📅 Published on January 22, 2022


Written by Dirk Stevens
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.
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I guess if I squint hard, and crank my head just right, that there tree does kinda seem to have curves like a woman. But with the ice coverin’ the glass, Bob’s crap headlights, and the fat nasty pile of… well, god knows what all…coverin’ the dash, it’s hard to tell. Still, I’m pretty sure that faded lime green streak on the trunk is supposed to be the bikini Uncle Ed painted on it years ago.

“That’s gotta be her. Turn right.”

“Boy, you are outta your mind.” Bob rubs a patch of windshield clear of frost and ducks his head low to peer through. “That don’t look like no woman I ever saw. How long was it since your aunt died?”

“Shuddup.” I drop the map and point at the trees risin’ through the darkness on all sides. “You better turn that wheel, or we ain’t never gonna find that cabin. Now, turn!”

Bob hunches his shoulders like he always does when he knows better than to argue. He scratches his nose with his middle finger in my direction, and then, jerks the shifter lever towards the seat. The old Ford’s engine roars. The wheels spin as the truck lunges off the blacktop and down that dirt road like a dog catchin’ a scent.

Cheetos bags, crumpled up bills, and letters from Bob’s divorce attorney go flyin’ off the dash every which way as the seat bounces out from under me. I chuck one hand up against the roof to keep my head from hittin’ metal, brace my other on the door, and pray the dang thing don’t kick open and toss me out.

Bob laughs when my face hits the side window, but I don’t complain. I don’t say nothin’. Not about the mouse stink blowin’ out the defroster, not about the garbage flyin’ around the cab, or the fact there ain’t no seatbelts. I don’t even say nothin’ about how we’re even supposed to shoot deer with rifles what been bouncin’ around the pickup bed like a pair of ping pong balls. None of that matters, anyhow.

This trip ain’t about huntin’, not really. It’s about Bob, Alice, getting’ away, and talkin’ about all that crap men don’t talk about unless they’re standin’ in front of an open hood. Funny how men are… talk about anything broke as long as it ain’t feelin’s. But throw a gun or an engine in the mix, and suddenly, that’s all it’s about.  How she’s tore up all to hell, and needs a rebuild.

The truck bounces hard, and a metallic crack somewhere beneath the floorboard rakes chills down my spine. Uncle Ed said it was a good five miles to the nearest neighbor, and the high’s supposed to hit ten below, maybe. Now, I was hopin’ for some kinda metaphor to get Bob talkin’, but I sure as hell hope it ain’t the truck.

* * * * * *

About a mile off the blacktop, the road turns into wherever Uncle Ed could squeeze his truck in through the trees. It’s rough, steep, and, to make it even worse, the snow’s comin’ down so hard I can barely see anything past the end of the hood. When Ed’s one room, log cabin finally pokes into view, it’s heaven-sent. Ain’t nothin’ fancy. Just a rough job with a porch thrown together out of some old cedar logs he stole off a neighbor when they cleared their place for grazin’.

Bob pulls the truck up ‘til the bumper almost greets the porch and slams the tranny into first to kill the engine. He looks out the window, eyeballin’ the place somethin’ fierce. “So, this is ‘Buckhaven’, huh?”

“Yup.” I shoulder open the door and step down into the snow. It crunches under my boots as I turn and grab my duffle bag. “Ed said he ain’t been here in years. So, don’t expect nothin’ pretty. You wanna start the fire, or carry stuff in?”

Bob don’t move. He just sits there chewin’ on his glove, staring at the porch. “Don’t look homey.” He sniffs. “I swear, there better be two beds in there ‘cause I ain’t sharin’ no bunk with you.”

That idea never even entered my head. With a ‘yup’, I kick the door closed and stomp up onto the porch. The door’s held shut by a piece of wire Ed bent like a hook and stuffed through an old twisted nail. Fumblin’to get my flashlight out of my bag, I pop the hook open with my elbow. The door swings with low, moaning squeak. Out of habit or instinct…or god knows why, I sniff the air. Something’s wrong. It ought’a smell like mice or mildew or dust. But it don’t. It smells like smoke and…I take a deep lungful…bacon. Not sure what to think, I flick on the flashlight.

“What the hell are you sniffin’ at?” Bob stomps towards the door. “Somthin’ better not a died in there.”

“Naw, it ain’t that…” I shine the light over the table with two chairs set up all neat and clean front and center, the bunk beds under the window to the left, the tiny kitchen with the woodstove to the right. It’s all set up. All clean. “Someone’s been here not too long ago.”

“Your uncle said squatters pop in sometimes.” Bob stomps up onto the porch and takes a long gaze around the place. “Well, whoever they are, they saved us a hell of a lotta work. Might even get some huntin’ done today.” He elbows me in the ribs and pushes his way inside. “Seein’ as you can’t cook, why don’t you grab the cooler, and I’ll make us some breakfast.” Before I get a chance say anythin’, he walks over to the beds, chucks his sleeping bag on the top bunk, and tosses a smirk back over his shoulder. “Dibs.”

* * * * * *

A couple hours later, I’m hunched up, shiverin’ under the skirt of some low hangin’ cedar branches, overlookin’ a meadow. It seemed like a good spot, nice and sheltered from the snow. A creek trickles at the far end, where the snows reached about an inch deep. I eased on in nice and quiet like, and settled down. The temperature’s colder than hell, but that ain’t the problem. My head’s spinnin’ and I got this nasty copper taste in the back of my mouth I just can’t seem to get rid of. It could be Bob’s cookin’, lack of shut-eye, or Covid, seein’ how much that waitress down at the Café was coughin’ last night.

Hopin’ for the best, I unscrew the cap of my thermos and try to drown the taste with another sip of coffee. But it’s Bob’s brew, so thick it could horseshoe. Lickin’ the grinds from between my teeth, I decide I’ll be makin’ the coffee from now on.

The thermos crunches against the thin layer of snow as I set it down next to me again, but before I can pry my chillin’ fingers free, something’ moves between the trees off to the side. Stayin’ as quiet and slow as I can, I slide my rifle off my lap, and pull my knee up to use as a rest. But I don’t shoulder it, I don’t even put a round in the chamber. It’s not time. Not yet.

At the far end of the clearin’, a branch moves. Somethin’ rustles in the brush, and then, the branch seems to hovers out toward the open. It’s hard to see with all the snow comin’ down like it is, but there ain’t anything attached to the branch. Nothin’ I can see, anyhow. It’s like it’s hoverin’ in the air, all on its own. I blink and rub the ice-cold from my eyelashes. It’s the cold. I ain’t seein’ it right. When I look up again, there’s not one floatin’ branch but two, side by side. Identical ones…almost like antlers…except the brown animal that they should be on ain’t there. It’s hard to tell for certain, but they sure as hell seem floatin’ out into the middle of the open. Danglin’ on invisible strings.

For a second, I wonder if Bob’s playin’ some kinda joke, but there ain’t no way he could pull this off, even if he wanted to. Starin’ extra hard between the snowflakes for the body that has to be there but ain’t, I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. This just ain’t possible. I’m losin’ my dang mind out here.

I just glance down at the thermos, wonderin’ if Bob’s put somethin’ extra in them grounds when a shadow moves in the clearin’.  I can’t really see nothin’ thanks to all the snow comin’ down, but between the snowflakes a red eye appears right under one of them branches. The shadows of an ear flicks, but before I can really make it out, it turns and disappears again into the curtain of fallin’ snow. But I know what I saw, and it’s almost as impossible as floatin’ antlers.

My heart skips the next few beats. It’s an albino. A white buck. Ed always told stories about some albino deer he’d seen once or twice, but that’s all they was…stories.

“Three, four, five, six… and a drop tine…” My voice mumbles, barely a whisper as I count the tip of each antler.

Hands shakin’, I keep as quiet as I can, while I slide the bolt of my rifle back, load the shell into the chamber, and creep the stock up against my shoulder. This ain’t just a trophy buck, he’s a white, fourteen-pointer. This one’s a record. History, right here.

Closin’ one eye, I peek through the scope. The buck’s ear twitches, but he don’t act nervous at all. And, now that I know what he is, the outline and shadows are obvious even behind all the snow and brush. I pull the crosshairs down from his head, over his neck to the shoulder knuckle markin’ his heart, and gently squeeze the trigger. The rifle jumps and a deafen’ roar shakes the snow from the surroundin’ trees, and I lose sight of him in the cloud.

I outta wait. The best chance is to sit and let him have his final moments alone, but somethin’ this big is more than I can take. Jumpin’ up like some dang greenhorn, I jam my shoulder through the sling and dart out into the meadow. But he ain’t there. Just a tuft of fur and a few dark splotches of red sprayed out on the snow. And that’s when I see it, the flecks of green scattered between the blood like somethin’ from a nightmare.

Kneelin’ down, I pinch a thick green glob between my forefinger and thumb and curse under my breath. It’s half-digested grass. My stomach churns. But I know exactly what this means. All that bouncin’ of Bob’s truck on the road must’ve knocked the scope out of line. The gun didn’t aim right, and I hit him too far back. Now, I gotta track him down if I can. I better, ‘cause gutshot is about the worst way dyin’ possible. No creature deserves that, not one.

Lettin’ the poor bastard’s last meal fall from my fingers, I grab my stuff, and stumble off to follow the trail. Luckily, his tracks and blood are clear as day on the white snow, but that ain’t gonna last. If the snow don’t stop fallin’ soon, it won’t take long to bury everythin’. I pull the ear flaps tight against my cheeks, and dust the snow from the top of my head.

Nope, I ain’t got much time at all.

* * * * * *

I’m Puffin’ like a steam engine by the time the cabin’s outline rises out of the fallin’ snow. I ran the last half-hour-or-so, but it’s still dark by the time I make it back to the cabin. Stopin’ to catch my breath, I peek back over my shoulder to make sure I weren’t followed. I take my time scannin’ the woods nice and easy, pickin’ a part every shadow, every twig, but nothing moves.

She didn’t follow…but it’s too dark to tell for dead sure. Lettin’ go of that breath I been holdin’, I turn back to the cabin. Even through the haze of snow and naked scrub surroundin’ the place, the dancin’ yellow light in the winda’s too bright to look at. But Bob’s in there, and, by the smell of it, he’s got supper goin’. Not that it matters, I couldn’t eat nothin’ anyhow.  The smell of them biscuits on the wind is just about enough to change my mind, but right now, I’m just happy knowin’ I ain’t here alone.

I climb up onto the porch, stomp the snow off my boots, slip the rifle off my shoulder, and much as I don’t want to, pick the live round out of the chamber before headin’ inside.

I barely get the door closed behind me when Bob says, “Heard the shot. You get ‘im?”

Blinkin’ out the light, I shake my head, and prop my rifle up against the wall, but take my time slidin’ out my coat and hangin’ it on one of them wooden pegs by the door. “Gut shot.”

Bob’s spoon clanks like a gong against the side of the pot. “Find ‘im?”

“Nope,” I whisper as I work my foot out of my boot. Truth is, I ain’t used to runnin’ so far in the snow, and my leg won’t hold. She gives way, and I have to lean against the wall just so I can pull off the other without fallin’ over.

“You all right?” Bob grunts more than asks.

I don’t look at him. I can’t look at him right now, but I can feel him watchin’ as I fumble a chair out from under the table and flop down. “I don’t know, Bob. I think I got the Covid or some dang thing. I don’t feel right.” I bury my face in my palms as I fight to get my thoughts together. To come up with some way of tellin’ him what happened that doesn’t sound completely loco. “You think, maybe, there’s more livin’ out here than we think?” But just hearin’ it out loud like that makes me wince.

Bob shuffles over and sets a tin plate down on the table in front of me. “You run into a neighbor or sumpin’?”

I shake my head. “No.” I slide my hands down my nose as I look up at him. He seems older now, since the divorce. The stubble on his chin’s gone grey, and the wrinkles around his eyes got deeper. “Not people. I mean like..creatures.” I watch his left eyebrow twitch up, but he don’t say nothin’ so I keep goin’. “Remember how Uncle Ed used to tell them stories?”

“You mean with all them fairies and crap?” Bob’s watchin’ me close now, his steel-blue eyes flicking back and forth like he can’t decide which one of mine to look at. “Them was just stories he made up to get the young’uns to go to sleep. You know that.”

“I thought I did.” I shrug, but I can’t say what needs sayin’, not while I’m lookin’ him in the eye. So, I go to pickin’ at the edge of my plate, instead. “That buck I shot was an albino. And I swear to God, he was the biggest damn bastard I ever saw. Just like that White Stag in one of Ed’s fairytales. But this one, he was real. I shot ‘im…found the blood trail and everythin’. ‘Cept I got ‘im in the gut.  He run off. I trailed him down by that old creek, and…” A lump catches in my throat. It’s gonna take a second before I can get the rest out.

“So, you shot an albino? An’ lost ‘im?” Bob shrugs and scoops a spoon full of baked beans on my plate. “That don’t mean nothin’. We’ll get out first light and have ‘im skinned out by dinner.”

But he ain’t gettin’ it. “I didn’t lose him,” I mumble. “I can track way better than you, Bob. I found that buck all piled up nice an’ pretty right down by the creek.” My jaw goes tense. Up ‘til now, it’s just a strange huntin’ story. Every inch of me is screamin’ for me to just shut up and just play it cool. But I can’t. It weren’t no dream…and if it was, I’m sicker than I thought. So, I swallow hard and force the words to come.

“He weren’t alone. There was this… tree… woman…thing…hunched over his body, pettin’ his fur and cryin’ like she just lost her true love or sumpthin’. And there I was, maybe twenty yards away, just standin’ there, starin’ at her like a dumbass.”  I flick the side of my plate, unable to look at him. “She saw me. She looked right at me and gave me a look like she was ready to carve my liver. So, I run. I run as fast an’ hard as I ever done in my whole life. ‘Til I couldn’t run no more.” I take a deep ragged breath and glance at Bob’s belt-buckle peekin’ up over the edge of the table. “She was real, Bob. She had white bark skin, dried brown grass for hair, a dress that looked like moss, and these eyes.” Pressure builds behind my nose, and I have to put my fist to my mouth to stifle the cry. “They was big and bright green, like too green. So green they almost glowed green.”

Bob mutters somethin’ under his breath. I think, somethin’ bout consciousness,  but I can’t quite make it out, but then, he clears his throat. Slumping around to the other side of the table, he dumps a spoon full of beans on his own plate and says, “Maybe you outta have another cup of coffee.”

* * * * * *

I dreamed about her, the tree woman. Her face twisted into a scowl, them green eyes staring at me from behind a curtain of brown grass. She leaned in close enough so I could see the black veins in her irises, smell the wildflowers and moist earth on her breath when she opened her mouth and hissed, “Murderer.”

I jolted straight up, drenched in sweat, the taste of copper so strong in my mouth I didn’t even balk at Bob’s nasty gritty coffee when he handed me the cup. Truth be told, when he offered to skip a day of huntin’ so I could show him where it happened, I nodded and slammed it down in a single gulp so I wouldn’t have to taste it. But I didn’t complain. He knew I couldn’t go back there alone. And I have to, I have to know. I have to see for myself if I’m going crazy.

That was three hours ago.

I trudge along through knee-deep snow with my rifle slung over my shoulder and Bob at my side, tryin’ not to let on how freaked I really am. He don’t believe a word about that tree woman, and I don’t blame him, but he came along anyway. That’s the thing about Bob, though. He’s one ornery, bad-tempered, vindictive cuss, but he’s always been there. He’s always been willin’ to give me the benefit of the doubt. Even in the craziest times. Like now, here I was bringin’ him out here so’s I could help him get over his divorce, and he ends up walkin’ me through…whatever the hell brand of crazy this is. I tongue the grounds out of my teeth and spit them into the snow. I guess he’d be about the perfect friend, if his coffee was worth a half a turd.

I spot the edge of the creek where the buck’s trail turned and dropped down into a little flat area by the water. “He come, right between them trees,” I say, trying to hide the shake in my voice as I point at a couple of oaks growin’ close together, and try to walk Bob through my thinkin’. “I reckon he caught my scent, ‘cause he stopped up short here, then followed that little path right there on the edge of that draw.”

Bob nods, taking it all in as I explain. But then he looks down at his boots, and kicks a little divot in the snow, wearin’ that face he makes when he’s tryin’ hard to think of how to say somethin’ he don’t want to. We stand there for a while, my heart poundin’ in my ears as I wait for him to put it all together. I’m pretty dang sure he’s workin’ up to tell me you’re crazier than a hoot-owl, but he must not figure out the right words, ‘cause he just groans, “Well, lead on.”

I don’t want to. It’s slipperier, workin’ down the path than it was yesterday, but I nod and ease on down the trail. Right now, more than anythin’, I want my rifle at the ready, but I leave it slung over my back. I need to keep my hands free in case I slip.

With the new snow, there ain’t no tracks to follow. But I don’t need them. I wish I could forget, but I think twenty years from now I’ll still be able to come back and walk this path blindfolded.

As soon as the ground levels out, I pull my rifle from my back, cycle a round into the chamber and wave my hand, tellin’ Bob to get ready. His rifle clicks, then clacks as he works the lever forward and back. But I don’t turn around, I don’t take my eyes off the cedar just ahead of me. The last cover there is between me and the Buck… where that tree woman was.

Crouchin’ low, I hook the top of the branch with the end of my muzzle and push it aside. But there’s nothin’ there. I tip my head to the side, and search the rock wall to the left, the sway of the creek to the right, and the absolutely empty clearin’ in between.

“I don’t get it,” I hiss. “It was here.” Heart poundin’, my eyes dissectin’ every shadow, I step out into the clearin’. “It was right. Here.” I spin around in a tight circle, scannin’ the ground.

“Coyotes get it?” Bob asks. I glance up just in time to see him let the branch flop down behind him as he enters the clearin’.

I shake my head. It don’t make no sense. “There’s no tracks. No blood. No fur…”The copper taste comes back with a vengeance. Lettin’ my gun drop, I grab my head in both hands and flop down on my butt right beside it in the snow. “There was never anything here, was there? I am going crazy. I am flat losing my mind…”

“I don’t know about that.” Bob shoves his arm through the sling on his lever action, and flips it around to his back. He walks over to where I’m sittin’, kneels down, and picks up my rifle. “See, Alice had green eyes,”  He opens the bolt on my gun, and one by one, plucks the cartridges out of the magazine.

My hands drop to my sides. It’s not the tone that bothers me, his voice is dead calm, it’s just that one word he said that makes neck hairs prickle. “Had? What do you mean, ‘had’?”

He slides the bolt closed and takes a step back. “See, I knowed she was havin’ an affair, that’s why she was fixin’ to divorce me. I suspected it was with you, but I weren’t so sure. Not ‘till last night. I’d a shot you, but you’re my friend. So, I laced that coffee of yours with Belladonna instead. Oh, it’s poison, sure ‘nuff, but it don’t kill in the usual way. It plays tricks with the mind, makes you go crazy, see things that ain’t there…sort of a window into your thoughts? Gave you a double dose this mornin’ thought you’d a flipped by now… don’t matter, you will.”

I watch him slide my rifle over his empty shoulder, dumbstruck. I can’t move. I can’t think. Not even when he finishes gettin’ my rifle settled and drops his lever-action back down into his hands.

“That White Stag you seen?” He says. “That’s purity right there. You shot it dead, which means you are guilty as hell, boy. And that green-eyed tree woman you dreamed up? Well, if that ain’t Alice, I don’t know what is.” He steps backwards into the brush, gun in hand, never once turnin’ his back on me. Somewhere, off in the distance, a strange wolf-like howl rips through the trees. My head jerks toward the sound, but Bob just smiles. “Startin’ I see.”

But this ain’t happin’. It can’t be. Any of it. “Bob, I never touched her. I swear to God, I never touched her.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums and pushes his back into the cedar branch. “You can lie to me all you want, but you can’t lie to yourself. If you are innocent, you ain’t got much to worry ‘bout.” He gives a lazy two-fingered salute and vanishes into the brush. “Best of luck, buddy.”

I don’t know how long I sit there, watchin’ fairies form out of snowflakes, faces rise and fall out of the rocks and trees. But one thing I do know. I can’t stay here. The high for the week was ‘spose to be ten below. If I try to wait out the poison, I’ll freeze to death. But I can’t go back to the Cabin either. If Bob is there, like as not he’ll kill me. I need to make it to the blacktop, and hopefully, flag someone down.

* * * * * *

I twist my wrists against the vines bindin’ my hands, squintin’ hard until the two-track road comes into focus. It’s almost impossible to tell if this is the driveway or not with everything twistin’ and changin’ the way it is.

I glance up at one of the trees as I pass. The bark shudders, a face presses out of the trunk, and fixes its eyes on me.

My blood turns to ice. “This ain’t real…”

A stick slams into my back.

“Be silent,” a voice behind me moans.

My gaze falls back to my boots. But this ain’t real. It’s the poison. The Belladonna Bob put in my coffee. And this…fantasy… ain’t nothin’ but a hallucination.  That’s all. It’s a dream. A dream.

“Halt,” the monster behind me groans and wraps its branch-like fingers around my throat.

I close my eyes, willin’ myself to shake it off. But I still hear its wooden body creak as it leans over my head, I still feel the wet tickle of its breath on my cheek. “Do not speak until spoken to, human.” The vines around my wrists loosen, and the creature’s voice roars, “Hail, Dryad. This is he, and his weapon.”

It is a dream. Dryad’s don’t exist. It’s just somethin’ Uncle Ed pulled out of his ass. This ain’t real.

My eyes crack open just in time to watch a branch glide silently overhead, my rifle caught up between the twigs.

“The very earth cries out for justice,” that.. thing.. moans as my gun passes from branch to branch. “We entreat you, Dryad. Perform your duty.”

“Justice?” A woman’s voice comes so smooth it almost sings. My gaze follows the sound to the base of an oak just ahead, and there it is. The albino. The buck I shot yesterday, lyin’ dead beside a mound of moss and grass.

The limp grass at the top of the mound sways as the woman’s voice says, “The White Stag has been slain. There is no justice in the world of men.” Several of the blades part as they move, revealin’ a single, emerald green eye. It glares out at me from between the grass, above a smooth curl of white birch bark sticking out above the moss.

The top of the mound dips. A thin pale branch sways out from under the moss, and the entire mass leans sideways, proppin’ its weight on the branch…exactly the way a person might, if they was sittin’ on the ground.

My heart rate doubles.

It’s not a mound at all. It’s her, the tree woman. She’s a dryad.

I swallow, replaying everythin’ that happened yesterday. The floatin’ branches, the flick of the ear, the press of rifle slammin’ into my shoulder when I squeezed the trigger… the way the snow exploded around me and I lost sight of the buck.

“Why, mortal?” The dryad turns to face me without risin’, never taking her eyes from mine. “Why would you do this thing?”

But all I can manage is, “I, uh…ooo…”

She pushes her grass-like hair from her eyes, revealin’ her smooth birch bark face, her almost human scowl.

“I see,” she sighs and rises to her feet. “Then, permit me a guess. I have not seen you in these woods before yesterday. You came to help your friend, as I understand, yes?” She steps closer. “But the White Stag is a trophy without equal. You couldn’t possibly pass on such a prize.”

Her eyebrow twitches up menacingly. But it’s like she’s listenin’ to my thoughts. I can’t help but nod.

“As I suspected.” She sneers, pressin’ her face closer until the black veins in her irises come into focus…just like in my dream. Until the smell of her bark overpowers my senses with the scent of wet earth and wildflowers… Too close.

Every part of me aches to run, but I cannot, dare not, move.

“Foolish human.” Her catlike pupils narrow. “The White Stag is the avatar of the spirit of purity, which must be reborn in the flesh of his killer.”

She presses her middle finger hard against my forehead. Tinglin’ pain races out from her touch, and she pulls away. I can’t breathe. I fall on my hands and knees as the hint of a smile creeps across her lips. “Go, mortal. But I think you should avoid other hunters from now on.”

Pain like I’ve never known ripples under my skin. My fingers melt and join together. White fur sprouts on the back of my hands. But the pain is like nothin’ I’ve ever felt before, it courses through my veins like liquid fire. I scream, but it ain’t my voice that comes, just the loud lingin’ bleat of a buck.

I shake my antlers free of my hat and raise my head, but the dryad’s gone. In her place stands a tree, shaped like a woman, with the faded outline of a bikini spray-painted onto the bark.

Pantin’, I jerk off my gloves and just sit there, in the middle of the blacktop, staring at my fingers as they open and close into fists. All ten of them… until behind me, the sound of an engine roarin’ in the distance brings me back to reality. It’s a pickup, by the sound of it, and it’s closer. I glance back down the road over my shoulder, but I already know it ain’t Bob’s old ford. The engine’s too quiet, it runs too smooth.

Stealin’ one last glance at the tree, I stagger to my feet and run down the road screaming and waving my arms. I don’t know what happens next. Guess I gotta turn old Bob into the Sherriff. But that don’t matter just now. I made it. I’m gonna live.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Dirk Stevens
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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