Nightmare Puzzle: A Collection of Short Pieces By

By Philip M. LaVoie

Scraping sounds awake you from your sleep. Something putrid is moving underneath the bed, with razor talons only a thin mattress away from tearing you to shreds. Cringing with disbelief, in a panic you suddenly flee from the bedroom and down the stairs, screaming.

In the living room, your corner vision catches a pair of glowing eyes shifting across the large picture window, and when you turn to look they are still there, only now joined with a drooling maw of fangs.

As your heart races to the point of bursting from your chest, you flatten yourself against the wall trying praying to remain unseen until a ghostly, disembodied voice whispers your name from down the hallway. It sounds like a child, but you and your wife have no children.

Your wife? Oh, God, where is she?

There, in the kitchen she stands, smiling. At last, a piece of sanity from this insane night, and you rush to your loving mate. Behind her back she holds a gleaming butcher knife, waiting to return your embrace. In one swift stoke, her hand arcs down, and you

Turn the page onto the next chapter, nervously anticipating what new horror awaits you this evening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595761562

Philip M. LaVoie

Born in the frigid tundra of Northern Minnesota, I escaped by means of the Air Force and explored the world. I now reside in my little corner of Arkansas, sporting a suit by day and glass of Rum by night scripting my visions of torment for you reading pleasure.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Halloween Fun

Ducks Hunting

Trees

The Christmas Wish

The Price of Immortality

The Jacket

The Density Man

Under the Bed

Java

The Angel Visit’s

Time //fusions

PROLOGUE

Liars Curse

The Autograph Collector

Sirens

Cassandra

The Daycare

Jealousy

Doggie Style

Juffermg, As I

Introduction

Why horror?

A good friend, who kindly enough while reading my short stories commented on how she enjoyed my writing style, but hated the subject matter.

Why horror? she’d ask, adding to her opinion that, What sells is love stories, romance. A good drama.

And so I’d ask myself, why indeed dwell into to darkside of literature? Does it make me happy to figure out new ways to cause people’s death? To elaborate on other’s misery and torture?

What reasoning would psychological science give when someone takes pain in their life, perhaps a broken relationship, perhaps financial problems, and converts that into a tale about a cannibalistic nurse that works in a maternity ward?

Hospital staff became suspicious when newborns and large amounts of ketchup began disappearing simultaneously at...

Well, you get the impression.

Personally, I have no idea. Horror, Gothic, Science Fiction.these are escapes for me. Why squander my time on real life drama, I have enough of that to fill a library. And so I prefer a road that takes me away from reality and journey into the fantastic for a few thousand words and paragraphs.

What I compose, as horrible as it may seem to some, pales by true life. Watch the news, read the paper. Right outside your door is where true wickedness dwells. Evil so great you don’t need religion or philosophy to define it.

Monsters come in the form of angry neighbors, political radicals, and religious fanatics. Those that would kill and be killed by invoking their frustrations because of their lack of personal success by causing death and harm upon the innocent. Warped minds, sexual predators, a good old everyday psychotic mass murdering bastard.

Don’t fear fantasy, it ends when the book is closed or the movie is over. Life doesn’t end until you sleep with the worms.

So, then next time you’re depressed watch a talk show, and see how messed up their guests are. Nothing makes you feel as good about yourself than when you compare it to suffering of others.

Hmm, maybe that’s it? Perhaps I’m just creating worlds of anguish so that my own seems a little bit better. Maybe I’m just fucked in the head.

And if you find yourself completing these stories, and decide they were pure garbage.. .a waste of your valuable time, then please accept my sincere, darkest apologies.

Perhaps we’d meet one day, and I’d fix you a drink in a show of good faith.no hard feelings.

Did you enjoy that drink?

Did it taste.funny? ;-)

—Philip M. LaVoie

Halloween Fun

Are there shadows in the night? In this world what gives you fright? Buried bodies, some are dead Moaning from a severed head Corpses walk into your homes Skin peals from their undead bones A baby cried before its death Something’s feeding on its flesh Adrenaline begins to boil Under foot a serpent’s coil Nameless things from ancient lore Await for you outside your door

Skeletons awake again Empty sockets while they grin Rabid dogs run down a street

You taste bile, heart skips a beat Turn to run but their too quick Sharpen teeth tear through your neck Nightmares fill your every dream Mouth shaped in a silent scream Spiders crawl under your sheets Pierce your skin for bloody treats Evil places, names unsaid Where even God fears to tread Witch’s prayer weaves a spell Raises demons up from hell Razorblades baked in a cake A body floating in a lake Footsteps closing on your back Kittens drowning in a sack All these deeds plus those undone Makes All Hollow’s Eve so fun

Ducks Hunting

Pretty birdie in the sky Flying up so ever high As I watch I hope you’ll try Not to crap into my eye

October’s frigid air whistled as it lashed past the old truck undaunted its pilot couldn’t perceive it over the endless rattling, originating from countless points of loose metal rubbing against one another. Its once keen paint job, donned greater than ten years, proved her age by the brown rust spots and gray primer where body filler had been gingerly applied in vain attempts to continue the vehicle’s life span. The tires, slowly wearing away from several harsh Northern winters worth of salt poured over the Minnesota highways, held their grip as the vehicle navigated through thick woods on an unpaved road. Crushed rocks kicked upward, pinging against the sides adding to the truck’s overall ambiance. It had been a long trip beginning in Minneapolis and following the highways intersecting various rural towns and eventually forking off into gravel, but within the hour Bruce Richmond would arrive several hundred miles away from his driveway at Lake Itasca, located outside his old hometown of Bemidji.

He had six days of Waterfowl season to make up for, and before this weekend was over Bruce planed to return with no less than four feathered corpses and whatever other unfortunate critters might accidentally wander into his gun sights. The only thing that could be utilized for target practice back home were pedestrians or passing traffic, but a missing beaver or groundhog would not be pictured in the local post office or be reason to inform the FBI, so if the opportunity presented itself...

Bruce’s eyes closed as he yawned, the pastry and coffee he consumed earlier beginning to loose their effect. Although there were many sites much closer to the Twin Cities one could go hunting, there were three reasons he made the long voyage from the bottom of the state to this destination. First, an old high-school friend owed five acres along Itasca’s shore and allowed Bruce free use of its fertile ground, purchased long ago with the optimistic dream of constructing a log cabin for retirement. While hunters would aggressively compete for limited resources available to blow avians from the sky to the point of sabotaging each other’s cars or kidnapping their children and holding them until after the season passed, Bruce would simply remind Donald Foster he was the one who got him laid during prom with cheerleader Shelly. A prom where Donald’s date was his future wife, Helen. It was good to have friends that you could blackmail.

Next, he looked forward to spending time away from civilization and a much-needed break from the marketing job and the marketing boss he herded to on a daily basis. Urgent calls in the middle of the night to complete work filed away the next morning, a stack of uncompleted forms inches from the fluorescent lights in the ceiling over his desk, a paycheck less than civilized man should have to endure. Out here no one could contact him, he didn’t even bring his cellular phone. No television, no radio, it was like floating in an isolation chamber with trees. Complete segregation from society.. .and family.

Meaning his third reason would have to wait until Sunday before discussing the finer points of his daughter Jessica’s newest boyfriend and if Cindy, his second, located anyplace on her body not pierced that called for decoration with a silver hoop. There was enough testosterone floating around that house to make him grow breasts and loose his facial hair.

Two daughters, three women, one house equaled a desperately needed vacation. Alas, they were his and he’d not trade them for the world. Not trade, but would make an addition to by one...a son, if the opportunity arose. Few can appreciate the relationship between a father and son, the understanding, the sharing of values.

Son, did you sleep with your date last night?

Yes dad.

You’re a whore, son.

Yes dad.

Have a beer.

Make no mistake, he loved his daughters bless their confused souls. But the only hunting Jessica was familiar with was for a bigger looser than the last disaster she flirted with and the only weapons his second ever carried was the spiked ring she wore inside her bellybutton and, according to hearsay (he’d decided not to verify the fact personally) studs through her nipples (he should have known it was a natural progression from temporary tattoos).

He and his misses discussed having another child, but it was fifteen years since he left Northern Minnesota for the opposite end of the state and neither were eager to repeat diapers and midnight feedings again. So here he was, alone with the wilderness with only the wildlife in the forest (as opposed to the wildlife in Minneapolis) for immediate company, reminiscing over times that never were or may never be.

Striking a patch of black ice, the truck suddenly jack-knifed—its ass end veering to the side and heading into a birch tree. An experienced Minnesota driver, Bruce managed to straiten it back onto the road before contact, narrowly avoiding a squirrel that almost missed Christmas. The early freeze last night left many scattered patches of frozen water, especially where thick trees shielded the warm sun from reaching and melting them. Nothing a native from this region couldn’t handle, he had been through it many times before but such encounters with fate could still leave skid marks not only on the road but also inside one’s underwear.

The remaining thirty-five minutes on the trail proved free of surprises, the brush eventually thinning into an opening as the black pick-up emerged into a small acreage.. .he had arrived.

Circling the field the ambitious hunter paused, idling the engine and marveling at the diminishing sun glimmering off the lake’s face. A flock of ducks skimmed its surface, and Bruce pictured one with vegetables and white wine.

Wasting no time finding a site near the lake’s shore and staking his claim, Bruce eagerly awaited the early morning when his rifle would echo through the forest, joining others in a sort of firearm love song. He unsheathed it from its cover, admiring the smooth surface rubbed to a gloss. It had been methodically dismantled and cleaned before the trip, and he toyed with the idea of repeating the ritual. Deciding to eat instead, he unpacked rations and ignited a fire, careful to encircle it with stones. Several years in the Boy Scouts and a brief stint in the military ensured Bruce was well accustomed to surviving out here, and it took little time to set camp containing all the luxuries that existing without luxuries can have.

After all was in order he unloaded his boat from the truck’s bed, cautiously resting it onto the ground and nestling it next to his shelter. Purchased used from the Army years ago, and wearing its original puke-green color, it served him well in these shallow waters.

Bruce sat near his dancing fire, drinking coffee brewed from water taken directly from the lake and boiled in a tarnished pot and watching the sun completing her duties for the day over the lake’s horizon.

Never seen this on TV he mused.

As roasted aroma filled his nostrils and brought a smile, he could briefly see the apparition of a young boy sitting next to him in the twilight, a young boy addressing him as father. Smiling, he turned to the phantom child, his face full of innocence and wonder until it melted, twisted, changed into a horror all to familiar.

Dad, Becky said I can make a lot of money dancing downtown the replacement ghost said. Shutting his eyes, Bruce shook off the terrifying image of his daughter with crumpled dollar bills held tight against her thighs by a G-string, where upon reopening them only empty space loomed beside him. He sighed, draining the tin cup of java.

A deer entered the thickets not far from his tent, probably searching for a resting spot for the night. Soon he’d also retire for the evening within his own canvas nest, serenaded by crickets and katydids. It was late Friday and he planed to be in place early for the morning’s first kill.

He would be.

The decoys barely made a ripple as they were gingerly placed on the water’s mirror-like surface. The inlet here was less than six feet deep, a perfect area for Bruce to begin today’s vigil. He had pushed away from shore before five, the dew still think on the ground. Less then a half-hour later, the last decoy was in place beckoning for company. As the sun began peeking over the trees, the faint sounds of gunshot could already be detected somewhere far away. Bruce silently wished them good luck. A small breeze brushed the cattails as the temperature climbed to a mild forty, it was like a scene from a cover of Field and Stream.

Bruce felt good, anxiously anticipating the first sight of his quarry soaring overhead. He verified his weapon was ready for the sixth time in a row, breathlessly concentrating on the faintest hint of approaching wings. He would not be disappointed. The unmistakable sound of ducks quickly filled the air. He didn’t even have time to sound his caller. They flew in from the east, a nice flock of about thirty Mallards. Shotgun at the ready, Bruce patently waited until they came into range. Carefully taking aim, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger between heartbeats. The weapon discharged, sending metal shot streaming through the air. One evidently found its mark as a bird fell to earth, splashing in the calm lake waters. Smiling, Bruce set his rifle down and began paddling toward the feathered lump. He wished he had a dog to retrieve it for him, but a home with a yard a weedeater was used to trim was no place to raise and train a Labrador.

He reached the duck and brought it into the boat, its limp head dangling to the side. Before placing it inside the cooler, he noticed a small metallic strap fastened around his leg. Not unusual, many forms of wildlife were tagged in this region for tracking and population census. This was one specimen that would be labeled missing in action by whatever organization had marked it.

Bruce then noticed something else, something he’d never seen before. Wide bands were firmly fixed around the base of the wings and continued to encircle the entire body. Small clasps hung from the bottoms, connected by a maze of wires as if something could be attached to them. Strange, must have been someone’s pet or part of an animal show and escaped.

Your performing days are over, my friend he said, and began to paddle back to await his next opportunity. If luck continued like this, he may be finished much earlier than expected. Perhaps he’d voyage to Bemidji and look up Donald Foster, he was owed ten bucks from a bet that many years ago and he still intended to collect either in cash or preferably, beer.

Reaching his original spot, he noticed several ducks had landed in the water behind him and were calmly floating around. He’d almost overlooked them as they were mixed in with his decoys.

Damn, this is my day he thought, and readied his weapon again.

Bruce had his choice of targets, they seemed content just bobbing with the waves. He felt like a kid at a carnival, aiming at the infinite line of little yellow shapes begging to be struck and knocked over resulting in winning a prize worth less than a quarter.

Just then shots rang out, not from another shotgun but sounding like rapid fire from an automatic airgun. He heard tiny splashes in the water, leading to then pinging off the side of his boat. Spinning around he searched for the source, but there was no movement in the woods.

What the hell? he said, thinking someone had accidentally fired in his direction.

Hey! I’m in the pond here! Hold your damn fire! he shouted to the empty forest. No one returned his yell. Is anyone there?

Again, no answer, just two ducks gliding over.

‘Probably out of range’ he thought. ‘Amateurs, give anyone a license these days.’

He turned attention back to the waterfowl when once again shots came from behind.very closely behind. He instinctively crouched, studying the shapes between the trees along the shore waiting for one to move and fired blindly into the air three times, hoping whoever was out there would get the hint. Again, he saw nobody. But an uneasy feeling came over him, a chill along his spine like a hundred eyes were watching, plotting.

Several gunshots blasted out, similar to the ones earlier. Bruce felt an impact against his arm replaced by burning pain. He was hit, not severely but enough to soak his jacket’s sleeve with blood.

Goddamn! What the fuck are you doing you stupid bastard! he yelled to the point of soaring his throat. Someone was out there, this was no accident. Someone was trying to kill him.

Bruce replaced the spent shells into his rifle and began to fire nondiscretely into the forest. Leaves and chunks of bark went spewing, and a turtle waddled off his log into the protection of the water. But no one was seen running for shelter. He figured it was some drunk or stoned asshole amusing himself.

You want to play games? Show yourself you coward! Bruce yelled, hoping to draw the person out. He began to move toward shore, staying low when he noticed the ducks still in the water, not moving and looking at him. Looking at him? No, in his direction he guessed. Still, why hadn’t they flown away after the first shot? Either they were extremely stupid or extremely brave.

But he no longer cared for hunting, there was his assailant to be dealt with first. Bruce figured if he ever got his hands on this guy they’d be little remaining to take into custody.

Nearing shore, the shadow of a hawk reflected off the surface crossing his own. Glancing upwards, he was mistaken. It was too fat for a hawk, an eagle maybe? No, what the hell was that bird purposefully gyrating downward directly overhead. It was a...he could scarcely believe it, it was a duck. The first time he ever saw a

duck circling like that, its mother must have been a vulture he thought when it suddenly dropped something.

Oh shit! Bruce said, navigating his boat to avoid the object. He thought the damn thing was trying to crap on his head when it struck near the craft and exploded, sounding like a small stick of dynamite and spraying water over him. Not just water, but small metal shrapnel as well, tearing into his thick coat and ripping lines across the sleeves. One hand started to bleed.

My God, what the hell is going on? Bruce asked himself, dumbfounded. He put his injured hand to his mouth and tasted blood. Anxiety arose inside him, like when you hear a noise in the dark when you know you’re supposed to be alone. Except it wasn’t dark, and he wasn’t alone.

The ducks? The fucking ducks? Can’t be.

Regaining his composure, he reloaded his gun and peered around. The ducks before him remained in the water, undaunted. Three of the accursed birds rose from the lake and began to hover. Forgotten was the invisible stranger in the wood, Bruce now focused on the oncoming foul.

Although adrenaline began to flow, he forced back the urge to panic. He still didn’t quite understand what was happening, but he feared he was about to find out. No reason to make it easy on them, though.

He aimed and let loose with both barrels. The ducks split and dove, avoiding the blast almost too uniformly then reformed. As Bruce pumped his gun and targeted again, small bursts of flash came from the sides of the bird’s bodies. Six trails of bullets struck the water’s surface sending a row of lined beads into the air. Bruce jolted the boat to the side, the ammunition barely missing. All doubt erased, they were shooting at him. Unbelieving, the ducks were attacking.

Were they real? Remote control disguised aircraft? He then remembered the unusual metal bands around the one he killed earlier. Yes, they were real, and apparently trained for assault.

The three bandits circled and continued to discharge. This time he was too slow, one struck his shoulder while another buzzed past his ear. Screaming in agony from the sharp pain in his neck, Bruce released his shotgun, which fell on the boat’s outer rim and bounced into the water. He jumped after it, but as he reached another duck came in and opened fired, making direct scattered hits over Bruce’s back. His froze for a moment, stiffening from their impact. The rifle gone, he rolled to the craft’s floor choking on blood. Hearing the flapping of more wings, Bruce closed his eyes and moved the boat’s paddles over his body to shield him on the next inevitable attack.

Two more ducks, flying low and skimming the surface of the water, took aim and dropped their ordinance. The miniature torpedoes slipped into the water and sped at their target, scoring direct hits. The boat exploded as chunks of fiberglass and parts of Bruce burst into the air before breaking in two. Bruce, still alive and conscious, managed one last scream as he fell into the chill water. He fruitlessly tried to keep his head above the surface, but one arm was paralyzed and all that remained of his legs were shredded. With one final attempt to stay afloat, Bruce weakly splashed his good arm, then uncontrollably went under. He held his breath for almost two full minutes before fatigue and shock succeeded their own assault allowing water to slip past his lips. The taste of muddy pond filled his mouth and invaded his lungs, unconsciousness soon following within seconds. His lifeless body sunk to the murky bottom, mingling with the small mouth bass and algae.

Several ducks flew overhead surveying their destruction. Satisfied the danger was neutralized, the flock arose into the air and continued migrating south toward the next body of water. Far below, shots blasted upward, scattering the group. They would be delayed again.

Several miles away a row of vehicles lined an old logging road. Among them were three police cars, an ambulance, six jeeps and two trucks. One of the three axle transports lay on its side, crashed in a ditch. It was unmarked except for a United States Government license plate betraying its origin.

Besides the police several men, some in suits, some in camouflaged uniforms, were engaged in various forms of activity. Many were in a formation listing to instructions coming from their commander. When he was finished, a police officer approached.

Colonel Bagget, we have all our units alerted in this entire area. Are you sure this is as dangerous as you say? asked Officer Murray.

Yes, it can be the Colonel answered, grimly looking up from the map he was studying. Don’t worry, we have air units coming tomorrow. This should be over before the general public knows anything or anyone gets injured. Ready to move?

Officer Murray nodded in agreement and the two joined the large gathering entering the woods.

Heard a lot of gunfire this morning, hunting must be good today.

Let’s hope so replied the Colonel.

As they passed the overturned truck, they walked across its open rear door exposing a large cage. It lay empty, only scattered feathers giving evidence to what it contained. A plate mounted on the enclosure’s side read:

U.S. Military Animal Training Division 212 Department of Aves

As the dispersal of men advanced into the woods, several of the armed soldiers began to blow their duck calls.

Trees 

Ancient wonders touch the sky Nature’s beauty magnified Brings a smile upon my face Burning in the fireplace

The low, steady churning of a powerful engine filled the forest, closely followed by heavy metal treads clanking through the brush. The gigantic metal barrier lowered, merciless to the greenery before it. Any object within reach of the dozer’s huge blade fell only to be crushed underneath by ten tons of machinery.

The Superior Construction Company, contracted by the State of Minnesota, was steadily occupied with clearing twenty-five acres of land recently acquired by the government. In addition to the construction crew and police officers, the only other observers were a small group of Chippewa Indians from the nearby reservation. They sat diligently, watching from atop a hillside overlooking the location for the last two weeks. From their eldest records up until last month, this land belong to them.

The Red Lake Ojibwe Indian Reservation, aptly named from boarding Lower and Upper Red Lake, contained over one hundred acres per each of their 8,000 members. They coexisted peacefully with the Anglo-Saxon government until a huge series of storms recently overflowed the lakes and rivers in Northern Minnesota.

Days of rain poured down to the point some waited for Noah and his Ark to float by.

The accompanying floods destroyed what was once a small oxbow-like enclosure formed by a stream projecting from the lake. A month later, a survey team recorded the damage and made a discovery much to the dismay of the Ojibwe. When news reached the State House, Roger Skerritt could hardly believe his good fortune. Assistant to the Governor on road and highway construction in this region, he’d been in negotiations for years on purchasing this exact tract of land from the stubborn natives. All attempts failed, but this news may have made those past efforts obsolete.

Damn, I don’t believe it Roger said aloud, again reading the report. Rushing to his office, he removed a copy of the original treaty turning that very land into Chippewa domain. He had studied it for weeks, every word, every sentence, and now those efforts may not prove futile. Finding the paragraph, he verified what he suspected and desired. The wording stated the tribe laid title to all land bordering Red Lake into their circumscribed territory, including any connecting rivers or streams. The previously mentioned waterway once formed an enclosure enabling the reservation to claim the land in question, but when the stream was washed away the land no longer fell into that category. It was now legally state property. A technicality, perhaps. But morality and decency aside, the bottom line was clearly in his advantage. Roger joyfully brought the news to Governor William’s attention, he may just have secured his job for next year, if not a promotion.

Between the hunters complaining over an increase in deer licenses this season and a budget sorely out of adjustment, the last thing William’s wished was to have an incident with the Chippewa. But this wasn’t just a few irrelevant acres. For years there were plans to lay a highway through Minnesota from Ontario to North Dakota. The last section to be secured before construction could begin was a small artery between highways 72 and 89, which ran

parallel to each other. The resulting interstate would take hours off the time commerce could be trucked.

Original plans called for the expressway to run well clear of the O’ibwe Reservation, but acquiring this land would erase over one hundred and fifty miles of additional blacktop.and he wanted it. The economical benefits alone would easily overshadow any protests from an Indian minority.

The next day all required papers were filed for the state to take back the small track of land. The Reservation protested, but surprisingly not to the degree as expected. The official project commenced days later, beginning with clearing the land.

Roger! Roger! Come quick, there’s been an accident! someone hollered outside.

Christ, he thought, what now?

Roger arose from his paperwork with a grunt and exited the old mobile home being utilized as a temporary office. The Governor sent Roger to personally oversee this project to ensure it was completed with no delays. Neither suspected what laid ahead.

One of the construction workers came running toward him, patties of mud flinging from his boots.

Mister Skerritt.sir, there’s been an accident. Sam’s dead.

What? How? he asked, glancing accusingly over at the small shapes watching from the nearby bluff.

Not sure, happened out in the woods. Strangled to death I think. Howard found him.

Roger followed the messenger to the location of the tragedy. Several men, including the police officers, stood around the still body of Sam, his weed-clearing machine laying nearby. One policeman approached.

Mr. Skerritt, we radioed for the medics, but it’s too late. He’s dead.

Who did it? Roger asked the officer.

It looks like an accident, but can’t explain how he managed it. The others working beside him said one minute he was clearing this high grass, and then his chopper went silent. When they came to investigate, this is what they found, the officer gesturing to Sam’s body. Roger walked over for a closer look. The dismal body of Sam lay in the tall yellow grass near a large White Birch, bulging eyes and open mouth, a dry tongue slightly protruding past his lips. His face was a shade of blue, evidently caused by a lack of oxygen. A long root wrapped itself about his neck.

You think someone choked him with a plant?

Well, there’s no evidence anyone else was here. All witnesses saw nothing. Beats the shit out of me.

Wonderful Roger said, anything but pleased. OK everyone, call it a day. Go home.

The men dispersed as an ambulance arrived and took Sam away. After the few remaining workers were interviewed, the police drove off as well.

You shouldn’t be out here alone one said to Roger through his open window as he passed.

I’m not alone. Smith and Wesson is spending the night, I can take care of myself. Thanks he replied, waving good-by.

Roger entered his office and sat, pouring himself a drink. The second death in four days, another investigation by the safety board, if they didn’t loose their license now it would be a miracle.

He reflected on the many incidents that took place these last two weeks. All construction projects had their risks, dangers are inevitable. But this was fucking ridiculous.

The first major injury was Corbin, who ran into a pine branch hard enough to have sixty needles pulled from his back, although he swore he was standing still and it swung at him. Then Fred, who tripped and got acid from a pitcher plant in his eyes. Again, some story that while on the ground he actually saw the plants turn toward him and physically spat into his face. Then big Wyatt, the first death, found in a pond entangled in reeds and bladderwort.

Aside from the major mishaps, there were numerous reports of scratches, falls, poison oak, snake bites, bird attacks, and everything else imaginable. Roger thought this must be the most accident-prone crew he ever worked with.

Seconds later, knocking interrupted his train of thought.

Come in Roger answered.

A large, burly no-nonsense man, his face bearded and stern, hands twice the size of Roger’s entered. Jake Driscoll was the foreman of the men, and Roger knew what he was going to hear before it was spoke.

Mr. Skerritt, we need to talk.

I know Jake, let’s hear it.

Well, several men won’t be coming back tomorrow. They’ve had enough. I called the union for replacements. he recited, looking at the floor to avoid his gaze. Jake may tip the scales at three-fifty, but even Roger could perceive the combination of dismay and anxiety in his voice.

Do you believe in curses? Roger asked, and Jake’s head jerked up.

Curses? Hell no. I guess. Just a lot of superstitious crap. I’ll not going anywhere. But.. .the last few days got some of the men really spooked.

You’re a good man, Jake. The only spirits haunting us are one’s wearing red skin. I’ll clear this land if I have to do it myself, understand? I know you can handle these problems.

Yes sir, you can count on me. Goodnight he answered while leaving. Roger heard Jake’s car drive off, and he went outside and looked to the hill. Most of his audience had departed, but three forms remained. It was time to confront these savages. They stood as he approached, one came forward to meet him.

Mr. Skerritt I presume the Indian asked.

Yea, that’s me he answered. Neither initiated to shake hands.

I am Black Bird, pleased to meet you.

Not mutual I’m afraid. Let me guess, you’re the Chief, or Shaman, or something like that, right?

No, Mr. Skerritt, I’m just an old man, here to give advice.

I don’t need your advice, and I don’t want to hear anything about Indian legends, or curses, or ghosts, or any other of your damn stories. We both know who’s behind these accidents.

We know, but you do not believe Black Bird replied.

I believe some people don’t know what a court order means, that this is none of their concern anymore. Murder, vandalism, you think that will scare us away? Deaths are involved now and you’re the prime suspects. You won’t get away with it forever.

We have done nothing, Mr. Skerritt. We need do nothing. They.they know who their enemies are. They know how to defend the old man answered, waving an arm to the woods.

Bullshit Roger replied. Why don’t you leave us alone, don’t you make enough money from your casinos and tax-free incomes? Why risk jail, or worse, over a few worthless pieces of lumber?

The Indian smiled. Mr. Skerritt, we are not here to threaten you or your business. I will not try your patience with tales of sacred ground or ancient spirits. Where you are, you are not welcome. Do as you wish, your actions alone determine future events.

The old man turned and walked back to join the other two. Roger remained until they disappeared, then returned to his trailer.

Readying the bed, it was easier to spend the night here than drive back to town. He swallowed a nightcap and ensured his revolver was loaded before turning off the lights. The crickets and rustling leaves serenaded him as he faded off to sleep.

At six-thirty the next morning, someone knocked on the trailer’s door.

I’ll be right out, hang on Roger said.

Sir, we have problems came a voice outside.

Someone injured? he asked, praying for a negative response.

No, Mr. Skerritt. The bulldozer has been sabotaged.

Roger quickly opened the door and jogged over to the massive yellow tractor. There was equipment being damaged from day one, sand in gas tanks, punctured tires, missing tools, but nothing this major witnessing the thick tree limb jutting from the machine’s engine. Jake was inspecting the damage.

How bad? Roger asked.

Bad. Core’s cracked, this thing’s going nowhere. Afraid we’ll have to call in a tow.

Fuck! he said. Those goddamn Indians, I’ll kill them. This will put us days behind schedule. He looked angrily to the hill, but it was vacant today.

Sorry Jake sympathetically said, Maybe we can get a spare in a couple days.

Take care of it, Jake Roger replied, abruptly walking back to his trailer. The gleam off a chainsaw caught his attention, and he picked it up.

Spirits, legends, my ass! he said to himself, and started the saw’s engine. Revving it a few times, he spied a huge Red Maple in the forest thickets, taller and much denser than most of the Spruces, Aspens and Birches surrounding it.

I’ll give you something to talk about around your campsites, here’s a new legend for you. The man who single-handedly chopped down twenty acres! he screamed while approaching the tree. A spray of bark chips coated Roger’s chest as the blade sliced through the Maple’s trunk sending it crashing to the earth. Spinning around, he saw an even taller Fir a few feet away. It too lay beside the Maple moments later.

I thought the largest trees were supposed to be left for aesthetic purposes, shouldn’t you stop him? one of the men asked Jake.

Forget it, unless you wish to remind Mr. Skerritt he answered. The man took no action, only continuing to scrutinize the spectacle before them.

Paul Bunyan, eat your fucking heart out! Roger shouted as another tree met the ground. Fifteen minutes later, eight wooden corpses had fallen. Roger, sweat dripping from his forehead and soaking his shirt, switched off his instrument of destruction and went inside the trailer, locking the door behind. The crew went to work removing the fallen hardwoods as Jake wondered from where he was going to rent another dozer.

As the men left for the day, Jake rapped on the office door. Roger had remained inside throughout the day.

What? a voice inside asked, slightly incoherent from the alcohol.

It’s Jake, Mr. Skerritt. Got news on the new dozer.

Come in the voice replied. The door clicked open and Jake entered, spying Roger next to the phone with a half-empty bottle next to him.

You OK? Jake asked.

Roger looked at him with reddish eyes. Been on the phone with headquarters. They’re very disappointed with our progress. Don’t think I’ll be here much longer, Jake.

It’s not your fault, Mr. Skerritt Jake responded.

It’s nobody’s fault, right? Fuck it, fuck it all. Don’t worry, I put in a good word for you Roger drunkenly replied.

Jake wondered if he should tell him about the tractor, deciding Roger’s mood probably wasn’t going to get any better.

I know you’ve had a bad day, so I hate to tell you.

Yea?

Well, looks like word of our misfortune’s has gotten around. No local agency wants to rent to us because of the sabotage threat. The only place that would said it will take a week to get the tractor here, at twice the normal rate for insurance.

Roger showed no reaction to the news, almost like he expected it.

All right, thanks Jake. Go on, get out of here.

Mr. Skerritt, don’t worry. Other have gone through worse dealing with these kind of people. We’ll win in the end Jake said, trying to lend some comfort to the pitiable object on the couch.

Think so? Roger replied. Hope the next guy has better luck.

Yes sir Jake said, and left. When he was gone, Roger went outside to the gas storage. He stated he’d see this forest cleared, and he aimed to follow through on that promise. Through his whisky haze he had formed a plan, a scheme of revenge if you will.

Rolling one of the full, heavy barrels on a trolley, he wheeled it to a large pile of scrap shrubs and limbs and emptied its entire contents. Roger repeated the process with three additional containers, this time to the surrounding woods dousing everything that would burn. He didn’t even realize he was whistling some catchy theme from a television sitcom as he labored, lost within his madness. Igniting a roll of newspaper, he tossed it onto the pile that immediately burst into flames, feeding off the gasoline before becoming sustained on the brush. Roger began laughing as he watched the fire spread into the neighboring trees. Legal implications were disregarded, just another arson attributed to fanatic nature terrorists.

Suddenly, Roger heard thunder. Looking up, he saw black clouds gathering.

‘No!’ he thought, ‘this can’t be possible.’

He checked the weather reports, there was no rain forecasted for days. Apparently the elements also forgot, with another roar and a splash of lightning droplets began to fall. Their downpour increased until a powerful storm raged, sending Roger running to shelter. Looking out his window, he watched the wind blow with enough intensity that it appeared to be raining horizontally.

Roger wondered if the same storm-front that dumped record amounts of rainfall the prior month had returned until the siege subsided to a trickle. Less than ten minutes had passed, but it was more than enough to douse his once proud inferno. Except for a slight smoldering, no evidence remained of his handiwork. Foiled again.

He struck the windowpane in rage, surprised it didn’t shatter. Dismayed, he figured it was too late to begin a new plan. But there was tomorrow evening and an abundance of fuel in the shed. He had plenty of time to await another opportunity.

He didn’t realize this would be his last night alive.

The sound of wind blowing through the trees awoke Roger who was dreaming of a flower, opening to the sun’s warmth then transforming into a clawed, withered hand reaching out beckoning to touch him.

‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘must be that storm again’. Angered to be awake but not disappointed his dream was interrupted, he wandered into the bathroom to devour some aspirin for his splitting headache, overstepping the empty bottles beside his bed. Last time he would make the mistake mixing Vodka and Scotch together.

The cyclone that subverted his cunning earlier remained on his mind. Peering out the window, he examined the tree’s silhouettes illuminated by an virtual full moon. No sign of a storm, not even a cloud in the sky. The stars twinkled back at him, almost mocking his efforts. He raised his hand and gestured them the ‘bird.’

Stumbling back to bed, he was almost unconscious before the sound of leaves disturbed him again. But the leaves weren’t alone, another noise joined them, sounding similar to creaking wood. He sprung to his feet and put his face against the window. Nothing unusual, just the ghostly outlines of the forest, appearing like the fleshless bones of a prehistoric creature. But there was something more.. .something, he couldn’t tell exactly what. Shrugging it off, he laid back down when he realized he couldn’t sleep.

Disgruntled, he snatched a beer and turned on the television that promptly displayed an infomercial.

I can show YOU how I made millions selling real-estate the man with perfect teeth and the yellow checked coat said. Just send me $ 149.99 and I can.

Roger shut it off and dropped into his couch, wondering when