Short Scary Stories

The Bear.

A quarter after nine, right in the middle of Dad’s favorite game show, the sound cut off. I winced, but before he could say anything the set started buzzing and the screen changed, turning the dark living room around us a deep blue.

“What’s wrong with the TV?” Dad said, leaning forward on his chair, glaring at the set like he could scare it into doing what he wanted. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s an emergency broadcast,” I said.

On the screen, the news anchor looked as calm as ever.

“This just in,” he said, with that winning smile I could never pull off no matter how long I practiced, “A prison transport bus has crashed near the state border. Though police were on the scene immediately, one inmate remains unaccounted for.”

A picture of the man appeared. He was just a normal guy: dark hair, square jaw. Maybe a little uglier than most. I thought he looked a little like my Dad.

“The inmate is to be considered extremely dangerous. Citizens are advised to remain in their homes, lock their doors and call the police immediately if they see anything suspicious. Authorities believe the fugitive was injured in the accident and will likely not have gotten far.”

While he talked, a list of towns started scrolling under him. Sure enough, the little nothing town ten miles from our house went crawling across the screen.

“Shit,” Dad said, slowly crushing his beer can. “Shit shit shit.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’re way out here in the woods. What’re the chances-”

His hand shot out like a snake. The empty can bounced off my head and clattered into the shadows. My Dad’s way of telling me to shut up.

“Little house in the middle of the woods, one back-ass road running by it, owned by an old man and his idiot son?” Dad spat. “We’re sitting ducks. Easy pickings.”

“He won’t know we’re out here.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, dumbass. Maybe after he’s done gutting your old man, he’ll keep you around for a pet.”

Hands on the armrests, grunting and heaving, Dad tried to stand. I ran over to help him. He smacked at me and cussed, but I got him on his feet.

“No way in Hell I’m gonna just sit here and let some shithead take my house. Go get my gun.”

“Dad, you sure you-”

“Don’t backtalk me, get your thumb out of your ass and get my gun!”

I ducked a smack and went to Dad’s office.

Anyway, he called it his office. It was more of a trophy room: deer heads, fish and birds mounted on the walls, staring down at me with their black little eyes. In the corner by his desk was the big stuffed grizzly bear, up on its back legs, snarling at the doorway. I’d never asked him where he got it. I was always a little afraid to. When I was a kid, he’d call me into his office when I’d done something wrong. He’d be sitting at his desk, that bear looming behind him, both of them glaring right at me. Most of the time he didn’t even have to whip me, I’d be so scared of facing him and that monster.

His old hunting rifle was in a glass case on the wall, the place of honor. He used to clean it every day, for hours, running his hands over every piece of it. Before she left, mom used to say he touched that gun in ways he never touched her. Lately he’d been letting me clean it. Not that he wanted me to have it or anything, only because he had to. I had to do it when he was asleep, though, or he’d just sit there, staring at me, that hungry look in his eyes.