced and withdrew at the sight of Alan’s temper flaring outwards in a manner he had never seen previously.

“I’m sorry,” Alan opened his fist and pat Buddy on the head. “I’m just tired but trust me it’s probably just one of those feral cats that Vicky keeps feeding,” Alan hugged Buddy to reassure him the anger was gone and understanding was reached.  Buddy licked Alan and strode off to the master bedroom wagging his tail. Alan stood, turned, and locked the back door, “I gotta try and talk sense into that woman. Can’t have all these wild cats upsetting buddy.” 

Alan crossed the kitchen and turned off the light. He was startled by the sound of a knock on the back door, “Who the hell?” He looked at the clock on the stove and shook his head as he crossed the kitchen stopping at the back door to look outside before he would open the door. 

Alan saw no one outside even after turning the rear porch light back on. He looked out the window confused, “Damned cats.” He turned the light off and crossed the space again, but as before once, he reached the far side of the room the door was knocked on again. Angry and out of patience her rushed to the door and threw it open, “Who the…” 

Alan stood confused as yet again no one was there. He stepped out on to the porch seeking the person responsible for this interruption. The longer he stood in the drizzling rain the greater his confusion. Nothing was to be found by his scrutinizing gaze save for Nelly stretching her long forearm her long claws holding tight to the flesh of the tree as she stretched against it. 

Alan turned to enter the house only to find that the back door had closed behind him, but it was unlocked so there was a something positive to be taken from all this nonsense. He was too tired to dwell on anything at this late hour, opened the door, and entered. 

Nelly leaped down from the tree and watched from across the yard motionless in the falling rain. The door locked and the kitchen light was turned off by Alan as he left the room. Nelly glared in the direction of the house then turned and bound off into the underbrush.

Alan closed the master bedroom door and flopped onto the large bed. Buddy popped out from under the covers beneath Alan, “Damn it, Buddy, you know this is my side of the bed. Get over there.” Alan shook his head and motioned to Sharon’s side of the bed. Buddy understood, moved over, and plopped down next to Alan. 

Alan pulled the covers up and turned off the light, “finally.” He opened his eyes for a moment looking at the red light of the alarm clock which read, “11:30 pm” Alan shook his head in disappointment at the discovery of the time, “I’ll be lucky to get five hours in before I have to be up.” He exhaled and clenched his eyes closed. 

Time passed as man and best friend drifted off into slumber. Buddy slept like a log unmoving deep in dreamless rest. Alan, on the other hand, tossed in turned in a troublesome dream. 

In his dream, Alan watched the backdoor to his house from an inhumanly low angle on the opposite side of his yard. He felt as if he glided just above the grass across the lawn stopping at the back door. He heard loud knocking on the door before him.

 Suddenly the light in the kitchen turned on and the door swung open. As the door opened is revealed a gaunt woman in a tattered and filthy brownish dress. Oily black patchy hair hung before its face two luminous orbs glowed where its eyes should be. It stretched out its grey corpse-like arm with inhumanly long fingers to seize him from the ground. Even though he was fast asleep he could feel his heart racing as he was unsure of what was happening.

Buddy was terrified and barked and growled to try and wake his master beneath the comforter. His ears perked up hearing something moving up the stairs, but what can he do Alan won’t wake up. He continued to bark and growl as loud as he could.

The sinister corpse-like woman carried Alan up the stairs of his house. Wait a moment, he thought, this is my house. He began noticing the flaking wallpaper that previously hung on the walls before his renovations. That was it, he thought to himself, this was the house before he bought it and moved in. 

The Crone reached the second-floor landing and made its way down the hallway. Alan began to hear distant and distorted sounds of a dog barking. The Crone stopped before the master bedroom door. The Barking was now a warning against entering.

Alan detected movement behind the Crone and himself. He turned to face behind them and was instantly disturbed by the long line of children that followed their piper. The Crone’s whispers beckoned each child by name to follow her. 

Alan heard the dripping from their still bloated corpses as water dripped from their twisted skinless bodies pooling beneath each child. Each child’s face now forever locked in the terror-filled appearance of their last moments of life. Only their oily wet dark hair remained attached to the skin left behind on their heads. 

Alan looked down towards the feet of the Crone and became transfixed upon the dress of the Crone. It did not flow as one would expect a dress too. It was stiff had heavy stitching holding it together. He studied it for a long moment and became aware it was fashioned from the missing flesh of the children that followed behind her. Alan's attention moved back to the bedroom door as the Crone reached out with her long arm’s and pressed against the door. 

Buddy was enraged and frothing at the mouth in defense of his mast whom laid on the bed unable to awaken. His attention locked to the door and what lay beyond. Barks and Growls challenged whatever stood on the opposite side to dare enter the room. He would not allow anything to happen to any member of Alan’s Family without a fight. He looked back to Alan asleep on the bed then turned to face the door. 

Alan watched as the Crone reached out and took the doorknob in hand. The knob turned slowly making loud groaning and clicking noises. Buddy slammed himself against the door to keep it closed. 

The loud bang against the door Awoke Alan from his trance-like sleep, “What the Fuck!” He was soaking wet and gagging on the pool of saliva that had formed in his mouth. He spat and coughed, as he witnessed Buddy raging and growling defiantly at the bedroom door. 

“Buddy,” he coughed and spat again. The golden retriever leaped onto the bed with Alan and began to lick and nuzzle against him. Buddy clearly wanted Alan awake and his attention also to focus on the door. Alan looked at the door and watched as something or someone turned the doorknob.

Alan reached for his nightstand and threw open the drawer. Inside he grabbed his pistol and swiftly unlocked it in preparation to defend himself and his home. He leveled the firearm at the taking careful aim. His thoughts reminded him of the Crone and the dead children that lay beyond, “Don’t come in. I have a gun. I swear to god I will use it!”

Alan heard the Crone call out from the hallway but could not make out her words. He became shaken as the door swung wide open in a loud followed by a long cackling. He clenched his eyes and emptied the revolver. Each pull of the trigger allowed the power of the firearms volley to ripple down his arms. Each round thrust against his grip as if the weapon was trying to leap free of his grasp. 

Buddy rushed into the hallway followed close behind by Alan. He struggled to empty and reload his weapon. He stopped dead in his tracks as the sight of Buddy in the hallway standing over a slumped form on the floor. Buddy was not growling anymore, but instead whimpering and laying on. The ground next to the corpse of Sharon his wife. 

“Sharon! Oh My God!” Alan rushed to her side dropping the gun and landing on his knees. Buddy stared at Alan not understanding what had just happened. Alan picked up his wife, cradled her body, and sobbed, “Why did you come back you were supposed to be at my mom’s?”

Alan’s mind raced over the nights' events. Confusion took hold of his expression as he stared at the floor trying to find answers that were not to come. He looked at the revolver next to him on the floor for a long moment as tears and regrets formed and flowed from his face. 

From beyond the front door, red and blue lights raced to and from illuminating the house. The front door to the house burst open as numerous deputy’s rushed inside with firearms drawn and ready. The cleared the first floor quickly and turned their attention to the second floor. 

Alan wept holding his wife on the floor. Buddy began to growl and bark again. Alan looked up again the images of the Crone flooded his mind, “You Bitch!” Alan raised the revolver and emptied its contents. Each explosive thrust trying to disarm him. 

The first deputy up the stairs took a round in the chest and fell to the floor. The three that followed quickly returned fire killing Alan and Buddy as the knelt trying to protect Sharon from any further harm. The deputies rushed the pair and began calling out to others inside the Buchanan home. 

Alan lay dying on the floor the searing heat of each round that hit him burned deep within him. Each bullet felt to weigh hundreds of pounds giving him the sensation of being pulled down to the ground. His attention moved beyond the officers to the far end of the hallway. He saw something move in the dark. He heard something dripping just beyond his sight. Suddenly a long corpselike arm extended from the darkness. The crones long bony hand extended its index finger and motioned for him to follow.