Jawel jongens en meisjes, een heus nieuw griezelmomentje. En dit maal een hele speciale (en hele lange) geschreven door niemand minder dan jullie eigen Fonkelpimp! Nee maar!
Luister en huiver.
Deer Stand
Most folks here don’t go to that place. There’s more’n enough hunting do be done around here, so there’s really no big need. My dad though, my dad don’t care for superstitions. And he don’t care none for good game walking around alive instead of hanging to ripen in the back of our shed. So whilst all the other yokels take care to stay clear of that place by a couple of miles, my dad goes up there to his deer stand at least once a month, keeping our freezer more’n stocked. What we don’t eat, he sells off. Not that we get see any of that cash of course, what with the bastard’s love for whisky and crank.
It’s mostly up to me and my brother to make ends meet. To make sure we get somethin’ more in our bellies than plain old venison. To make sure tax collectors and other government vultures stay well and clear from our little nook in the woods. Our kin has always been as self sufficient as possible, and we ain’t gonna let that old bastard change that. Besides, it’s not like our family hasn’t known it’s share of drunk, whoring ancestors. You could say it’s an old Rogers family tradition really. I work the mill, my older brother Milton cooks. He’s got himself a nice setup down a couple of miles in the woods, and he never fucked up a lab neither. He’s a skinny little bastard, Milton, but tough as nails. More intelligent than he oughta be too. Never even touches the stuff he cooks himself. Probably could’ve gone to college if we was the kind of people that’d make it through high school. Milton probably cooks some of the best crank around here, could live off it pretty decent if not our dad would shove half of it down his nose. But with what he sells and what I make in lumber we manage to get by pretty decent.
That all changed the day dad came back that one night.
There’d been this strange energy in the air all day. Hot as hell it was, up to the point where that old coot Alsup collapsed right in front of the saw. He could’ve gotten himself cut up something nasty if it wasn’t for me catching him right before he fell. He’s way too old working the mill anyway, but the boss keeps him on. He’s been working there all his life, ain’t got no place else to go and the boss is a good man like that. We all love him for it, the boss I mean. It’s hard bein’ friendly in this here parts, takes guts. Got to take real good care people don’t go around telling you’re weak. Thunder in the air, that was for sure. As hot as the Devil’s armpit now, but the rain would come soon. Had to quit the mill an hour early in order to get home okay. Soon as it starts pouring, the roads get muddy and I did not feel like spending the night in my car stuck on some damn backroad.
Dad had left for the deer stand that morning, and to be honest we didn’t expect him back that night. Usually when he shoots somethin’, he’ll be off into town the rest of the night getting drunk and high and sleeping it off in some ditch or some cheap whore’s bed. Happened more’n once. More often than not to be honest. So me and Milton was just playing some checkers on the porch that night. He always wins but he tells me it’s good for sharpenin’ my brains anyways. Good luck with that bro, the amount of grass I smoke’s bound to kill off more’n them cells than a game of checkers now and then can make up for. It was a nice night though. Passing around the doobie between us, Jennings on the radio, rain pouring down, finally killing off that Goddamn heat a bit. While Milton is probably twice as smart as I am, he never gives me no shit for being stupid. Even though I’m the older one, there’s times I feel he’s the elder brother. We can sit for nights and nights on this old porch and it never gets old. He’s the kind of brother you can share a quiet moment with without it getting boring. If it wasn’t for the rain I’d probably be shooting pool somewhere and getting drunk, but I think I actually preferred sitting there with him that night.
So we was having us a nice quiet time until the noises started. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever heard the sounds deer can make? Chances are, you don’t. It can be mighty awful, let me tell you. Now the coyotes I don’t mind so much, but the way deer scream and grunt has always made the hairs on my neck stand up. A deer in heat, a deer in panic.. it’s Goddamn unnerving. It’s not like we never hear that stuff around here too, oftentimes one of the poor bastards gets himself in a trap and if we’re out of luck the fucker will scream for an entire night. This night was different though. The noises I mean. Milton looked up from the checkerboard and killed the radio. We sad there for a bit, listening intently. The sounds of deer made their way through the forest from all around us. Barking. Grunting. Screaming. We aint never hear so much of ´em at one time. Never this many, never this loud. And the rest of the woods was awful quiet all of a sudden. No hoots and howls of night birds, no coyotes, nothing but those Godawful sounds of deer. Then the sounds drew nearer. Branches started cracking. At one point I could´ve sworn a big buck was breathing right down my neck, even though we didn´t see nothing.
Then, finally, the thunder started. The sky lit up for a moment. A thunderclap as loud as we´ve ever heard followed. And there came our dad stumbling out of the woods. Now, under different circumstances we probably would´ve pissed ourselves laughin´, because it sure wouldn´t be the first time that old bastard would come stumbling out of the woods drunk as hell. But tonight was different. While the fool was obviously cranked out of his mind, there was something awful weird about the way he stumbled towards the porch. So when he collapsed a couple of yards in front of the cabin, we rushed out into the rain to see what the hell was going on with him.
And we sure weren´t expecting what we saw. The poor bastard reeked of deer piss. The kind of piss they use to mark their territory and all. His flannel shirt hung open and we could see ugly purple bruises on his chest and fat belly. Bruises pretty damn obviously shaped like cloven hooves. Chunks of flesh was bit off from his arms and legs and worst of all, part of his cheek was bit off, showing his crooked teeth right through it. He was a bloody, stinking and shivering mess. And he kept muttering the one thing over ´n over again.
´Bastard stood on hind legs´