The Creeps! || Book of Spooky Stories (COMPLETED ✔️)

74 ~ Meine Ehre heißt Treue!

My father was crazy. He had to be. What other reason could there be for forbidding me to join a group that required members to stay clean of tobacco, drugs, and alcohol like the Viking Youth?

He was the living embodiment of everything that was wrong with this country. He kept praising the problem: sexual degenerates, the "Dreamers" and the other illegal aliens and all the ISIS terrorists pretending to be refugees. I was trying to be part of the solution.

I had to listen to all his communist stupidity, or he would take the keys to my car away. Even worse, I had to listen to all the perverted Freuds my mother took me to. But they promised this one would be interesting. He was a gun collector, and several of the guns would be of particular interest.

His name was Fred Weber, and he lived on a large farm WAY out in the boonies. He was a client of my father's law firm. He was middle-aged with wire-rimmed glasses, a bald head and bulging muscles

"Come in," he said. "Your Dad says you have an interest in Third Reich firearms."

My eyes widened, and I smiled.

"You bet!"

I had never seen so many guns in one place in my life. Some I recognized like AK's, Mausers and G3's. On one wall hung two dozen examples of one type of pistol. They were all Pistole 640(b), also known as the Browning Hi Power. I felt like the wall was calling me to it.

"Only one is a Nazi pistol," he calmly said. "Which one is it?"

One particularly caught my attention. Much of the bluing was etched off and the grips were dark and dinged. There was no German Army Weapons Agency code on it, but there was on the pristine-looking one below it. I touched the pretty one and the others around it. They all felt cold and dead. But the old one was alive and warm.

"I am yours," it called to me. "Bring me back to life. Let me serve the Reich."

That surprised me, but I said "This one."

"That is correct. It was a pre-war Latvian contract pistol captured by the Soviets. Then it was captured by the Waffen SS."

My imagination unfurled a little waking dream. I was standing in front of a platoon of Russian prisoners. We had stripped them of their weapons and equipment and tossed it all in a big heap. My job was to learn what their orders were.

I told my translator to say "Would you like to live?"

The Untermensch snarled in his gutter language, and the translator said: "I serve the Soviet people and the working class."

"I guess not," I said and shot him with a little WW I French officer's pistol.

It made a disappointingly small pop. The Ivan coughed and sputtered with blood coming from his chest and his mouth, but he remained standing and began to sing that Red Army song.

That was too much. I tossed the French tickler in the heap and searched for something more suitable. Then we met. She was beautiful, with lustrous honey blonde grips and rich bluing. I had fallen in love. Together we shut up the warbling Red.

"Would anyone here like to live?"

I was back in the room. "May I hold it?"

Fred cleared the gun and handed it to me. I read the engraving on the backstrap. “Meine Ehre heißt Treue!” My honor is loyalty – the motto of the SS. I pointed it at a safe spot on the wall, aiming it at the corner. It fit me perfectly as if it were a part of me.

It was a beautiful fall day. My squad was operating out of the Zhytomyr General District. We were in the square of some armpit ass town. I couldn't remember the name, and I couldn't care. All I knew was that the Reichsführer-SS had ordered this region cleaned. It was a messy and exhausting job. We had Jews digging trenches while the Poles and the Ukrainians watched eagerly.