As the grey of the evening blackened toward night, the man briskly trod the gravel path that flanked the cabin, the black bag swinging open at his side, its deceased occupant within. He had heard her voice beneath his feet again and retreated from the house before he would encounter her. There existed matters that required attention.
Even in the shade of evening the leaves had a fiery brilliance. They rustled dryly above him or fell earthward, torn loose by the gusting wind. As they fell they stirred furiously and he walked amongst them like a darkened figure braving a swirling flame. The gravel crunched beneath his footfalls and with each grinding contact of his boots upon the path the muscle of his jaw pulsed. The calls of the evening's first night birds sounded here and there but he paid no attention to their cries.
He continued this purposeful walk until the narrow path diverged and the trees separated creating an orderly circular perimeter within whose shrubless clearing stood a small wooden shed, intact and utilized but whose sides had now turned from the color of oak to the damp greens and blacks of the forest. He tossed the bag upon the earth, released the weathered old padlock that secured the structure, pulled and shook open the stiff sliding bolt that closed its doors against the outside elements.
The still gloom within was banished by his activation of an overhead fluorescent tube. It was basic inside, shelving from ceiling to floor on one wall facing a narrow bench upon the other. A wooden stool sat by the bench, vacant. The shelves were sparsely populated. A plastic gas canister, a hurricane lamp and a small book of matches bearing the name of a local bar and restaurant, a handful of old manuals that had served as promotional material for a gas station chain. Some old paint brushes and cans of paint or wood varnish formed the bulk of the shelves remaining occupants. Flecks and tracks of paint decorated the cans exteriors while wisps of dusty and dry spiderweb hung about their rusted lids and bases. An old lawnmower rested beneath a thin layer of dust in one corner. The man allowed the door to swing open until it struck against the sheds flank with a dry crash that sent a small group of startled birds skyward from within the trees.
He pulled the stool to the open doorway and dropped upon with a groan that carried the air of hopelessness, exhaustion or both. He stared out at the clearing, the path, and beyond them the vague sight of the lake crowning above the horizon. A shiver coursed through the core of him and his face took on the look of having been pinched, etched lines standing out upon pale skin like the beginnings of a pencil sketch, starved of the world's color or vibrance. He turned and regarded the shelving beside him, staring although here they were bare but for the dust and the old spider silk. He swallowed hard and sighed heavily, tired eyes remaining upon the shelf. He looked to the clearing and to the shelf and to the clearing once more. He stooped and reached into the narrow space between the wooden floor and the bottom shelf.
Standing with a clicking of his knees he resumed his position upon the stool. Nestled in his arms was a rag stained with oil and dust and age. Reaching inside he produced a bright and shining bottle. Within it the whiskey shone amber and when his eyes fell upon he swallowed saliva like a man standing in the line of a soup kitchen in winter. With a single, familiar movement he removed the metal cap and passed the open neck to and fro beneath his nose. His chest rose with the depth of the breath and when it fell he put the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.
A gradual flush rose upon his pale cheeks as he sipped and watched the evening darken around the clearing. Occasionally he would be startled by the sound of a branch or leaves being crunched beneath the feet of some animal and the bottle would temporarily return to its place beneath the shelf, out of sight. As the flush rose upon him and darkened, his reactions to the sounds of the wood were dampened and soon the bottle rested between his legs and his eyes regarded the clearing with a certain fire, as if daring someone to come and try to stop him.
In time his features folded again into an image of caution. He crossed to the small workbench and placed the open bottle upon it. Beneath the bench a was a single drawer which he unlocked with a key. He maintained distance as he regarded its the narrow sliding frame, like he were observing an animal that could prove dangerous, or a seemingly extinguished firework that might still explode. His eyes rested on the drawer for some time. The only sounds within the shed was that of his breathing, steady now and slow. He remained this way for some time as if engaged in an act of meditation and then in a single long stride he crossed to the drawer and pulled it open.
By the time that he produced the handgun from within, his eyes were wide and his jaw had begun to pulse once more.
He regarded the weapon with a grimace, as if he had discovered fresh and fragrant filth upon his fingers. He had no love for such an instrument. It was a dark and dangerous thing. It was a harbinger of misery and a thief of life. But the weapon had become a necessary evil now, hadn't it? The gun would solve the problem with ultimate finality. There would be no more pain.
The act would require great strength. He would need to build momentum, physical and mental. It would be necessary to push himself to a position of no return, cresting the apex of his inertia and entering a brakeless free fall beyond.
It would all be finished quickly and by then he would be free of the effects of fear or doubt or conscience. The whiskey would help him to get to wherever he needed to be to be successful. Where was that place though? Did the strength he needed lie within sensationless oblivion? Or must he somehow channel and harness rage and despair?
His moan broke the silence and betrayed the anguish swirling within him. He raised the bottle to his lips once more.
He was overthinking.
He would drink.
When the time came, he would recognize it.
YOU ARE READING
Song, Unheard
Horor***Featured in Fright Profile*** Life has been different lately. She feels a growing sense of dread and wishes for things to be normal. His drinking is out of control. The child seems frightened and withdrawn. And then come the birds. Strange b...
