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      "body": "Congratulations @horrorguyian! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@horrorguyian/birthday2.png</td><td>Happy Birthday! - You are on the Steem blockchain for 2 years!</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_You can view [your badges on your Steem Board](https://steemitboard.com/@horrorguyian) and compare to others on the [Steem Ranking](http://steemitboard.com/ranking/index.php?name=horrorguyian)_</sub>\n\n\n###### [Vote for @Steemitboard as a witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1) to get one more award and increased upvotes!",
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      "author": "horrorguyian",
      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\nChapter 6: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-6\n\n**1877 - The Porch**\n\nThe summer sun shines on the lawn, making the scene of children running and playing tag even more lively than one could give account to. Avery climbs his way up a sprawling elm, avoiding the other participants by hiding in the Spanish moss that hangs from its branches. A mass of us are gathered on the porch, drinking and discussing the merits of the Reconstruction effort, if there were any to be had. In the midst of a spirited conversation, Uncle Garrett walks through the patio doors.\n\nPeter brightens as he greets him, \"Uncle! How do you fare? And how has France been treating you?\"\n\n\"Very well, my boy! Although sadly, I can't say the same for its people. Seems to be a terrible depression going on, with no end in sight as of yet. But I will remark that it has enabled me to live like a king in my time there. And you, Peter? Will you follow me one day soon, to live out those swashbuckling daydreams of yours? It won't be long until Avery has learned the run of the place.\"\n\nPeter replies, \"I spent some time taking in operas while on vacation, and I must say, I think Italy may be my choice of destination. Did you know that there are rumors of a sound machine they say will be able to play recorded musical pieces? That way, the owner would be able to listen to their heart's content. Still, I daresay it would not be as invigorating as to see it firsthand. And Italy is the home of the greatest operas.\"\n\n\"Sounds like you have things well figured out then, nephew!\" Garrett turns to greet myself and Olivia, giving us each a warm embrace. We speak of his travels, the family business, and of course, the children. He gives Luther and Avery a firm handshake, then scoops Evie up into the air as if she were light as a feather.\n\nOlivia and I sat, listening in on the conversation for the most part. Our lives were not as exciting as operas and world travel, but a bliss of cherished touches and comfort within each other. Not exactly the makings of public discussion. I reach over to caress Olivia's face, her smile radiating betwixt the ruins of my fingers. Garrett does not mention my disfigurement.\n\nSome time later, the patio doors part again to reveal a well-dressed family. Peter bounds straight from his seat to rush over, clearing his voice so that he may be heard over the farmhouse din.\n\n\"Ladies and Gentleman, I'm pleased to announce our guests of honor. I present to you, the Wyler family.\"\n\nCharles and his wife shake hands and hold small talk with the rallying congregation. Peter manages to wind Bonnie through the throng of congratulators. He rests her directly in front of my oldest son. The young girl tries her hardest to hide her imminent glee. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Luther wipe his sweating hand on his pants. His quick, casual glance at her already developed bustline.\n\n\"Master Luther Cartwright. Miss Bonnie Wyler,\" Peter declares with gravitas as he grins at Olivia and I. My wife lays her head against my chest as we watch the event unfurl.\n\nLuther apprehensively takes the little Miss' hand.                                                                                                   \n\n***\n\nThe smell of braised veal wafts from the plates as they are uncovered by the maids. Peter chimes a fork against his crystal glass, once again commanding attention for his upcoming speech. It is the same speech many of us at this table have heard once before. For Uncle Garrett, this will be the third in his lifetime. Peter's version of the speech holds a small aside for the remembrance of our father. Some attendants cross themselves, while others mutter assents of, \"Hear, hear!\"\n\nGarrett whispers something to Avery, who looks up at his Uncle Peter with a sense of reverence. Olivia sits next to Evie, gently but lovingly keeping the child from fidgeting about. Luther steals quick glimpses across the table at young Bonnie in her summer dress.\n\nA smile peeks at the corner of my lips with a slight tic. It comes from a sense of both happiness and fear. Because I love my life. I love my family. Peter, who will find his way to Italy. Evie, who will be free to pursue her heart or her education, whichever she chooses. My wife will live on and care for her boys from this grand farmhouse one day. I have no illusions that this laborer's trade won't claim me early, as it did my Father.\n\nAnd I know that one day, my brother, my sons, and myself will gather at the cold wooden slab in that dim manor. The birthright will be assumed by the next generation. We will pray for their forgiveness and understanding.\n\nFor we all must make sacrifices. We all must suffer, so we do not take for granted that with which we have been blessed. Forever and ever.\n\nAmen.",
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      "body": "@@ -5775,8 +5775,82 @@\n is name.\n+%0A%0AChapter 6: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-6\n",
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      "body": "Hi! I am a robot. I just upvoted you! I found similar content that readers might be interested in:\nhttps://www.wattpad.com/325840003-birthright-1864-the-manor",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\nChapter 5: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-5\n\n**1864 - The Manor**\n\n\"Wake up, Joshua.\"\n\nThe dim light from the candle my Father held gleamed off of his glass eye, a token from an unfortunate incident that involved breaking a stallion. I rubbed away the dreariness of sleep that threatened to convince me the moment was naught but a dream.\n\n\"Surely, it can't be time to tend the livestock yet?\"\n\n\"Nay, son, you won't be joining us in labor today. But there is a task needs to be attended to for now. Then you can have the day to yourself.\"\n\nOlivia stirred beside me. \"Is everything alright, Papa Cartwright?\"\n\n\"Yes dear,\" he replied, \"Peter has come down ill. He'll be fine in a couple days, but we must make preparations. You stay here with the babes.\" He lay reverent hands on Luther and his new brother, Avery.\n\nI kissed Olivia and put on my work clothes. It didn't occur to me until we stepped out of the cottage that Father was dressed in a hooded robe, crafted of simple gunnysack cloth. The garment of one in mourning. In accordance, his face was smeared with ash, giving him a ghastly appearance at this witching hour. Torches burned in the paths along the fields, each carried by another hooded figure.\n\n\"What is this, Father?\"\n\n\"Just follow,\" he ordained.\n\nWe strode alongside the gathering men, many of whom I strained to recognize as neighbors and farmhands under the burlap hoods and masks of cinder. The solemn march ended at the old manor, windows still boarded, but dual manse doors ajar. The inside was aglow from an assortment of lit candelabras. In the center of the foyer was a sturdy maple dinner table, four sections long. Peter, still in his nightclothes, stood in front of it, an equal mixture of fear and curiosity on his visage.\n\nWhen the last of us had gathered inside the manor, I heard the loud clap of the heavy oak doors closing behind me. Father guided me to the front of the crowd, which had gathered in a circle, and I locked eyes with Peter. One of the robed men paced around him. Then with one hand placed on the boy's shoulder, the other drew back its hood, revealing Uncle Garrett. His face too, was sullied with burnt coal.\n\nGarrett's voice boomed within the unused room. \"It is our family's birthright,\" he paused, \"that the first-born man shall inherit the field, and all of the hardships that accompany it. But he will also earn the fruit of generations from his toils. His family will never want, but the man himself will never prosper. The second-born man shall inherit the Cartwright wealth. He will never know physical labor or lean times. And when his time has come to pass down the business to the next generation, he will be free to spend it on leisure or travel as he wills.\n\n\"But this does not mean the rich man will never feel pain. This is the great trade of the birthright. He will leave behind a lifetime of ache for a moment of agony. And will exchange the hope of offspring for silver coin. Thus we ensure that familial insurrection will never rise again. Joshua, the Lord has seen fit to provide you two sons. And so it shall be, that the birthright be passed down.\n\n\"For we all must make sacrifices. We all must suffer, so we do not take for granted that with which we have been blessed. Forever and ever. Amen.\"\n\nThe shrouded men answered, \"Amen.\"\n\nWith that, four men set upon Peter, lifting him up and laying him on the table. I screamed his name and struggled against my Father's steady grasp, but he bore me to his chest with arms made of iron. Peter also wrestled with his captors, his seventeen years of cultured living no match for men wrought from the crucible of hard labor. They held him down, one at each limb, with Garrett and Grandpa Clive's old friend Red Beauchamp at his head. I couldn't make out who restrained his legs.\n\nDoc Pallin stepped from the circle, a surgical scalpel burnished to a glint in his possession. Peter cried out at the sight of the sharp instrument, and Beauchamp took the opportunity to insert a strap of leather into my brother's mouth.\n\n\"Bite down on dis 'ere, awlright? Keep ya from chewin' yuh tongue off,\" Red instructed.\n\nThe two men at Peter's legs raised his bedclothes up, exposing his fear-shrunken manhood to the Doc's cold steel. I tried to look away as the scalpel made an incision up the length of the scrotum, but my Father turned my head back to the grim scene. Peter's shrieks were barely muffled by the bit, and his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. One-by-one, the testicles emerge from the gash as swollen, bloody sacs. Doc's trained hand cut away layers of greasy tissue, then severed the orbs from the thick, purple umbilicus retaining them to the body.\n\nSeveral times, Peter's consciousness wavered. But Beauchamp was there to lightly smack his face, bringing him back to the horrid reality. This part of the birthright was to be endured. There was no escaping it.\n\nSick rose in my throat where my Father held me still. He must have felt it as well, for he whispered in my ear, \"You have ta see this, boy. Witness his sacrifice, so you never resent or question your position.\"\n\nVessels were tied off and after a miserable eternity, Peter was sewn back up. He looked distant, transfixed by the pain in \nthe corner of his mind, as the hooded men raised the boy bathed in flop sweat, and carried him back toward the farmhouse. Away from that damned ramshackle manor.\n\n***\n\nFather was rolling a cigarette on the porch when I approached him. I had emptied the contents of my stomach at the side of the farmhouse as the incident seared its way into my memory. He lit up, and the scent of tobacco filled the night when I spoke.\n\n\"I hate you, y'know. Uncle Garrett too. I'll never forget what'chyu all done to Peter back there. Doc. And Boo-shemp. You can all rot in hell.\"\n\n\"Watch your fuckin' mouth, boy.\" I stood in shock. I had never heard Father use that kind of language, being a God-fearing man and all. \"You don't have to like me. Or even agree with me. But you will respect me.\"\n\nHe reached a worn finger into his eye and removed the glass bauble, turning to face me so I could observe the pink, empty socket. It shone slick as he drew on the cigarette, exhaled smoke onto the blind replacement, then cleaned it against his shirt. Father's motions were deliberate and drawn out, assuring I took in the entirety of the situation. To ponder its meaning.\n\n\"You think this is hard on you? That's my son in there. He's a part of you and me both. This will be his only indignation, the only time I'll have to grieve him. I pray the good Lord takes me before I have to grieve for you.\"\n\nFather inserted the eyeball back in place. I remained silent.\n\nHe continued, \"Since your Grandpappy Clive's day, no Cartwright has been held higher than the other. It's impossible to have conflict, when there's nothin' to fight over. There's different kinds of rewards in life, and when you cain't attain the goods of your neighbors, you lose the ability to covet. Then, you'll appreciate what's in front of you.\"\n\nAnother long drag on the cigarette flared against his face, and I could see the turmoil on his wrinkles and cracks.\n\n\"Get back to bed,\" he ordered. I obeyed.\n\nFather did get his wish. He died three years later of the consumption, at the age of thirty-nine. He never had to see me suffer anything other than a long day's work. Mother moved into the farmhouse with Peter. My brother and I never talked about the night in the manor. For years, I could see hatred in his stare whenever we casually bumped into one of the men who attended. But seeing my bruises and blisters as time moved on softened him into a begrudging acceptance, then understanding.\n\nI, on the other hand, was wrong. I did forgive my Father. I forgave them all.\n\nChapter 7:",
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      "author": "horrorguyian",
      "body": "@@ -115,16 +115,77 @@\n pter 4: \n+https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-4\n %0A%0A**1877\n",
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      "parent_permlink": "horror",
      "permlink": "birthright-chapter-5",
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      "body": "@@ -178,18 +178,18 @@\n pter-3%0A%0A\n-::\n+**\n 1858 - T\n@@ -202,10 +202,10 @@\n tage\n-::\n+**\n %0A%0AOl\n",
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      "permlink": "birthright-chapter-4",
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      "body": "@@ -5768,16 +5768,90 @@\n owed our Luther.\n+%0A%0AChapter 5: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-5\n",
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      "author": "prometheusrisen",
      "body": "@therealwolf 's created platform smartsteem scammed my post this morning (mothersday) that was supposed to be for an Abused Childrens Charity.  Dude literally stole from abused children that don't have mothers ... on mothersday.  \r\n\r\nhttps://steemit.com/steemit/@prometheusrisen/beware-of-smartsteem-scam",
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      "author": "cheetah",
      "body": "Hi! I am a robot. I just upvoted you! I found similar content that readers might be interested in:\nhttps://www.wattpad.com/325400777-birthright-1877-the-fields",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\nChapter 4: \n\n**1877 - The Fields**\n\nThe handles of Tull's horse-drawn hoe wheedle in my grip. The three fingers left on my hand make steadying the plough an arduous task. I could leave it for Luther to learn, but he is busy leading the pull horse. It is a chore he quite enjoys, and I am wont to let him. He and the horse have formed a bond, and the beast may well follow him to the ends of earth, given the choice. Alas, it also allows for me to set aside the whip. There is no need to bear suffering upon man or animal with undue cause, God knows many of us will find it in our own ways.\n\nEspecially the working man, I think as my gaze turns back to the leather gloves, empty where they should be firm.\n\n\"Daddy, why didn't you fight in The War of Northern Aggression?\" Luther asks, seemingly from nowhere. Rather, I know the boy's close friend, Henry Willobaugh, has been regaling him with tales of the battles and Rebel heroics. The poor child lost his father in Antietam, when he was but a newborn. Now his world turns on that great spindle, trying to compromise grief with valor.\n\n\"T'weren't a war worth fighting. And don't call it that. There's a great many political principles that you don't understand. But leave it to say that one of them was regarding holding a man as property. And it don't matter which way you cut it, that trade was immoral, and one we will never practice again as Cartwrights.\"\n\n\"You mean slavery?\"\n\n\"That'd be it. You know we either pay or provide for the men who work our fields. We take care of their families too. It's the Christian thing to do.\"\n\n\"Does that mean Henry's dad was a bad man? For fightin' in the war?\"\n\nI sigh, Luther's questions becoming an existential burden I was not ready for at this hour. But he is coming into his own. Attaining the age of reason and accountability. So I answer, \"I didn't rightly know Henry's father. Aye, I knew the man, but that don't always tell his morals and will. Asides, it is not my place to judge, only God's.\"\n\n\"But if he was fightin' for an immoral cause, doesn't that make him evil?\"\n\n\"Sometimes even good men commit wicked acts. And sometimes what seems like the right thing to do turns out to be wrong. Things aren't always as simple as good and evil. God and the Devil.\"\n\nThe sound of something solid hitting and scraping the plough blades rousts me from my conjectural reverie. I tell Luther to goad the work horse in reverse as I wiggle the hoe back from the trough it has dug. A large stone hinders the path, buried deep enough into the soil that the plough has only managed to uplift it, not remove it entirely. I could attempt to drive through and uproot it, but there's no sense in dulling the blades. There is still much land to work.\n\nI bend down to lift the rock, intent on rolling it away from the field, when something strikes through the leg of my trousers. A long, brown streak slithers through the grass beside me.\n\n\"Dad, are you alright?\" Luther asks as he sees me drop to my seat.\n\n\"Grab my hunting knife, but keep your eyes on the ground. There's a copperhead nearabouts,\" I warn, already fumbling at my waist to unbuckle the belt there, in order to tighten a makeshift tourniquet below the knee. Hopefully, it will slow the venom from returning to the heart. Rolling the cuff of my pants up as Luther hands me the knife, I steel myself for the cuts I have to make.\n\nI carve an 'X' shape into the side of my calf, one cut slicing across the two puncture marks. Screams emanate from between my teeth, which hold the belt taut as I squeeze the leg to induce greater bleeding.\n\n\"Should I suck out the poison?\" Luther asks with panic in his voice.\n\n\"No! You'll just get the venom in your mouth. Go get Peter or the foreman. Tell 'em fetch Doc Pallin.\"\nLuther just stands there, rooted in fear.\n\n\"Go!\" I yell at the boy, still squeezing the muscle as he breaks into a run.\n\n***\n\n\"An old pioneer remedy,\" Doc Pallin says, applying a poultice of ground bark and gunpowder. \"As healthy as he was before the bite, I doubt it would have killed him. Still, Joshua may have done more damage by cutting to rid himself of the poison. Now we'll have to watch for infection. A bit of a trade off, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"He's running fever, Doc,\" Olivia's troubled voice pierces my fog-filled mind. \"How long until we know he's better?\"\n\n\"Two days at most, I should think. Just make sure to clean the wound and change his dressing every so often. It will help stave off infection. I'll retrieve some ammonia from the office, if that would help ease your mind.\"\n\n\"Thank you doctor. Any extra treatments you think would help are appreciated.\" Her voice is so sincere that I almost smile. But my thoughts are engulfed by images of the manor, flickering and pitching as it goes dark one second, only to reappear the next. Marching inexorably forward to those grave oak double doors.\n\n\"Then I'll take my leave. Fare well, Missus Cartwright.\"\n\nI vaguely hear the sound of the cottage door closing. Olivia runs a hand through my sweat-slicked hair, keeping the salt from stinging my eyes. Every touch is a needle in my fever dreams.\n\n\"Peter....\" I call out.\n\n\"He's not here, my love,\" Olivia answers. \"He's off to see Charles Wyler about his daughter, Bonnie.\" She trails off a bit before continuing, \"And his tobacco farm.\"\n\nHer words don't resonate with me at the moment. I'm still back at the manor, useless in my attempt to stop the robed men from taking my brother. Doc Pallin grins as he wields his terrible scalpel.\n\n\"Peter,\" I cry. \"I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry... Peter...\"\n\nI'm unable to do anything but call out his name.",
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      "author": "horrorguyian",
      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\nChapter 3: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-3\n\n::1858 - The Cottage::\n\nOlivia sat at the edge of the bed in nothing but her slip. White cotton and frilled at the edges, leading to bare shoulders that she covered with hands and arms crossed at her chest. I reached out to caress those arms, the sharp edges of calloused fingers catching on her smooth porcelain. Working the farms since nine, my hands were well on their way to the weathered lines and gnarled knuckles of my Father. She gasped at the snagging pressure, but smiled at me nonetheless.\n\n\"It's okay, I just didn't expect them to be so rough,\" she said, grabbing my hands in hers, stroking along the palm and fingers in her form of apology. The understanding in her eyes showed that she was farther into her womanhood than I was a man.\n\nWe had just been wed earlier that afternoon. The ceremony was held until after the harvesting season, so that I could focus on learning how to be a husband during the lean time. Uncle Garrett had a small cottage built for us on the property, as a wedding gift. The entire town had turned up, the festivities modest in every way but attendance. Still, every guest left with bellies full and more than one with mind properly soused. While it was certainly no royal formality, it was the biggest shindig of a generation for those invited. It was, after all, a time to celebrate hope and prosperity, for our offspring would be the heirs to the Cartwright fortune. One to assume the burden of business and welfare of the populace. Another to shoulder the responsibilities of field and farm.\n\n\"They are hands that bear a love for labor. And they will bear love for you as well, dear. For you will be his solace and sanctuary in a world that has few for any man,\" my mother said, a few paces from the foot of the bed. She then addressed us both, \"There will be some nights that you will wish to leave your garments away. Nothing wrong with that. It should be pleasing for a husband to look upon his wife, and she at he. For tonight however, leave your slip on above your waist. And Joshua, you stay in your breeches. I will not gaze upon your nakedness.\"\n\nShe made her way around the bed to Olivia, and clasped their fingers together, looking into her eyes with a comforting compassion.\n\n\"Now when you begin, Joshua will have to break through your virginity. You will bleed, but do not fret child, that is all perfectly natural. I assure you that you will not need a dressing or medical tending. It may be painful, it may not. Every woman is different, but I would rather you be prepared. Now lay down, sweet, on your back.\"\n\nAnd so we spent our first night together. Tender, apprehensive touches and unsure movements. Olivia cried out when I first pierced her, but as I flinched away, she cradled my face in her hands. Assuring me of her safety. That she wanted this as much as I.\n\nMy mother's calm voice guided us through the motions, attuning me to my wife's sounds and reactions. Adulating me when Olivia's responded positively to my affections. Cautioning me when I became too aggressive. Stressing the importance of ability to please one's partner in carnal ways, as we would have our lifetimes to seek haven in each other in this fashion.\n\nWhen I was spent, I rolled away, careful not to crush any of Olivia's limbs in my tiredness. Mother approached again, holding a bulky piece of embroidery.\n\n\"Lift your bottom, dear,\" she said as she slid a pillow underneath Olivia. \"Keep yourself propped up and your legs together. This will help with conception. Make sure to do this every night afterwards, until it's confirmed that you are with child.\"\n\nShe gathered up the stained bedding for wash, and before leaving she planted a kiss on Olivia's forehead and smiled. \"You will be a beautiful wife and mother, Mrs. Cartwright.\"\n\nWhen she had left, I sidled up against my bride and lightly rubbed her stomach.\n\n\"What will we call it?\" She asked.\n\n\"I like the name Luther.\"\n\n\"And if it's a girl?\" She giggled at the fact I hadn't considered that particular outcome as she nuzzled into my neck.\n\n\"I dunno,\" I laughed back, sheepishly. \"What do you like?\"\n\n\"I think Evelyn would be perfect, don't you?\"\n\n\"Perfect.\" I smiled, agreeing with her.\n\nAnd like that, we fell asleep. My arm around her, the callouses and roughness no longer a disturbance as I traced along her silken arms.\n\n***\n\nMother did not have to tutor Olivia much in ways of being a good wife. It was I she had to work the hardest on. Instructing me in respect and devotion towards my beloved. She would say to me, \"No matter how busy or grueling the workday, you must attend to your spouse as well. Like the crops you plant, she too, is alive. She needs your compassion and attention to thrive. Without it, your marriage will surely wilt away.\"\n\nI had no idea how difficult it would be during the trying times, but between my Father's stoic patience and Mother's genial nature, these aspects came to me quickly. They enabled me to be the kind of husband a woman like Olivia would deserve.\n\nIn the second month of the new year came confirmation that we were to have a child. However, it was not to be. Olivia did not let her sadness show around me, but I could sense it deep in her eyes. Even though she did not cry after the night she miscarried, I made sure to embrace her whenever her look turned forlorn. To tell her our time for blessing would come. Mother would quote the story of Abraham and Sarah from the Bible, and how their faith was rewarded.\n\nLuckily, it did not take me to the age of an hundred years to become a father. Three years later, Olivia and I were bestowed our Luther.",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\n**1875 - The Woods**\n\nThe sound of our horses' hooves is dampened by a layer of dewy leaves as they tread with a cautious gait. About twenty paces in front and to my right, Red Beauchamp sits astride a mottled Dun Appaloosa, a Spencer .56 Repeater rifle cradled in his arms. He's been an employee of the Cartwright family since Garrett was just a sprout, and the best tracker in the county. Beauchamp signals me with two soft clicks of his tongue. His fingers lead my eyes to a swath of blood on the nearby foliage. The splatters have diminished in size as we ride further into the oaks and pines.\n\nI bring my paint to a canter, catching up with the grizzled huntsman. He leans close and speaks quietly. \"En you say dey done took a sheep? No hens or goats?\"\n\n\"Ayuh,\" I assent. \"Too big for a coyote. Wolves maybe. What do you think, Boo-shemp?\" Ever since childhood, my drawl has disallowed the proper French-Cajun pronunciation of the man's last name. I'd call him Red, but he prefers the surname, and it would not feel right to disregard that.\n\n\"Wolves don' come aroun' here normal. But stranger things have happen'd. You bring yuh sidearm? If'n it wolves, you gone need more shots 'en dat musket give yuh. Ain't gone have all day ta reload. But I put my money on a mountain lion. And dis here,\" he pats the rifle lovingly, \"It put down a mountain lion jus' fine.\"\n\nWe have to follow the blood trail, since the carpet of leaf detritus is too thick for making out prints. Here and there can be found occasional drag marks, from where the burden of the livestock corpse became too heavy to carry aloft. About two miles into the forest, we find the missing sheep's carcass under an outcrop of rocks. The scene is grim, with its body rent in two, as if torn apart in a frenzy.\n\n\"You ever seen a mountain lion act so ravenous?\" I ask.\n\nBeauchamp's eyes are full of fear when he answers, his voice inflected with a tremble. \"I was wrong, Joshua. Dey carry it here in pieces.\"\n\nI trace his dread stare back to the source. Trampled among the bisected ewe's entrails are the signs of our doom. Tracks. Too small to be a mountain lion, and worse, more than a single set. I can't make out the exact number, my sight keeps shooting wildly to the brush. The horses nicker and turn in tight circles as we reign them in. They are alert to the impending danger, attuned in ways of nature that man has not been privy to for generations.\n\nThere, in the shrubs behind Beauchamp, I glimpse a pair of gray wolves. Slowly, I raise my musket in his direction, hoping the old man can reckon my intent. Mayhap not, as he raises his rifle to meet mine. I can't help the look of questioning that overcomes me as he draws his iron sight level with my head. But he keeps on aiming upward, and it dawns on me that we've been outwitted.\n\nThe crack of Beauchamp's rifle echoes off the rock and wood. A wolf falls from the outcrop above me, and lands dead with a thud at the feet of my horse. The spooked paint rears back, throwing off my balance as I pull my trigger. Red's horse goes down, with him caught underneath it, felled by my errant musket ball. Comprehending the moment of weakness, one wolf sets on the trapped man. The other breaks away, covering the distance before I have time to reload. It springs and knocks me clean from my steed.\n\nMy only thought is a flash of survival instinct. I lift my hand to protect my throat. Sharp teeth pierce my palm as I scream in pain. The wolf shakes its head back and forth in quick, jerky motions, trying to get an opening to my jugular. I can feel my fingers separating from the rest of my hand. I push the mangled digits farther into the wolf's mouth, and with my remaining hand, I find the Colt .36 Navy revolver strapped to my side. The hammer clicks as I thumb it back, and the gun thunders when a round is loosed into the wolf's belly. It takes two more bullets before the beast slumps over, dead.\n\nI shove the furry body off of me and clamber over towards Beauchamp, whose feet kick out desperately. The lone wolf's muzzle is buried in the huntsman's neck, snapping and slavering. It doesn't even regard me as I empty the rest of the chambers into it. I drop beside Red's mauled body.\n\n\"Boo-shemp! Boo-shemp! Look at me, alright? Don't sleep, you look at me, hear?\"\n\nBlood pumps in gouts from his ruined neck. Beauchamp coughs, sending spatters of it across my face. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a ragged wheeze.\n\n\"Hush now, save your strength. I need you to calm down. I gotta fix you, okay?\"\n\nI raise my hand to staunch the blood flow. The ring and index fingers hang past my wrist, attached only by thin strands of tendon. I put it back down out of sight and ready the other hand. After choking down a wave of nausea, my good fingers probe his slick neck for the open jugular. Beauchamp grabs me by the shoulders with crushing intent as I shove my thumb into the vein. An old trick Doc Pallin taught me from his days in the Rebel army.\n\n\"Let it be Boo-shemp, just let it be.\" I caress the side of his face like a mother would a child, as he feebly tries to fight me. \"We gotta stand up together, alright? Up on your feet, old man.\" I pull him up in stages, each movement unleashing agonizing moans through the hunter's clenched teeth.\n\nMy Paint is nowhere to be found. I never even saw him cut and run. Beauchamp's Appaloosa kicks and whinnies from its side on the ground, a dark stain forming underneath it.\n\n\"Sorry, girl.\" My voice cracks with remorse. She should be put out of her misery, but I can't remove my hand from Beauchamp's neck, and the other is so destroyed that my aim would only make things worse. Instead, I turn around and shuffle-step back towards the farm, my arms wrapped around my friend in an awkward bear hug.\n\nWe're about halfway home and the midday sun is almost directly overhead. Shafts of light peek through the tree canopy, the sound of birds and the breeze mixing with my sharp grunts. It's all background noise. I'm still hearing the horse's cries, haunting me from a mile away. With each step, my rent fingers bounce against Beauchamp's unmoving chest, causing me to whimper like a babe. I stopped feeling his pulse against my thumb about fifteen minutes ago, but I don't want to let go. I no longer have the strength to keep us both upright. Together we tumble to the forest floor.\n\nOnce my breath returns, I roll away from the dead man and reach down to my boot for my Bowie knife. Placing it on the grass next to me, I try to focus on Beauchamp as I pick pieces of soggy leaves from my injured hand.\n\nHe looks at peace, like he's just napping in the middle of the clearing. Thank god he had the decency to shut his eyes before passing on, I don't have the time for ritual. If I make it back, I'll make sure to send men to retrieve the body. Beauchamp deserves a right Christian burial.\n\nThe knife's soft leather sheath goes in between my lips. I bite down gently, readying myself mentally for the gruesome task. Kneeling now, I place the useless fingers under my boot and pull them taut, causing pain to blaze up my arm and threaten me with unconsciousness. The leather is chewy under my teeth, as sweat and involuntary tears mix with hide. The strung tendons quiver with my shaking, gleaming pearl-white where they aren't stained with gore and dirt. I want to do this in as few cuts as possible.\n\nBirds fly from the tree tops, chased away by my screams of agony. Memories of Beauchamp and Doc Pallin flicker through my mind, holding Peter down on that old maple dinner table, a makeshift sacrificial altar. Peter with a belt between his teeth, appearing prophetic in this instant. My vision flares white, then blurs black at the edges, until the final sawing motion sets my hand free.\n\nThe next moments fade in and out. Trees that outline the familiar hunting path. Sunlight, exposing the disrepair of the manor, with its shabby gables and boarded-up windows. The fence I constructed with my eldest son, not two years ago. The bloody handprint I smear onto the door jamb of the farmhouse.\n\nThen, nothing.\n\n***\n\nI feel the soft linen sheets beneath me, telling me that I'm in Peter's guestroom and not my own house. Peter's voice gains volume and clarity as my hearing becomes more focused, a hushed reading of something in French. Dumas, probably. His favorite writer. The narration comes to a close and he gingerly places his hand in the good one I have left.\n\n\"I should have run off with a merchant vessel, Joshua. Made a passage to France. A swashbuckler's life for me, huh? Surely it would be better than paying for the sins of the fathers. It wasn't supposed to be like this. You were never meant to understand what it is to not be whole.\"\n\nThe crack in his voice becomes a quiet sob, the tremors of his body coursing their way into mine. I do not open my eyes, lest he be embarrassed by this moment of weakness. Instead, I let these seconds of familial intimacy usher me back to sleep, where I no longer ponder whether my brother's tears were for me, or for himself.",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\n**1858 - The Farmhouse**\n\nI remember that Summer day when Peter came running up to me, out of breath. He and the kids from some neighboring families were engaged in a game of tag that had gone on for nigh an hour. Childish giggles echoed across the yard as the adults conversed and drank on the farmhouse's front porch.\n\n\"Joshua,\" he said in between pants, \"I saw you talking to Olivia Burkeshaw. Are you courtin' her now?\"\n\n\"Mind yer own business, Pete. You're too young to be knowin' about that stuff anyhow\", I replied, trying my best to look like a grown up. Uninterested in the trivialities of the young 'uns.\n\n\"She's real purty. And I heard her dad, Tom, owns a chicken farm. We don't have a chicken farm. I bet Uncle Garrett would approve of you courtin' her.\" I looked in his eyes for any hint of mischief or teasing, but Peter spoke with a sincerity beyond his eleven years of age. \"She has nice hair\", he added, casting a look across the yard to where Olivia had joined the adults.\n\nI followed my little brother's gaze and caught her staring back at me. She looked away coyly. Come to think of it, Uncle Garrett had been the one to properly introduce Olivia and I. I'd been dismissed from the day's chores, and ordered to take a bath in preparation for the night's banquet. We had gingerly shaken hands when presented, my palm clammy with anxiety. I wasn't used to the confines of my formal clothing. Standing nearby, Father and Mother exchanged smiles and knowing glances. Truth was, I had noticed her on several of my incursions into town. Pete was right. But she was more than just \"purty\", Olivia was downright beautiful. She was also a year older than me.\n\nI went to ruffle my brother's downy hair, then remembered Mom had done it special for dinner. Instead, I smoothed out an unruly russet cowlick that had stuck up in the back. \"I dunno\", I finally said. \"She's a nice girl. She probably deserves a real gentleman, not a farmhand like me.\"\n\n\"But one day, you'll be a foreman, just like Daddy. Seems pretty respectable to me,\" Peter replied.\n\nI smiled and pushed him playfully. \"We'll see. What about you? Got your eye on any of the lasses from around here? Doc Pallin's girl oughtta be in your grade.\"\n\nHe scrunched his face up in mock disgust. \"Ew, no! Besides, I ain't gonna have time for gettin' married. I'm gonna be a swashbuckler when I grow up. Like the Three Musketeers.\" He took two steps back and assumed a fencing stance. \"En garde!\"\n\nI countered with an imaginary rapier. We danced across the lawn and made clanging sounds as our invisible swords crossed. Partially hidden in the tree line behind us, the dark manor loomed, an impressive backdrop for our duel to the pain. From the porch came the unmistakable ring of the dinner bell.\n\n***\n\nWe sat at the table with full stomachs, placing our silverware on the plates delicately, careful not to mess the good china. Our family and neighbors resumed their casual talking among glasses of wine and bourbon. As Peter and I were about to ask to be excused, Uncle Garrett rose from his ornate chair at the head of the table and clinked a knife against the nearest piece of crystal.\n\n\"Friends and family, I want to thank you for coming here today to help us celebrate. Before we get to tonight's big announcement, I'd like to revisit the reason we are all here right now, and how we have managed to make this town and farm a better place for the community.\n\n\"As you all remember, my father, Clive Cartwright practically ran this town in his time. He provided employment for many of your families and helped our economy grow respectable. He was also one of the first farmers to rebel against the crass use of slavery in this state. Clive was a good man.\n\n\"But he was not without his enemies. Unfortunately for him, his nemesis was his own brother, forged by greed and jealousy. James was born the youngest of five sons, and ever since he was old enough to understand, he knew that it was Clive's birthright to inherit the family farm. The rest of the sons and daughters were given compensation when they became of age, and were let free to pursue their heart's desire. Most chose to stay and work the farm, content to raise their families and keep fellowship. For a while, James was satisfied to dwell in their ranks, but was drawn to the card tables until he had no inheritance left to give his children.\n\n\"The devil works through desperation, and so he did through James as well. One by one, he poisoned and murdered his brethren. Working in secret to make every death appear as an accident. When only Clive was left, James raised a small militia to wrest control of the farm. But the dedicated of you in this town, who knew Clive as the man he was, acted as a bulwark and quashed the rebellion. We purged the usurpers by force, and those captured were hung for treason so they could harass our society no more.\n\n\"Now we live in harmony, and stay according to the rules enacted by Clive Cartwright. The new birthright. One to assume the wealth, another to assume the fruit of generations. For we all must make sacrifices. We all must suffer, so we do not take for granted that with which we have been blessed. Forever and ever. Amen.\"\n\n\"Amen\", the company answered in chorus.\n\nUncle Garrett made his way around the table, stopping directly behind my chair. His voice rang in my ears, his words draining the color from my face. \"Join me in rejoicing the marriage of Master Joshua Cartwright and Miss Olivia Burkeshaw. May your union bring us all further happiness and prosperity.\"\n\nAcross the massive slab of wood, Olivia hid her eyes, yet I couldn't help but notice the slight smile at the corner of her lips.",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n\n**1872 - The Fence**\n\nSweat has saturated the band of my straw hat, so I take it off and mop my forehead as best I can with an equally soaked handkerchief. The action gives me a brief respite from the labor, but there's no shelter from the heat, waxing wrothful even in the midst of September. I turn my attention back to the wooden handle of the soil auger, which sticks waist-high out of the ground. My grunts become louder as the drill churns forth mounds of burnt orange clay, each twist requiring more and more of my strength. Thick calfskin gloves protect my hands from splinters, but do nothing for the blisters that have raised and burst across the surface of my palms, weathered though they may be.\n\n\"Luther, get the tamping bar ready,\" I say to the prone figure laying under the shade of a nearby tree.\n\nThe lanky ten-year old hustles to my side, with the tool firmly grasped. It's taller than he is, and drags the ground, bouncing in time with his thick brown mop of hair. With a couple of swift tugs, I lift the auger from the hole. It spills the last of the red dirt from its coil. Luther waits patiently as I heft a six-foot post and drop it into the earth. The boy kicks large clods about, breaking them up before dropping them back into the hole. His little arms work meticulously to pack the soil around the pole.\n\nLuther's breath comes in bursts when he asks, \"Daddy, why doesn't Avery have to help us with the chores?\"\n\nI lean up against the post to steady it, peeling off the gloves to examine the day's damage. \"Well son, your Uncle Peter is learnin' him to read.\"\n\n\"I wanna learn to read.\" The boy says in a voice next to a whisper.\n\nActing like I don't hear the agitation in his tone, I answer, \"If you really wanna learn, ask Avery before bedtime. I'm sure he'd be more'n willing to show you. He looks up to you, y'know?\" I wipe the weeping, yellow-tinged fluid onto my pants and blow gently on my calloused palms. The gloves should stay off for a bit longer. The open air feels comforting on the raw, new skin.\n\n\"T'ain't right. I'm older, I should be showin' him things. Maybe I could learn him how to tamp dirt?\" Luther protests.\n\n\"I told ya once, Avery don't need to know nothin' bout our work. I know it don't sound fair, but there's a reason we do things this way.\"\n\n\"I know, Daddy. Grandpa Clive and the Cartwright Fallout.\"\n\nI look at the boy with a grimace of empathy. \"Just because you heard somethin' don't mean you understand it. You will one day. I promise.\"\n\nLuther's packing down the last few inches of sod at the top when he lets out a shriek. He's managed to scrape his knuckles across the post, leaving a ragged trail on tender hands. I pull a flask from my back pocket and unscrew the lid. Holding my son's hand, I pour a few nips of whiskey out onto the scratches. His face reddens as he yelps in pain.\n\nLetting go of his arm, I say, \"Go'wn and blow on it some. That'll help. If it still hurts in a bit, grab some a that fresh-turned dirt and rub it on. It's nice and cool. Heal ya up right quick.\"\n\nThe boy sniffles and rubs the snot from his nose with a forearm. \"I'm not fallin' for that again. It hurts.\"\n\n\"See? You can learn plenty ain't in a book.\" I smile at him, and look back down the row, through the turns. We've installed thirty-three bracers since morning. In front of me stand the remaining few markers left to dig. I clap my son softly on the back and say, \"C'mon. Five more and we're done for the day.\" He follows without further complaint.\n\n * * *\n\nOlivia ladles out servings of beef stew into four bowls, setting them in front of us each in turn. Avery, 8, and Evelyn, 5, have joined me and their older brother at the table. Olivia fusses over my wounds. \"Joshua, you let me tend to your hands when you're finished here. You as well, Luther.\"\n\n\"Yess'm,\" the boy answers quickly. I mumble assent around a mouthful of stew.\n\nFinishing up the last of his dinner, Luther asks timidly, \"Avery? What are you reading with Uncle Peter?\"\n\n\"We're reading The Leatherstocking Tales. It's about a huntsman named Hawkeye who goes on frontier adventures with the Mohicans.\"\n\n\"Ummm, do you think you could teach me to read something like that?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I'm not very good at it yet.\" Avery notices his brother's dejection and adds, \"But I can try when I get better! It's good enough to read twice.\"\n\nOlivia slides her arms around my neck and rests her cheek against mine. \"We have some very thoughtful boys, Joshua.\" I close my eyes and exhale deeply. When I breathe in, her feminine scent overwhelms me, making me feel as lucky a man as could be. A loving wife. Strong, smart sons and a doting daughter. All of them bear Olivia's chestnut hair and warm personality.\n\nAs if summoned by the thought, Evie climbs into my lap and lays her head against my chest. She plays with my beard, twirling the dark curly strands between her fingers. Her azure, almond-shaped eyes gaze into the distance, hypnotized by the soothing action of stroking my scruff. That comfort stays with me when Olivia applies a salve to my broken blisters, even as I suck my teeth when she touches my skin. The muscles in my forearm flex involuntarily, cut in the manner of a field-born man.\n\nMy mind goes back to a time when Peter and I were around the same age, raised to always be mindful of each other. Our father used to say, \"Ain't matter how many possessions you gather in life. Cain't take 'em past the grave. But when you stand in front of the Lord, what he'll judge ya on is that you treat your kin and fellow man most kindly.\" Then, when we reached the age of accountability, our kin and fellow man drug my brother and I to that broke-down manor, and changed us forever. It took me a long time to understand why they did what they done. I imagine it took Peter even longer. And I thank God he doesn't hate me with every fiber of his being.",
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      "body": "![creepyhouse.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSwPi6iMyoA2afpQfM488GdsWDThvxhAuRqsq7bKTsFQr/creepyhouse.jpg)\n**1872 - The Fence**\n\nSweat has saturated the band of my straw hat, so I take it off and mop my forehead as best I can with an equally soaked handkerchief. The action gives me a brief respite from the labor, but there's no shelter from the heat, waxing wrothful even in the midst of September. I turn my attention back to the wooden handle of the soil auger, which sticks waist-high out of the ground. My grunts become louder as the drill churns forth mounds of burnt orange clay, each twist requiring more and more of my strength. Thick calfskin gloves protect my hands from splinters, but do nothing for the blisters that have raised and burst across the surface of my palms, weathered though they may be.\n\"Luther, get the tamping bar ready,\" I say to the prone figure laying under the shade of a nearby tree.\nThe lanky ten-year old hustles to my side, with the tool firmly grasped. It's taller than he is, and drags the ground, bouncing in time with his thick brown mop of hair. With a couple of swift tugs, I lift the auger from the hole. It spills the last of the red dirt from its coil. Luther waits patiently as I heft a six-foot post and drop it into the earth. The boy kicks large clods about, breaking them up before dropping them back into the hole. His little arms work meticulously to pack the soil around the pole.\nLuther's breath comes in bursts when he asks, \"Daddy, why doesn't Avery have to help us with the chores?\"\nI lean up against the post to steady it, peeling off the gloves to examine the day's damage. \"Well son, your Uncle Peter is learnin' him to read.\"\n\"I wanna learn to read.\" The boy says in a voice next to a whisper.\nActing like I don't hear the agitation in his tone, I answer, \"If you really wanna learn, ask Avery before bedtime. I'm sure he'd be more'n willing to show you. He looks up to you, y'know?\" I wipe the weeping, yellow-tinged fluid onto my pants and blow gently on my calloused palms. The gloves should stay off for a bit longer. The open air feels comforting on the raw, new skin.\n\"T'ain't right. I'm older, I should be showin' him things. Maybe I could learn him how to tamp dirt?\" Luther protests.\n\"I told ya once, Avery don't need to know nothin' bout our work. I know it don't sound fair, but there's a reason we do things this way.\"\n\"I know, Daddy. Grandpa Clive and the Cartwright Fallout.\"\nI look at the boy with a grimace of empathy. \"Just because you heard somethin' don't mean you understand it. You will one day. I promise.\"\nLuther's packing down the last few inches of sod at the top when he lets out a shriek. He's managed to scrape his knuckles across the post, leaving a ragged trail on tender hands. I pull a flask from my back pocket and unscrew the lid. Holding my son's hand, I pour a few nips of whiskey out onto the scratches. His face reddens as he yelps in pain.\nLetting go of his arm, I say, \"Go'wn and blow on it some. That'll help. If it still hurts in a bit, grab some a that fresh-turned dirt and rub it on. It's nice and cool. Heal ya up right quick.\"\nThe boy sniffles and rubs the snot from his nose with a forearm. \"I'm not fallin' for that again. It hurts.\"\n\"See? You can learn plenty ain't in a book.\" I smile at him, and look back down the row, through the turns. We've installed thirty-three bracers since morning. In front of me stand the remaining few markers left to dig. I clap my son softly on the back and say, \"C'mon. Five more and we're done for the day.\" He follows without further complaint.\n\n * * *\nOlivia ladles out servings of beef stew into four bowls, setting them in front of us each in turn. Avery, 8, and Evelyn, 5, have joined me and their older brother at the table. Olivia fusses over my wounds. \"Joshua, you let me tend to your hands when you're finished here. You as well, Luther.\"\n\"Yess'm,\" the boy answers quickly. I mumble assent around a mouthful of stew.\nFinishing up the last of his dinner, Luther asks timidly, \"Avery? What are you reading with Uncle Peter?\"\n\"We're reading The Leatherstocking Tales. It's about a huntsman named Hawkeye who goes on frontier adventures with the Mohicans.\"\n\"Ummm, do you think you could teach me to read something like that?\"\n\"Oh, well, I'm not very good at it yet.\" Avery notices his brother's dejection and adds, \"But I can try when I get better! It's good enough to read twice.\"\nOlivia slides her arms around my neck and rests her cheek against mine. \"We have some very thoughtful boys, Joshua.\" I close my eyes and exhale deeply. When I breathe in, her feminine scent overwhelms me, making me feel as lucky a man as could be. A loving wife. Strong, smart sons and a doting daughter. All of them bear Olivia's chestnut hair and warm personality.\nAs if summoned by the thought, Evie climbs into my lap and lays her head against my chest. She plays with my beard, twirling the dark curly strands between her fingers. Her azure, almond-shaped eyes gaze into the distance, hypnotized by the soothing action of stroking my scruff. That comfort stays with me when Olivia applies a salve to my broken blisters, even as I suck my teeth when she touches my skin. The muscles in my forearm flex involuntarily, cut in the manner of a field-born man.\nMy mind goes back to a time when Peter and I were around the same age, raised to always be mindful of each other. Our father used to say, \"Ain't matter how many possessions you gather in life. Cain't take 'em past the grave. But when you stand in front of the Lord, what he'll judge ya on is that you treat your kin and fellow man most kindly.\" Then, when we reached the age of accountability, our kin and fellow man drug my brother and I to that broke-down manor, and changed us forever. It took me a long time to understand why they did what they done. I imagine it took Peter even longer. And I thank God he doesn't hate me with every fiber of his being.",
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      "body": "![cockleburr.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmbkHTn69k5Rb3bxXq9hWxAFhSV2avERcnThstQGdMfDiB/cockleburr.jpg)\n\nJean twisted the dial on the radio until the volume of voices came out louder than the ubiquitous static. The past couple of days had sparked a revival of AM radio not seen since audio theater, with people in the Heartland panicking at the thought of little green men. It was real this time though. Jean and Walter had witnessed the monster fly in, and the mob of black helicopters and jeeps that followed.\n \n*“… haven’t even allowed the press inside to document it! What we have is some grainy, Bigfoot-type footage of a flyby. But there’s no denying the fact that miles of Rocky Mountain peaks are gone!”* One of the voices argued vehemently.\n \nA deeper, condescending voice replied, *“They have been manipulating this kind of footage for years. It’s exactly what they want you to think, because everyone is too afraid to say the word ‘Terrorist’. Plain and simple. This country, and this administration cannot afford another Nine-Eleven!”*\n \nJean and Walter wrinkled their noses in unison as she searched for another station. As siblings, their thoughts and expressions were often in harmony. They were brought to the balcony by the behemoth’s otherworldly keening, wearing faces of wonder as it passed overhead. People in the streets held hands to their heads, temporarily deafened by the bellow.\n \n*“… myriad possibilities, but most experts agree that it crashed due to some sort of navigation malfunction. Theories range from a rash of intense solar activity three weeks ago, to an overpopulation of communications satellites in orbit above Earth. One fact that could help determine the cause would be to conclude whether the object is organic or not.”*\n \nA static shush overtook the program, forcing the siblings to find yet another channel. They looked warily at each other as they resumed the search, waiting for their father to join them from outside. The booming, overtly Southern drawl of a televangelist roared from the small speakers.\n \n*“Cans’t thou draw out Leviathan with a hook? Or bore his jaw through with a thorn? Behold, the hope of him is in vain. Shall not one be cast down, even at the sight of him? Brothers and Sisters, this an Old Testament sign from an Old Testament God. An angry God. A God that will hold us accountable, Jehovah-Jireh!”*\n \nThe preacher clipped his last words with unbridled enthusiasm. Father entered the room through the remnants of a sliding glass door, turned a slick gray by a duct tape patch job. All the windows in town had been blown out when the creature crashed, some smaller structures completely obliterated as the beast un-domed McGregor Mountain and turned Bighorn into a crater. The grizzled man threw a clipboard onto the worktable and made his way to a gun cabinet, unshelving a giant A-Square .557 Tyrannosaur, meant to take down Kodiak bears and rhinos. It was the largest caliber modern weapon a man could use with only his shoulder as a backstop.\n \n“End o’ the fucking world and that bastard is still begging for money.” Father gestured to shut off the radio. He tapped the clipboard he had previously discarded. “They’re all accounted for. Twenty-two Blackhawks, fifty-six Jeeps, thirteen Humvees, and three Lincolns. Gone as fast as they came in. And unless they sectioned the thing up Russian mob style and drove off with the pieces, it’s still out on the range.”\n \nHe continued trekking between the table and the weapon racks, bringing back a pair of thirty-aught-sixes and three flare guns. One for each of them. Father looked the teens in the eyes as he spoke. “Those spooks don’t give a good goddamn about us or our neighbors. We’re gonna go find survivors or answers. Both if we’re lucky.” He kissed his children on the forehead then strode to the front door. “Mount up.”\n \n***\n \nThe jacked-up truck took a right, off Fall River Road and onto Lawn Lake Trail, which wound its way around Bighorn Mountain. Estes Park was a ghost town on the way out. Father drove slow to accommodate the pickup’s wide berth and keep an eye out for the monster’s final resting place. They had to brake hard near the river. The trail was blocked by exploded detritus that formed a star-shaped pattern back to ground zero. The three unpacked the bed of the truck, shouldered their supplies, and hoofed it up the mountainside.\n \nOver a crest, they spotted the colossus at the epicenter of leveled trees. It lay flat on its side, the ground-side half shredded away by rock and trees, leaving tracks of gore from the initial site of impact. The term leviathan truly fit, as the beast was longer than a football field and whale-like. Instead of flippers, it sported a long line of cilia that glowed a bioluminescent violet. Small pits scored its otherworldly belly.\n \nFather ran his hand along the blubber cavities. “Wonder what made these? Doesn’t look like damage from the crash.”\n \nWalter caught a pair of does sneaking into one of the opaque plastic tents the military had left behind. He clicked his tongue to call attention, pointing at the tent. Father nodded and gestured at Walt’s rifle, “Keep an eye peeled for anyone still around. And be careful.”\n \nFather walked the length of the beast as Walter disappeared inside the tent. The smell of pine and dirt mingled with alien decay. Despite the grisly nature of the scene, the animal was beautiful. Its skin was a midnight blue, lit by the cilia, with the purple glow changing to a deep teal at the baleen. A gold-flecked eye gave off an air of royalty, where it would have otherwise looked scared and confused. Upon closer inspection, the holes in the whale’s belly were filled with pin-prick points. \n\n “What the hell….?”\n \nWalter emerged from the tent, pale and wearing a thousand-yard stare. His voice was barely audible. “Dad. You need to come see this.”\n \nThe old man whistled, a cracking sound that reverberated through the calm clearing. Jean responded in kind, and was by their side shortly. Father led them inside the plastic building, and they all stopped abruptly at the door. It stood in the corner, plastered to the flimsy walls by a waxy substance. The camouflage hat gave it away as military, one of the only characteristics that confirmed the thing was once a person. Several dozen holes were bored into the body, the waxy fluid pouring out of them gave it the appearance of a human honeycomb. The two deer, a rabbit, and a blue jay lapped from the gruesome fount.\n \n“Wait outside,” Father growled. They did as he bade, without question or hesitation. Not out of obedience, simply that neither wanted to stay in the tent for a second longer. He stepped closer to the figure, clicking his tongue and shooing the woodland creatures away from the desecration.\n \nHe inched his face closer to the leaking cavities. Within each one, something writhed. A tail, striped black and white. They wiggled and whipped inside their holes, betraying the presence of something larger. The man looked around for some kind of utensil to extract the wormy creature, and found a pair of forceps on a stainless-steel cart. It held a variety of surgical instruments. This tent was probably where any dissection and scientific research would have occurred, had the military units stuck around. It took him a couple of tries to pin one of the tails between the tines. As he pulled, the thing resisted, and he felt the body’s chest move. Then the sound of inhalation. He looked up, into gold-flecked eyes. They stared back at him, as the corpse moved its mouth without speaking.\n \nThe blast of the Tyrannosaur erupted throughout the mountainside. Jean and Walter covered their ears, spinning around to face the tent. Father walked out of the plastic flap soundlessly. He didn’t try to speak, the ringing in their ears would be the sound of their worlds for the next few hours, if it ever went away. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. He tugged at the edges of his jacket, popped the collar, and pulled his cowboy hat down low over his face. Jean moved to touch his shoulder, but he brushed her off callously and led the way back to the truck.\n \n***\n \nThe next day, Father rode in the back of the pickup all the way to Doctor Findlay’s house. The Doc was no longer taking patients at the clinic. Most of the people in Estes Park had packed and moved out in the middle of the night. A few trucks lingered to remind that there were some still inside, shuttered and locked in, convinced that they could keep the impending change from entering their modest lives.\n \nThey pulled onto the gravel drive, the stones crunching.  Father dropped the tailgate and hopped from the bed. Jean opened the driver side door, but he laid a forceful hand against it to stop her.\n\n“You both stay here. No sense in taking any more risk than you’ve got to.”\n \nJean pushed back, the fire of defiance in her eyes. “We need to hear what the Doctor has to say. You know if you go in there by yourself, if it’s bad, you won’t say nothin’ to us. You’ll think you’re protectin’ us, but you’re not. We need to hear the truth. We’re your children for Chrissake. We deserve to know.”\n \nHis pupils narrowed, tiny hints of gold contracting in the iris before he gazed at the ground, unable to look his kids in the eye. He finally relented, Walter and Jean exited the vehicle to join his side. Still, they kept a physical distance.\n \nInside the cabin, Doc Findlay was busy at a shelf. He ushered the guests in without turning around. He grabbed a couple of mason jars and set them on the living room table. Each contained a spiny specimen, striped black-and-white with a long flagella, suspended in a clear liquid. The tail attached to a circular body, roughly the size of a child’s palm, covered in points. It resembled a cockle burr. Those strange little brown blooms that stick to your socks and shoelaces when walking through tall grass.\n \n“I know why you’re here, Hank, and I don’t know what to tell ya. Did ya tell Walt and Jeannie?”\n \nFather looked at the kids. He started to speak, but Jean cut him off. “He hasn’t showed us, but we had our suspicions.”\n \nWalter stared at the specimens on the table. “We seen them before, kinda. Up on Bighorn. Not like this, though… all whole and everything.” He reached out and gingerly touched the glass. The thing inside whipped its flagellum to mirror his contact.\n \n“Darndest thing,” the Doc said, “that there’s almost pure alcohol. Sumbitches still ain’t dead. Took that one out of Wendy Yustman. Had to sedate her to get it. When I tried it without the drugs, she knocked me plum on my ass. I thought she was gonna kill me. Then I had to cut around the thing to extract it. It was still tryin’ to… burrow inside of her.”\n \nThe Doctor turned to the children. “Kids, I’m gonna have to examine your dad. That means I’m gonna have to check some very private areas. Would ya mind steppin’ outside?”\n \nThey looked at each other and reluctantly left. Once the cabin door had shut behind them, Hank began removing his shirt. He turned around, showing Doc the hole at the base of his neck. He started to unbutton his pants, but Findlay held up a hand to stop him. “I haven’t checked myself anywhere else,” Hank said, “The parts I can’t see and whatnot. I wasn’t gonna get the kids to do it, either.”\n \nDoc lifted his own shirt, revealing eight hollows in his chest and abdomen. They were so deep the flickering tails could no longer be seen.\n \n“Mine don’t hurt. Do yours?” Doc asked. The father shook his head. “Unless you try to pull ‘em out. I tested an extraction method on myself. After the other patients showed up with ‘em. I know one of them sonsabitches infected me somehow. Anyways, when I tried tuggin’ on it, it burned like hellfire. Like every single one of my nerves was covered in acid. I didn’t try again.”\n \n“Can you cut them out? If you get them all, can I be saved? I’ve seen how this all ends. I don’t want that, Doc.” \n \n“I haven’t seen it, but somehow, I know,” Findlay replied. “Like I can hear ‘em talkin’ to each other. It started with the one. I passed out when I tried to get it out. Woke up with the other seven on me. But in my dreams, I felt them callin’ out. Like a beacon. Do you hear ‘em yet, Hank?”\n \nFather rubbed his face roughly and sobbed once into his hand. “Yeah. They don’t want to come out. It took all of my will to let the kids drive me up here.”\n \nDoc put a hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t cut ‘em out if I wanted to. I’d bet dollars to donuts yours is attached to your brain stem. You must have incredible resolve. Most people can’t fight ‘em for longer than half a day. Wendy’s was at the base of her spine. Mine’s in my heart, Hank. I could see it in my mind before I took an x-ray of it. Only confirmed what I already knew. Six more people come into my office yesterday. All of ‘em left of their own accord before I could perform the necessary amount of tests. Those two out of Mrs. Yustman were the only ones I removed. They hadn’t gotten far enough to any of the vitals. I was gonna try for a third, but she up and left without a single word.\n \n“We’re already dead. These things are just keepin’ us alive. Truth be told, I’m more excited than scared to find out why. I know that’s not me talkin’. The real Findlay would be callin’ up the CDC, tryin’ to get to the bottom of this. But I just wanna curl up in a corner and see how this all plays out.\n \n“You want my advice, Hank? Fill that truck’s tank with gas, hand those kids of yours the keys, and tell ‘em to get the hell outta Dodge.”\n \nHank nodded, turned, and walked to the door.\n \n“Hank? You give up yet?” Findlay asked.\n \n“I’m still here, Doc.” Hank threw up a little wave before he left the cabin.\n \nJean was on him the moment he came through the door. “What did he say?”\n \nFather pushed her off and jumped into the bed of the pickup. “Don’t touch me. He said not to touch me. Just take me home.”\n \nShe stood rebelliously at the edge of the truck for five minutes. No words were exchanged. Then she climbed into the driver’s seat and took the family home.\n \nWhen they arrived, Father took out his wallet and laid it on the table. “There’s two-hundred dollars in there. You both know the PIN number for the bank card. Take the truck and get the fuck out of here.”\n \nWalter moved toward him, but Father shoved him back. Walt lost his balance and fell back on his rear. “We’re not going to abandon…” he started.\n \n“Just leave!” Father yelled, then stalked to the basement, slamming the door behind him. The lock clicked loudly into place.\n \n“Dad!” Jean attacked the door with balled up fists. Her banging echoed through the house. “Let us in! Dad!”\n \nWhen there was no answer, she turned to help Walter up off the floor.\n \n***\n \nJean entered the house, arms laden with groceries. “There was nobody at the market, so I didn’t even bother with paying.” She set the bags down and began putting the food away.\n \n“It’s been five days, Jeannie. If he don’t get some water soon, he’s gonna die. If he isn’t dead already.” Walter fiddled absent-mindedly with the sleeves of his sweater.\n \n“Don’t you talk like that, Walt. We’re gonna bust that door down and get him some food and drink. I don’t give a shit about his privacy or his pity party. We’re a family goddammit.” She grabbed a couple of water bottles and a value-size bag of chips. “Help me kick it in,” she ordered.\n \nThey took turns putting their boots to the door until it finally yielded. A faint light guided them to the bottom of the steps. There, in the corner, Father stood plastered to the wall with the same waxy substance that encased the military woman. He was honeycombed as well, with luminous orange spider silk anchoring him to the surrounding surfaces. Roaches, pill bugs, beetles, and spiders crawled in and out of the flesh pits. They paused to suck at the alien juice that seeped from the voids before scurrying away. The insects shone a rainbow of colors, a scuttling spectrum of visible light.\n \nA bright red beetle creeped close to Walter’s shoe, and he stamped on it. Walt cried out, and he lifted his leg, the bug running away unharmed. “It was like stomping on a rock!” He said, hopping on his right foot.\n \nThe siblings jumped back when Father lifted his head. His eyes shimmered that dazzling gold as he drank in the sight of them. A ragged hole ate at his neck, the details illuminated with a vivid tangerine glow. One of the cockle burrs inside worked its thin spines, playing at the strings of his vocal chords like a harpist with some, and pushing at the meat slab of his tongue with others. The concerted movements produced Hank’s raspy baritone.\n \n“I thought I told you kids to leave?” He smiled as he spoke. “Glad you didn’t. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Father saw the worried looks on their faces. “Don’t be scared. The things in me are staying there, not coming for you. And there’s no need to fret over me. It doesn’t hurt.\n \n“Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve seen and felt the most beautiful things since I’ve been down here. Me, other people, the animals. It’s like we’re all connected through these critters. Do you know what it feels like to fly as an eagle? Or hunt as a wolf? I do.” He looked skyward and shook his head slowly. “I watched a star die last night. Absolutely beautiful…” he trailed off, reverently.\n \n“Do you want to know what I can’t wait to feel? The depths of the ocean. Some kind of squid or shark. We’ll get there eventually. You know it’s coming, right? We’re almost there and it’s just… It’s heaven on Earth.”\n \nJean took a step back. “Walter, get in the truck. Now.” She commanded.\n \nHer father regarded her with such empathy that she almost burst into tears. “Oh, baby. I wish he could. Just show her, Walt.”\n \nWalter looked at the floor.\n \n“What’s he talkin’ about, Walter?” Jean demanded.\n \nThe boy lifted the sleeve of his sweater, revealing a deep burrow in his forearm. “It’s wrapped around my brachial artery,” he whispered. “It told me so.”\n \n“When?” She cried.\n \n“Yesterday. When I went outside to sneak a cigarette. Dad’s right. I never even felt it get inside me.”\n \nJean fell to her knees. “What do I do, daddy? What do I do? Is it even any use running? I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. Where could be safe. I don’t think I can leave you and Walt.”\n \nFather shushed at her sobbing. “We’ll be fine, sweetie. As fine as this new world will have us. We’re a part of something… bigger now. A part of this great, wide world like we’d have never been before. But I know you, baby. You got the fire in ya. You run as far and as long as you can. See everything you can. Do everything you can. If you get away, you’ll have truly lived a life. If you don’t, think of all the wonderful memories you’ll have ready to share with us. With everyone and everything.” A sunset pink cellar spider crawled from a hole where his ear used to be and disappeared behind his head.\n \nShe looked at her brother with desperation in her eyes. “Walt?” She squeaked.\n \nHer brother sniffed back a hint of sadness and answered, “I’m supposed to be somewhere. I’m not rightly sure where yet, but they’ll tell me when I’m ready. I’m gonna stay here with dad ‘til then.”\n \n“I love you both.” Jean said, reaching out instinctively before drawing her hands back to her chest. Her father and brother smiled at her as she clambered up the basement stairs and left them in the dim orange fluorescence.\n \n***\n \nJean visited Arches National Park on her way through Utah. She walked across the Landscape Arch at dawn, sat near the Double O around midday, and took a picture sitting in the Delicate Arch at dusk for posterity. Somewhere along the hike she ran into a hive made from a tourist in the remnants of khaki shorts and a Panama hat. He spoke to her in her father’s voice. She told him of her drive through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Of her plans to visit Nevada before heading to the Coast. Jean no longer felt the empathic connection to Walter. He was lost to her. She wasn’t ready to ask after him just yet.\n \nShe found that not all of the infected people turned to hives. In Las Vegas, some sat in the casinos as they normally would, playing out hands of blackjack or pulling the levers of one-armed bandits. They wore long sleeves, turtlenecks, hoodies, anything that covered a majority of skin. Every once in awhile, a zebra-striped tail would whip from beneath the layers of clothing, betraying their presence.\nOne thing Jean noticed was that there were no hives made of wildlife. They seemed to relegate themselves exclusively to humans. Animals were always nearby them, though. Feeding from the sticky honey they constantly oozed. Lemon yellow rams and pastel lilac cougars prowled through the infamous Strip. One evening, a colony of magenta-toned bats took flight as she sat in an unmoving roller coaster atop a fancy hotel, soaking in the skyline.\n \nWhen she’d had her fill of the glitzy neon, Jean got in her truck and ran some more.",
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