LARDER
August Hancock rested in his favorite chair, remote hanging loosely in his hand. It had gotten late enough in the evening that the local television stations had slipped into static, the black and white specs dancing across his screen. He didn’t mind, he always found the sound calming.
August had been living on his own for so long now, any amount of noise was welcome. Phone and internet companies hadn’t quite reached his neck of the woods which left him relying on his spotty at best cellphone service for contact with the outside world. Running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, he sighs deeply. He argued with his kids about even having the phone, thinking it wouldn't get good reception up here anyway. Now it was just a reminder that no one calls.
He'd complain about how isolated the house felt at times, but he preferred solitude. He could live without amenities if he had peace and quiet. After his wife died, day to day life started to feel too busy. The city, once full of life, now felt like it was moving too fast. When everything was sorted, no one wanted the house. No one could live there after Angelas stroke. Him and the kids were getting home from one of their camping trips, him having them unpack the car while he headed in to tell her they were back. She wasn't much of a camper, perfectly happy to stay behind when him and the kids wanted to "rough it." He knew something was wrong when he saw her laying down in the middle of the kitchen.
The doctors reassured him she didn't feel anything, not that it made going back to the house any easier. That was their last real camping trip that August could remember, any after felt more like going through the motions. The kids had been forced to grow up, the magic was gone. He made sure they all got shares, using his portion to buy a cabin on his favorite mountain. He was grateful the sale could cover giving them each a nest egg while still being able to afford somewhere minutes from his favorite memories. Close to the places he took the kids when they were younger, listening to the rivers he taught them to fish in. He missed when they loved this place as much as he did.
August contemplated flipping channels, now eyeing his cellphone sitting on the coffee table. He could feel the weight, the itch to check if any of them had called or texted. A futile ritual. As usual he has 0 notifications, choosing to blame the lone bar of reception the phone was showing. It was always easier to blame the cell towers then face the truth. He sent a few small messages telling them he was thinking of them, loved them, and hoped he'd see them soon. Not waiting to make sure the messages sent, he locked his phone and tried to distract himself with domestic duties. Collecting old dishes and a few pieces of trash, he walked into the kitchen to deposit it all in the sink. His stomach let out a weak growl. Taking a hungry man TV dinner out, he gently removed the packaging and set the timer. He cracked open a can of Rainier and drank deeply. He was determined to have a good night. August had never been the kind of guy to let himself get lost in his own head.
He walked over to his coat rack, feeling around his pockets for his cigarettes. The kids would never forgive him for starting up again. It had always been a point of contention for him and Angela, and they'd all been so proud of him when he finally quit. But he was an old man now, and people deserve a vice. He’d been a good husband, but a husband he was no more. August promised himself for the hundredth time he’d tell Angela he was sorry when he saw her in Heaven. Joking to himself that if anything it would just bring them back together faster. The kids always loved to tell him the cigarettes would kill him someday. The ding of the microwave bringing his thoughts back from glowing fluffy clouds and halos.
He shoveled chicken fried steak into his mouth at lightening speeds. It'd been a long time since he ate for pleasure and not necessity. He tossed the tray once it was empty and began the tedious process of putting his winter layers on. The snow might've just started, but the temperatures dropped weeks ago. The lowest they'd been in decades. He wasn't worried, the only difference it made for him would be a few extra wild animals coming around because they're desperate for food. He was always careful and was comfortable with local wildlife. The animals were one of the big reasons he was excited to live in the woods. Checking the front was locked up for bed time, he headed to the back porch for his night cap. The house itself didn't have much curb appeal, but he didn't care. He bought the place for the view from the large back deck that overlooked a sheer drop off. At the bottom, you could see the lush native foliage as it traced the narrowest part of the river and winded around the bend of the gulch. The snow ever so slowly burying anything green. Soon it would freeze, but for the time being he had the usual soundtrack of its gentle trickling. August leaned back in his lounge chair and snubbed his cigarette out. He tilted his head taking in the full map of stars; it didn't matter how long he lived here, he loved that view. He felt so much closer to nature out here where it wasn't polluted by street lights and urbanization.
While tracing a silly new constellation, August realized he could hear something out of harmony with the otherwise peaceful evening. He couldn't place it, even after cupping his hands around his ears to increase their sensitivity. A thrumming. Not loud, but constant. Cocking his head, he began to wonder if it was some type of engine or aircraft. He stood, leaning over the deck to take a look at his drive way from around the side of the house. He expected to see a vehicle approaching, but all he saw was his Ford truck and trees. A chill ran down his spine as he noticed the sound was getting closer, a feeling of claustrophobia beginning to rise as he realized the noise was surrounding him. The more he paid attention, the more he realized that there were no other sounds; no insects or critters. How? August couldn't remember the last time they had silence like that. Even in the winter, there was life. All he could hear was the water and the ominous thrum.
He felt silly being so afraid. He thought of camping trips past where he'd comfort his kids, scared by an unusual noise in the night. Wishing there was someone there to comfort him. He considered going inside to grab his phone, just pick one of their numbers and call...but then the loud creak of a tree caught him off guard. August did a 360 looking for the source of the sound, feeling silly for letting it startle him that much. He took a deep breath telling himself he was being anxious for no reason. It was just him up here, wasn't it? August leaned against the railing, facing his open back door. He could see his empty driveway through the front window. His deadbolt locked in place. Why was he so on edge? Everything was safe. The weird humming had finally stopped, hopefully having passed by and on its way far away from him. He began to relax, leaning back further back against the handrail to stretch. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply to hold the smell of the frozen forest in his lungs.
A rapid, high-speed thrum-thrum-thrum again. August realizes why the sound is so familiar. Its like the flapping of birds, but louder than he'd ever heard before. He feels a sudden breeze and before he can open his eyes there's blinding, hot pain in his neck. He staggers, almost falling flat before getting his feet under him and making for his back door. Did someone throw something at him? Where is it? What hit him? His mind is running wild, one foot in front of the other as he rushes to get inside. A warm, wet sensation spreading down his back. Only a few feet to go, he feels giant hands wrapping around his shoulders, hooking his armpits. The nausea is immediate, the sense of vertigo as his feet leave the porch. He is screaming, eyes burning as the wind blinds him.
It's chaos, his sensory organs struggling to process all the different stimuli. His vision is hazy, all he can make out is what looks like two giant scaled hands on either side of his head. They swallow his shoulders, almost locking his arms in place. Below him he sees the snowy tops of trees rushing by. August tries to fight, but it's like a child trying to get out of an adult's grasp. The hands are solid and only squeeze harder as he tries to pull them away. The armored flesh scratching his finger tips as he claws desperately. The smell is overwhelming, earthy and tinged with old rot. It burns his nose and churns his stomach. He worries that if he's squeezed any harder, one of his shoulders might dislocate from the pressure. The pain causing him to panic, he doesn't realize the creature is approaching a dead tree at dangerous speeds. Above him a screech so loud he thinks it will blow out his ear drums. A bird? Is that even possible? He begins to wonder if it's just a dream when suddenly he is stationary, legs hanging listlessly in the air. The worst pain he's ever felt in his life. He looks down and realizes he's been impaled on a bare branch, the wood emerging like a malformed limb. Slick, and sticky with pieces of offal. The immensity of his suffering is enough to make him delirious, he doesn't realize the claws that carried him here have finally let go. He barely has time to process the agony before he feels a sharp, sudden crack to the back of his neck. Unlike the first one, this one lands solidly. He feels like a puppet with cut strings. The haziness in his eyes starts darkening, the sensation in his limbs beginning to fade. The tree creaking around him as his killer leans down to check if he's still moving, two black eyes staring at him. The cold indifference of nature in physical form. The last thing he feels is the curious beak of the giant Shrike exploring his limp limbs, his last thought a simple prayer for the lord to take him before the bird begins its meal.
"A shrike's larder (or pantry) is a grisly food cache where the predatory songbird impales its prey—such as insects, rodents, lizards, and other small birds—onto thorns, sharp twigs, or barbed wire."
Hello friends! Thank you for reading ❤️ As a teenager, I loved writing stories. I had a ton of misc stuff on an old hard drive the other day and felt inspired. On 12/12/2012 I was hit by two cars as a pedestrian and physical therapy/recovery kept me from writing. Its been a long journey getting everything it took from me. Creepcast and TalesFromTheCreeps has been a big inspiration, can't thank y'all enough for the stories.