Envoy
Hunter Lowe
Joseph Murich rocked back on his heels, pushing a thick cotton sleeve over his nose. Dead birds littered the ground around his muddy boots.
Hera, Joseph’s dog, whined restlessly behind him, keeping her distance from the bird carcasses. That alarmed Joseph more than the event; normally, a field full of easily accessible birds would have looked much akin to a free buffet to the German Shepherd. Joseph sank to a knee, casting his eyes across the fallen animals.
***
Four days ago, Beth had sprinted toward the house at full speed. Her blue sundress billowed behind her. Long, curly strands of grey hair bounced as she kicked off her sandals mid-sprint. She shrieked Joseph’s name the whole way, jumping over twigs and tree roots. As she neared the screen door, she almost knocked Joseph down.
“The docks,” she managed to say between wheezes.
Joseph put his hand on Beth’s back, trying to calm her, but her chest heaved and the hair framing her pale face sat matted with sweat. Joseph knitted his brow and stepped outside to look at their small boathouse.
“What the hell is going on?” Joseph asked, not seeing anything from the doorway.
Beth faced him. “They’re everywhere, filthy damn things!”
Joseph laughed. “Is it beetles or mosquitos this time?”
Placing a hand on her chest, she said, “You need to go look for yourself.”
“Alright. Just get some water and calm down, okay?”
Beth nodded and went inside.
Joseph stepped off the porch and walked toward the water. The path that he had dug out in his younger years showed signs of disrepair. He walked down the bumpy, root-snarled road, taking in a deep breath of moist air. Rain tonight probably . He kept his pace slow and steady. At his doctor’s behest, he was to take it easy, very easy–after his second heart attack, his chest held a ticking time bomb. As he approached, he noticed the quiet. No more than ten steps ago, the low thrum of crickets and cicadas had been chattering.
The lumpy silhouette of the partially-repaired boathouse had stood on the wrong side of a rotten tree last fall, and the insurance company was taking their sweet time to correct the situation. Besides the eerie quiet, everything seemed normal.
As he took a step forward, a crunch issued from underneath his boot and traveled up his body. He yanked his foot back, staggering.
“Oh, Christ.”
Insects covered the ground, almost to the point of choking the path–thousands of them, all dead. At the sight of the insect holocaust, Joseph walked back to the house, his pulse rising to alarming levels.
He opened the screen door and pushed past Hera. Beth sat at the kitchen table, sipping from a glass. She looked up as he entered. Lines covered her pale face, resembling a page from a coloring book, begging for someone to color in what fear had stolen. Joseph thought she’d aged ten years in the short time he was gone. Her hands shook and her eyes seemed puffy. Her hair appeared glued to her loose skin, but her brown eyes looked very much alive.
Her left leg twitched up and down nervously. “Did you see them?”
“I saw ’em.” Joseph crossed the yellowed linoleum kitchen floor, tugging off his cap. Most of his hair had abandoned ship before the remaining turned grey. “Maybe some kind of chemical got loose from a farm. I’m not positive. The sheer number of them was….” He stuffed the cap into the pocket of a coat hanging near the door.
“Fucked up?”
Joseph nodded. “That sounds about right. I’m going to give animal control a call in the morning. Let’s keep Hera in for the night.”
Joseph locked the front door for the first time in years.
***
Shaken from his daydream by the pungent aroma of dead birds, Joseph marveled once more at the sheer amount of death, ranging widely in size and species. Joseph was no ornithologist, or even a birdwatcher for that matter, but he knew that entire clouds of birds didn’t just drop from the sky.
Hera whined at him again. He reached down and stroked the big dog behind her ears.
“You’re telling me.” Joseph felt the hairs on his neck stand up. “Let’s get out of here, girl.”
Joseph retreated from what felt like a crime scene, his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. Hera nosed her way in front of him.
Beth called from the living room window. “What is it now?”
Joseph sighed. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Birds.” Joseph entered the house and made his way through the small kitchen, into the living room, and approached the phone. “Whole helluva lot of dead birds.” He picked up the receiver and dug a scrap of paper from his pocket. Sheriff Coughlin had offered his personal contact information during their last meeting, just in case anything else strange happened.
Beth turned back to the television and clicked rhythmically with her knitting needles.
Joseph punched the number into the phone, and after two beats, a voice answered. “Sheriff Coughlin.”
“It’s Joseph.” No response. “Murich. Joseph Murich. The guy with all the dead bugs?” Joseph closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.
“Mr. Murich! I’m sorry, always been bad with names. Won’t forget tramping around ankle-deep in bugs any time soon, though. Is everything alright?”
“It’s worse,” Joseph said. “Went for a look today, and the entire area has a fresh layer of dead birds.”
“Birds?” Coughlin’s voice took on a tinge of worry. “How many are we talking?”
“I don’t know.” Joseph lowered his voice, glancing at Beth, “Hundreds?”
“Oh,” Coughlin said. “I’m on my way. I’ll bring some of the animal boys to help clean up.”
“Thanks.”
Joseph hung up the receiver. He needed a drink.
***
A couple hours later, Joseph stood next to three other men. Sheriff Coughlin wore his standard uniform and stood a head shorter than Joseph. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes and sweat ran down his face from the hairline of his black buzz cut.
The other two men looked like a series of mug shots come to life: big, tough, and ugly. They wore grungy jeans, and the larger of the two sported a black, sleeveless shirt picturing a grinning skull.
The three men carried shovels and several strange, elongated pieces of aluminum, each one topped with a metal hook. Joseph was less than keen to discover how they would be using the long, silver rods.
“You weren’t kidding.” Coughlin pinched his nose. “Jeeeesus, the smell.” The two larger fellows didn’t seem to mind the stench. “Get to work, boys; Joseph and I need to talk.” He motioned for Joseph to step away.
“Anything this time?” Coughlin said.
Joseph scrunched his nose, his eyes watered. “No, nothing that either of us noticed. It was the same way with the bugs and the–”
“Fish.” Coughlin finished for him. “That was something special, too. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else we can do other than keep updating the report I sent to the state health department.” He moved around Joseph, removing a camera from a pocket. “I’m gonna take some photos again, then I guess we’ll get to work de-birding your property.”
The small camera beeped, before extending its lens. Coughlin moved around the scene while snapping a few photographs.
Joseph removed his hat and rubbed a rough hand over his scalp. “It’s moving up, isn’t it?” He felt a chill.
Coughlin stopped and lowered the camera. “Moving up what?”
“The food chain.” Joseph’s heart jumped. “First bugs, then fish, and now birds? All of them around my boathouse? What the hell is going on here, Sheriff?”
“For now, let’s just get this cleaned up. The faster we get that done, the easier you’ll sleep tonight.” Coughlin walked to his truck. “It’s strange, that’s for sure. Someone did take an interest after I reported in today.” He reached into the truck’s bed, retrieved a long pole, and handed it to Joseph. “A crew from the city is coming to have a look at the surrounding area tomorrow afternoon ‘round one. They aren’t the state boys, but maybe their findings will help convince someone at the higher levels to deal with whatever this is.”
Joseph breathed a sigh of relief. Finally . He squeezed the metal rod and grimaced. “Let’s go bag some birds.”
Tools in hand, Joseph and Coughlin walked slowly across the yard, spearing bird after bird. In no time at all, gore covered the tip of Joseph’s aluminum pole. “I knew I wasn’t going to like what these did.” He hefted another dead bird over to a growing pile near Coughlin’s truck and shook it loose. It landed with a damp smack and tumbled down the mound of carcasses.
“Gonna take you all day if ya keep bringin’ one at a time,” the larger of the animal control boys muttered. He rested the tip of his pole on the top of the mound and slid six dead birds off with a bloody work boot.
Joseph shook his head. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“It’s Graham. Why?”
Joseph smiled. “I just can’t get enough of that winning personality.”
Graham spat on the ground, and walked back through a path cut through the dead birds. As he went, Graham wagged a middle finger through the air.
Coughlin passed the goon. “Hey Graham! How about a little respect for a taxpayer that makes sure you see a paycheck?”
Graham spat again, dropped his middle finger, and stomped deeper into the woods.
Coughlin shrugged and turned toward Joseph. “He’s not a bad kid. Little bit of a temper and complains more than my grandmother, but not a bad kid. Now the other one, his brother Dwayne, he’s a piece of work.”
“I’m sure,” Joseph said. He’d already dismissed the exchange, his mind mulling over the situation at hand.
***
Graham had forgotten to put sunscreen on his head. He poked the top of his sweat-slicked scalp and cringed. “Hotter than shit,” Graham said. “Damn dead birds everywhere.”
He grimaced at a parade of ants crawling out of a crow’s eye socket. Taking a step back, he hefted his aluminum pole and jabbed the sharpened point into the bird. Ants rained down as he swung the crow away from him, then a flash of movement in the trees caught his eye. An owl.
It occurred to Graham that he had never seen an owl before. The bird perched on a branch, its pale face turned toward him with large, yellow, unblinking eyes. The owl ruffled its wings and tilted its head. The bird moved down the branch, almost like it was trying to see around Graham.
“Can I help you, man?” he asked the bird. Its lidless eyes seemed to consider him once more. The white and brown plumage covering its body became still. “Hey!” He waved his hands, but the owl did not flinch.
Graham dropped the aluminum pole and scanned the ground. A large pinecone lay nearby, one side coated in dried mud. He hefted it in his right hand and looked around for the old man and that damned Sheriff.
The owl continued to stare. “Cut it out, man!” Graham aimed at the bird. He cocked his arm back, then sent the pinecone through the air. It hit the owl, tearing a chunk of feathers from its chest. Small dots of blood peeked through the skin. And it continued to stare.
Graham stepped back. “What the….”
The owl wobbled on the branch.
“The hell are you staring a–” The owl fell to the ground. Graham froze. The way the owl had fallen dead seemed…wrong. A chill climbed up his body. He felt as if something watched him, and he shivered.
The strange sensation turned to a sharp pain as if burning hooks dug into his mind. When Graham screamed, the pain increased in his head, embers smoldering behind his eyes. When he stopped, the agony faded to a dull thrum. The old man’s dog barked in the distance and the pain increased once more. Images of dead birds and then the dog flashed through his mind. Paired with the barking, he couldn’t help but think of Lassie.
“Dog. It’s a dog. Let me go please, God, please don’t kill me.” Graham shrieked until the pain receded once more. Graham’s mouth flopped open, and he managed to yell, “Dog!”
***
Sheriff Coughlin crunched through the foliage. Light ran low as the sun descended. Dwayne had already stowed the gear and claimed “shotgun” for the ride back. They decided to call it quits for the day, but no one had seen Graham for half an hour or so.
Hera barked, followed by Graham’s loud yell repeating “Dog, dog, dog!” Sheriff Coughlin sprinted in the direction of Graham’s voice. He crashed through the undergrowth and came to a skidding stop before Graham. The boy twitched madly on the ground. White foam frothed between his clenched teeth. His eyes rolled around their sockets like marbles.
Coughlin unfastened his belt, pulling it from around his waist with a snap. He pried open Graham’s mouth and forced the belt in between Graham’s teeth. After the seizing stopped, Graham’s skin became clammy and sheet-white.
“What happened?” Coughlin pulled the belt away slowly, letting it drop to the ground.
Graham opened his mouth. At first, only a wet choking sound came out. “The dog. It….” Graham took a deep breath. “It wants the dog.” Graham trembled violently in Coughlin’s arms then became still, blood running freely from his nostrils and down his cheeks.
Coughlin shook the boy. “Graham? Jesus, wake up!”
In front of Coughlin, something shifted, sending his heart into his throat. “Who’s there?” Leaves drifted to the ground where the disturbance had occurred. Coughlin searched for any movement. The dog. “Oh no.” He bolted to his feet. “Joseph, get away from the dog!”
***
Joseph massaged his left shoulder; it always ached in the evening. The area looked considerably better. The small crew had cleared away most of the birds. He did not envy whoever had to tie up the giant plastic sacks of dead animals, especially not that boy, Graham.
Hera began barking from the side of the truck.
“Mind keeping a lid on the mutt?” Dwayne growled from inside the truck, sitting with his dirty boots on the dash. Joseph decided against responding; his recent chats with Dwayne had been unpleasant at best.
A sudden growl ripped through the air, then Hera whined and backed away from the truck, tail tucked between her legs. Her tongue flapped loosely out the side of her mouth; her breath came in loud, jagged gasps.
“Hera?” Joseph stepped toward his snarling dog. He heard a yell and glanced toward the woods. Hera growled low in her throat, strings of saliva dripping from her jaws. She moved closer to Joseph. Joseph stepped back. Her face tightened up into a snarl, and her eyes turned glassy.
Dwayne opened the truck door a crack. “The hell is up with your dog, man?”
A wheezing Coughlin crashed out of the woods. “Joseph.” Coughlin inched his right hand toward the small leather strap holding his service pistol. “Get back to the house. Now.”
Joseph lifted his hands. “What are you aiming to do, Coughlin?”
Dwayne pulled the door of the truck closed again. The locks clicked from within. “Shoot the fuckin’ thing, Sheriff. It’s rabid!”
“Graham is dead,” Coughlin said. The leather strap snapped loose. “Last thing he said was, ‘It wants the dog.’” He removed the pistol, leveling it at Hera.
Joseph waved his arms and stepped toward Hera. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You can’t shoot her!”
“I don’t know what’s going on here.” Coughlin’s voice broke when he spoke. “All I know is that a dying boy very clearly told me something wanted your dog, so yes, I’m sure as shit about to shoot her.”
A shot rang out; Hera collapsed to the ground.
“Hera!” Joseph ran to his dog, dropping to his knees. He examined his dog. Aside from a small amount of blood seeping from her nose and ears, she appeared unharmed. The sound of truck doors unlocking caused him to jerk his head up at Dwayne.
The truck door creaked open. “Dead?” Dwayne unwound his six-foot frame as he stepped from the vehicle. “Did you say that my brother is dead? ” His brown eyes bulged. “No way am I dying here, too!” Dwayne sprinted up the road.
Hera grunted, then something that sounded like, “Stooooop! ” came from the dog’s throat. The voice belonged to Graham.
“Holy shit.” Coughlin raised his pistol again. Joseph kicked his feet, scooting away from Hera’s talking corpse.
Graham’s voice shouted through Hera’s mouth: “Dwayne! Stop!”
Dwayne skidded to a halt and turned around. “Graham?” he said and took a few uneasy steps toward the truck.
Coughlin shouted, “Don’t listen, Dwayne!”
Hera’s jaws stretched into a wide grin.
“Dwayne, get back!” Coughlin fired three rounds into the dog. Blood and fur arched through the air.
Dwayne’s jaw sagged open.
“Get back to your house, Joseph.” Coughlin walked toward the driver’s seat of the truck. “Go inside. I’m calling in help.”
Joseph scrambled to his feet, carefully breathing in three-second intervals.
One…two…three.
He let his breath escape.
One…two…three.
He wheezed up the small incline to the house, pausing to take a few more breaths.
He turned back to find that Coughlin and Dwayne had vanished. The police truck remained unperturbed: the driver’s side door had never opened, backup never called for.
The rhythm of Joseph’s breathing fell to pieces. He sucked in air with sharp, jagged hitches, feeling a cold tingle spread from the center of his chest and radiating outward. He ran for the screen door and scrambled into the house. Joseph locked the door and flipped the porch lights on.
Joseph turned to see his wife snoring in the chair, the television blaring. “Beth!” he yelled. She didn’t move. “Beth, wake up!”
Beth whipped her head around and rubbed at her eyes.
“Beth,” Joseph said. One…two…three. “Lock all the windows.”
She stood from the chair, yawning. “What’s going on?”
“Just go lock up.” He approached her and squeezed her shoulders gently. “I’ll tell you after I call the station.”
“Wait, we need to let Hera in.”
“Elizabeth, don’t.”
Beth half smiled and shook her head. She pushed past him. “What are you going on about?”
“Hera’s dead,” Joseph said.
Beth stopped and turn back to him. “That isn’t funny.” She turned back to the door, but Joseph grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him once more.
“It isn’t a joke. Now go lock up. I’ll explain after I call the station.”
Beth nodded. She blinked rapidly as tears brimmed her eyes, and began locking all the windows.
Joseph approached the phone, willing himself to calm down. He snatched the receiver and punched in 911. Nothing. He hung up the phone, then lifted it to his ear again. Nothing. He slammed it into its cradle, then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Brilliant colors ran across his vision.
Beth entered the living room at a rapid pace.
“Joseph?” Beth whispered. She walked slowly, sticking to the most interior wall of the house as if expecting monstrous hands to burst through the windows or doors and yank her through. “What’s happening?”
Joseph approached the back door and slid the curtain open to find the police truck missing. He closed his eyes. Dammit. No truck. Not so much as tire depressions in the long grass of his back yard. Nothing at all. Impossible . “Remember the argument we got into about whether or not we should own a gun?”
“Joseph?” Beth squeaked.
“Go get the gun. You’re about to be glad I bought it.”
***
Beth huffed up to the second story. The shadowy hallway filled her with a nameless sense of dread. She flicked on the lights and proceeded toward the master bedroom.
After noticing an open window in Joseph’s office, she darted in and slammed it shut. The lock had a layer of paint over it, so she used the paperweight to pound it into position. Once done, she moved down the hall toward her bedroom, pushed open the door, and groped for the light switches. She flipped them all on, but the room remained shrouded in gloomy darkness.
She saw far enough to locate the closet.
She took a cautious step inside the room and made her way around their king-sized bed, careful not to crash into a bedpost.
Once at the far wall, she reached for the closet door. Cold metal brushed against her hand. She seized the knob, and paused. She didn’t want to open it. In fact, she had never wanted to avoid something so badly.
Beth bit the inside of her cheek and turned the knob. Her heart raced. With a rush of confidence, she ripped the door open, ready for what hid inside, but nothing bounded out of the darkness to rip her limb from limb. She flipped the light switch. The bulb bloomed to life and shattered, sending a rain of glass and filament down onto the closet floor.
“Oh, Jesus!”
She blindly groped for the shotgun, finding it propped against the back right corner.
Beth seized the weapon and sprinted out of the dark bedroom.
***
Joseph heard his wife scurrying back toward the stairs. He left his post by the back door and moved toward her. Eventually, she arrived at the top of the stairwell, clutching the dusty old shotgun. Joseph took two long strides and extended a hand.
Beth tossed him the gun.
“Thanks,” Joseph said.
“What’s happening?”
Joseph moved toward the kitchen. Crossing to the pantry, he checked to see if the gun was empty, then rummaged for the unopened box of shotgun shells. He pushed aside a few boxes of oatmeal.
“Something is out there,” he said while snatching the heavy box out of one of the darker corners of the pantry. He plopped the box on the table, and set about clumsily loading the firearm.
Beth’s eyes widened. “Something? Like an animal?”
“No, not an animal,” he said. A shell slipped out of his grip and skittered across the floor. He paid it no mind. “Well, it could be I suppose. I haven’t seen it, so I don’t really know what to tell you.” As the final shell clicked into place, he felt a surge of courage. “All I know is that we are staying inside until it’s light. Nothing gets opened until morning.”
“Why don’t we just call someone?” Beth made for the phone.
Joseph shook his head.
She stopped. “No phone?” Her entire frame trembled ever so slightly.
He leaned the shotgun against a nearby cabinet and massaged the left side of his chest in slow circles. Beth was on the move before he could stop her. She returned with a small, orange plastic bottle containing his medication. Joseph smiled, accepting the small bottle, letting his fingers linger over hers.
He stepped away and went to the refrigerator, pulling it open with a soothing swoosh. The cold air against his face felt nice. He grabbed a bottle of water, snapped it open, and popped a few of the miniscule pills into his mouth. The medicine always helped.
Beth sat down at their kitchen table, the loaded shotgun on display instead of a home-cooked meal. Joseph joined her, and together they waited.
***
Joseph stared at the oven’s display.
Only three in the morning?
Everything remained pitch black and completely silent.
Beth lay sprawled across the table. Her hair covered her face.
Joseph yawned, his eyes felt itchy. He cracked his neck and stretched.
Beth mumbled something but remained asleep.
He stood as quietly as he could and grabbed the shotgun. He crept, footstep by footstep, until he stood inches from the small window in the back door. His hand shook as he began to draw back the blinds. The porch lights bathed the porch in a yellowish glow. Still, no sign of the Sheriff or his crew.
Maybe it’s over. Maybe whatever came through has lost interest. Just maybe.
“I’m still here.”
Joseph stifled a scream. The voice came from just outside of the back door. It sounded…wrong. He could barely understand the words, as if spoken by someone who had just learned a new language.
“You’re not without kindness, Joseph.”
Hair stood on the back of Joseph’s neck. His hands quaked.
“You will have your night, what is left of it. I am no...murderer.”
The strange accent began to fade, the voice becoming clearer, becoming more human.
“Yes, that is the word. Murderer. I have learned, I have deconstructed what your microscopic kind call feelings, emotions. It took time to understand, many suffered as I jumped forms, but now I know.”
Coughlin appeared on the other side of the thin wooden door. His eyes rolled back, bloodshot. His lips shifted. “I have analyzed your needless fear, your struggle.” The voice lowered. “But do not be afraid.”
Graham stepped onto the porch and cried out, “Soon you will join us!”
Joseph staggered back, the shotgun bouncing wildly as he attempted to steady his aim. He heard footsteps retreating, followed by silence.
Beth lifted her head, pushing her hair out of her face. “Joseph...?” She rubbed her eyes, “What time is it?”
“Little after three.” He lowered the gun and glanced at the back door. “Still a ways to go.” He walked to the kitchen table. “Things have been quiet. Why don’t we go get more comfortable?” He smiled, and she smiled back.
“If you really think it’s safe.” Beth stood up and followed him upstairs. “Oh good, the lights are working now.”
“Maybe it was just the old house after all.” Joseph shrugged. He crossed to his side of the bed and sat down.
“What about that thing ?” Beth sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “That animal or whatever.”
“How about we just relax for a while? Relax and talk?” Joseph threw his right arm over Beth’s shoulder and pulled her closer.
They talked about their upcoming trip across the country. They talked about their children, long ago grown and moved off to start their own lives–all three of them more than proving their ability to handle the world. Beth kept falling asleep for a few short seconds, before waking back up with a start. Joseph smiled and pulled back the sheets on the bed. Beth quietly slid into them, fluffing her pillows.
He slid next to her, his right hand still entwined with hers, then glanced at the clock: Five a.m.
Thirty-five years of marriage had armed him with the ability to disengage from any of Beth’s embraces undetected. He slid out of the bed and before leaving, leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. She stirred as if unconsciously acknowledging his love. Joseph took one final look at her, then walked across the room to the door.
He took a deep breath and hefted the shotgun onto his shoulder as he walked toward his study.
Nothing will touch her. Not as long as I’m here.
Inside the study, he kicked off his shoes, letting his sore feet enjoy the plush carpet. The air smelled like old cigar smoke. Joseph had taken up the habit a while back, much to Beth’s displeasure. He recalled hours of smoky viewings of SportsCenter and drinking with good friends–many of whom had moved far away enough to drift into obscurity.
He avoided his desk and made his way to the leather armchair. After sitting, he flipped open a lacquered brown box, removing a cigar and lighter from within. He bit into the cigar and clicked open the lighter. His thumb flicked the ignition once, but no flame emerged. He huffed and flicked the lighter again. Nothing.
Joseph growled. “Muvrfuckr.”
When he flicked the lighter again, the small TV in his office lit up. Static roared through the room, white light blinding him momentarily. The cigar fell from his mouth. He scrambled out of his chair, slapping at the buttons lining the side of the TV . The noise finally ceased, and his ears rang.
“Yeah, tough guy?” Joseph looked around, waiting for his assailant. He returned to his chair, then snatched the cigar and lighter from the floor.
He clicked the lighter open. This time, a bright red flame danced merrily. He moved the flame closer, puffing the cigar to life. Thick, oily fumes filled the room. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of rest.
“Joseph.”
Joseph’s eyes shot open and he grabbed the shotgun. Nothing in the room moved. Cold fear pressed up his spine. He stood, breathing as calmly as possible, and worked toward the door. He pushed it open with the barrel of his gun and peered down the hall to see the silhouette of Beth still in their bed.
“Joseph!”
The voice seemed to come from behind him. He cried out and jumped, spinning and firing the shotgun. The spray tore through the computer on his desk. The blast shook him from head to toe.
“Son of a bitch.”
He clutched his chest, then turned back to the hallway. He could no longer see Beth’s sleeping body as their bedroom door was now closed.
“No! No! No!” Joseph ran down the hall and found the knob locked. He pounded his fists, yelling, “Beth, wake up!” When she didn’t reply, he spun to face the empty hallway. “Don’t you dare touch her!”
Only the faint sound of glass breaking from the kitchen answered. Gooseflesh danced up his arms. He raised the gun, ejecting the spent shell from the chamber. More glass broke from downstairs, followed by a strange grunt.
Joseph made his way slowly down the stairs, keeping his back against the wall. He held the gun at shoulder height.
When he reached the bottom, he looked into the kitchen. The screen door lay on the ground, ripped from its hinges. Blood streaked the white eyelet drapes dangling from the windows. Glass littered the floor.
Joseph screamed as something barreled into him from behind. Before sliding against the refrigerator, he caught a glimpse of his attacker: Coughlin.
The two men fought, and the shotgun came loose from Joseph’s grip, clattering across the floor.
Coughlin shoved Joseph off of him and stood. “Interesting.” The once sheriff’s lips moved but the voice echoed inside Joseph’s mind. “Such specimens you are.”
Joseph crawled toward the shotgun, only to feel hands close around his right foot. His fingers squeaked across the floor as Coughlin dragged him into the kitchen, moving like a man who had spent far more time on a boat than dry land.
Joseph kicked out, striking Coughlin in the knee. Coughlin staggered and fell.
“Clumsy, however.”
Joseph shrieked and backed toward the door, small fragments of glass shredding his palms, bloody handprints marking his way across the floor.
Coughlin regained his balance and stomped toward Joseph, his eyes rolling into whites. Bulging blood vessels appeared across the milky white surface of the sheriff’s eyes while his jaw twisted in a muted scream.
“This one did not like you.” Coughlin took a wobbly step. The voice changed into Coughlin’s own. The paralyzed mouth said, “Crazy old bastard.” Then Coughlin took another step.
Joseph shook himself free from his terror and searched for the shotgun.
Coughlin darted forward and pulled Joseph up by his collar. Joseph cried out and struck Coughlin in the temple.
“So much hate in all of you. This is what you all want, below all of your niceties and manners.” Coughlin released his grip and dealt Joseph a thundering blow to the side of his head. Color exploded behind Joseph’s eyes and he sagged, unable to re-orient himself.
“I’ve learned everything about you that I could possibly ever need to make my choice.”
Coughlin backhanded Joseph.
Blood seeped from between Joseph’s lips, and he rocked his head back and pitched forward, slamming his forehead into Coughlin’s terrifying eyes. A satisfying crunch answered each blow. He dropped to the ground and snatched the shotgun. “What the fuck are you?”
Coughlin gargled what may have been a laugh. “I am the first of many. The envoy.”
“What do you want?”
The cold voice said, “I’m with your wife now.”
Joseph fired, and Coughlin crumpled backward, his torso shredded by the close proximity of the blast.
Coughlin’s mouth still moved. “All the same. All so violent.”
Joseph paid no heed and stormed up the stairs. His heart spasmed, sending arching pains through his left shoulder and arm.
So be it. If I’m going to die, at least my own body will do the job.
The door to the master bedroom stood wide open. The large window, no longer covered by curtains, revealed the sun peeking over the horizon.
“Beth? Oh God.” His hand covered his mouth. Beth sat upright, her eyes staring out the window, tears streaming down her cheeks. The smell of urine permeated the air.
Joseph crawled onto the bed, letting the shotgun drop from his grip. He took her into his arms.
“Beth?”
Her green eyes met with his. “Joseph.” Then a horrifyingly wide smile ripped across her face, twisting her features into something like the Cheshire Cat.
Her hands shot up, grabbing the sides of his head in a viselike grip. Fingernails dug into his scalp.
“Beth! You’re hurting me!” Joseph attempted to struggle, but to no avail.
She wrenched her husband’s head toward the window. “Joseph, look! It can all be over!”
He struggled, fighting her until the pain in his chest became too much to bear, resisting more than he thought was possible, until finally...he let go.
Outside, a massive form shifted in the brightening dawn.
Beth pressed her lips to Joseph’s ear and whispered,“It wants to learn.” •
Hunter Lowe is a 27 year old writing enthusiast currently residing in Los Angeles, California. After chasing the tails of a variety of passions including classic hand-drawn art to digital illustration and three-dimensional construction geared toward use in video games he realized he could never shake the constant drive from within to continue his writing. His time spent experimenting with such a variety of art forms lead to a stronger visual library for him to integrate into his writing. While working on his novel he loves to step into the short-story environment and intends to put out as many quality reading experiences that he can. While horror is where he is most at home, he has a number of stories in the works ranging from science fiction, fantasy, to amalgamations of all of the above. He will soon be relocating to the lovely state of Colorado to continue his writing in a nice secluded forest.