Little Hawk, Maine
Just working on my writing here . . . thinking I could really make a series out of this. Feedback to make it scarier would be very appreciative. Thank you.
"Trixie, you gonna meet us up at Buzzard's Taven or what?" asked Norman Daylor, who was covered with mosquitos and Old Spice. He was smoking a Newport and had half a Steel Reserve clenched in his husky paw.
"Yeah, gawdamnit, Daylor, gimme half a minute now, my hair's not even close to bein' ready," replied Betsy Stephens, Norman's new girlfriend, a sort-of pretty husky, with a too-large black nose, big teeth, and crossed eyes.
"You sho' are an ugly thing, you kno' that?"
"Fuck you, Norman! Get fucking lost, before I fucking stab you right here."
Betsy had met Norman at Buzzard's Taven (once known as Tavern in Little Hawk, but the 'r' had been lost during a wicked windstorm in the fall of '56. Now, in 1968, The Beatles were "the cat's meow" and nothing was hotter than Jim Morrison flashing his tight little leather ass to the world on Ed Sullivan through the tube.
"I mean it, Norman! I'm not in the gawdamn fucking mood. I'm on my period, I'm soaking already with a shitty tampon half stickin' out of me and all you can do is stand there with a fuckin' 211 hangin' off yer gawdamn paw."
Norman took his mosquito-covered, free paw and wiped his muzzle off, only to dirty it more. He muttered. "Alright, alright." He shrugged a shoulder in her direction, leaving the bathroom door open, and the murky hallway light on. "See ya' when I see ya'."
Betsy halted her grooming until she heard the grinding gears of Norman's own cancerous-sounding pickup leave the driveway, heading out into the oil midnight. In Little Hawk, Maine, even at night, the 840 or so constituents left up in this dank, northeastern corner near the borders of Canada burrowed deep in the pine woods, there always seemed to be some noise, some endless vibration or disturbance that never failed to end an echo between reality and some other seamless ethereal existence. Tonight, a noise creeped through the open window of the bathroom, a regular sound of nature, just pine trees making their solemn conversations, owls hooting, the river nearby gurgling, the whisper of the wind, the click of a gun, the . . .
THE CLICK OF A GUN ?!
Betsy froze.
"Norman?" she squeaked, her hard, amber eyes now drawn back in fear. Betsy had just heard Norman back out towards Buzzard's Taven not even a minute ago. He wouldn't even be more than a few miles away yet.
"Hello?"
The sound of Betsy's heart thumping wild in the deep of the black night was the only noise that could be heard now. Except for, well, that was a footstep, wasn't it? Yes, it most certainly was, considered Betsy.
In a moment of composed and frustrated logic, Betsy turned off the bathroom and hall light at the same switch, bathing the small trailer in darkness. The footsteps stopped abrupt. The twenty-year old crouched and began to sniff in the direction of the living room to the right of the bathroom. To the left was a dead end, but ahead was a small closet, where above was kept their rent money and marijuana.
In a very slow motion, Betsy took her right paw and glanced from over her right shoulder, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She sniffed again. Another footstep. She darted back again inside the bathroom, and then the footstep became running steps.
She screamed bloody murder, and slammed the thin wood door shut, and attempted to lock it. It was her great misfortune that the lock was really a child's thing, for the intruder on the other side bashed it out with ease and crashed through the wooden door as if it had been made no more than Lincoln Logs.
The intruder stood almost eight feet tall, weighing three hundred and eighty pounds. His red-and-blue striped lumberjack striped shirt, black jeans, black overalls, hefty gum boots, wide Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, and thick Coke-bottle glasses gave him a look of vicious authority. He pounced up upon of Betsy Stephens, sans gun, and shook her frail, shaking shock-filled body with its calloused, dirtied hands.
"Where is he?" growled the thing, his breath filled with ancient vomit, stale grease, and horse scat, gathering its population into Betsy's throat and nostrils. Her pupils pushed backwards as she tried in helpless manner to avoid the oh-so-terrible smells.
"WHERE IS HE?"
Betsy could not answer, except by vomiting fresh chunks of spaghetti and meatballs, and chocolate ice cream all over the face and top part of overalls of the intruder, of her intruder.
Annoyed with the distraction thrown at him by the futility of his victim, the thing took his super-sized, metallic paw and shaved Betsy's face off with one swipe. All that was left was spaghetti and meatballs on the floor where Betsy's somewhat beautiful face had once existed.
The thing continued its attack on his prey by unleashing his crazy huge overalls and let them drop to the floor, then unbuttoned his black jeans and whipped out what could have been a fucking medieval bayonet, or spear, about forty inches long, with metal wings tearing up the sides, polluted green smoke exhaling from its pulsing yellow tip, its egocentric orange ball sack boiling so hot with cum that they were growing and throbbing with amazing energy.
It picked up what was Betsy and dove his hell cock into her meatball throat, using her whole body as a pussy, wrapping his golden hairy arms, thick to the brim with ropey, everlasting viney muscles around her legs and feet, and commenced to shove in and out, out and in, in and out, until the squishing sounds became squelching and what had once been a husky body was now a thing of waste and stink, a nightmarish toilet of demon semen, as the intruder released his mayonnaise-like substance into his thing and exited, leaving behind an overflowing mayonnaise container, still bleeding meatballs and marinara. With a final thrash, the thing tore his fuck toilet in many parts, sticking leg, arm, gut, thigh, shit, brain, and all splattered and glued onto every surface of the bathroom.
"WHERE ARE YOU, MOTHERFUCKER?" cried out Beelzebub, his vocal pipes bellowing out, shaking the trailer into a million broken jagged edges, of which the lumberjack-looking devil prince leaped and raced his way through the unknown woods, in search of him.
*
"Where is she, Norman?" asked Paltrey Garrett, stooped over a deep glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
"I don' know, Palt. I'm a gettin' worried."
"Well, shouldn't you be a getting to look?"
Norman shook his head, his triangle husky ears not making much movement at all. "Too drunk, Palt. How the fuck that look with me trying to find Betsy Stephens and a cop pull me over. Damn stupid, Palt, pretty damn stupid."
"She's your girl."
Norman slammed his fifth can of 211 on the beleaguered wooden bar table down and growled at his Doberman friend. "I KNOW WHAT THE FUCK SHE IS, PALTREY GARRETT!"
"HEY, DON'T SHOUT AT ME."
"Then, mind your goddamn business. Just drink your fucking PBR's. This is fucking Little Hawk. I said I was worried, but I didn't mean that I was terrified. For all I know, she still has 'er panties in a bunch about the way I left an half an hour ago."
The bartender, Geoff Clamsed, pushed his way over to the two dogs, both sporting identical peace-sign buttons on their jean jackets . Geoff had done one tour in Vietnam, and been shot defending some "fucking piece of road" just two weeks into the tour. He had had to recover in Saigon for four months before he was able to return to the combat, and spent the rest of his time "huntin' down Chawlie, and smokin' dem funny Thai sticks". However, Geoff Clamsed had never gotten over the initial shot fully, as a piece of the bullet had gotten lodged deep in his foot, and caused him to limp. The jackrabbit now limped over the arguing canines, twenty-seven years of age, and tired of their shit.
"Shut up, boys, or I'll throw both of you out of here on your asses, and ask questions later. Another 211 and PBR?"
"Yer goddamn right!" said Norman. "Betsy'll be here 'fore long."
Outside of Buzzard's Taven, the nocturnal sounds continued their cycle around the clock, almost one a.m. now. Not too far in the distance, a great beast tore the ground with metal nails and white cannibal teeth, finding squirrels and rabbits for gristle and consumption.
Twelve miles back, Betsy Stephens was no longer. Her life had been finished quick by an unjustifiable evil within seconds.
And, in the small town of Little Hawk, nestled deep within the brown, moist fields and heavy, green pines, a new night terror had begun.