I
was just passing through the kitchen to top off my drink around 8:30 in
the evening when I noticed the man waiting in my backyard. He stood on a
mound of fresh dirt at the edge of my property, little more than a
silhouette thanks to the day's last light pouring through the trees
behind him.
I downed a gulp of whiskey, shrugged at him, and paced back to the living room.
He was still out there two hours later when I got up to take a piss. By then it was too dark to see his face, but I figured I'd seen enough already. I pulled the backdoor open and racked the shotgun I picked up from the corner, nice and loud where he could see it.
He simply waited.
Another two showed up by midnight on their own mounds, and I hit the switch for the floodlights in the back so I could see 'em better. Their clothes were filled with holes like moths or maybe worms had eaten through them, and their faces shriveled pale and yellow where the blood had drained out long ago. The first one to show looked the closest to normal, like he'd just climbed out of bed with his messy, wild hair and his untucked shirt... And the knife handle sticking out of his chest.
I sat down on the swing on my back porch and waited, one leg and two barrels of buckshot folded across my lap. I took another sip of warm Jack and waited out the dead, who soon began to claw their way in ever greater numbers from the mounds of upturned Earth they scattered across the backyard.
No matter how far away I buried them, they always found their way back.
Burrowing through the ground until dawn and whittling the light away in fresh graves, each and every one of my dozen victims slowly clawed their way back to me. And once they arrive, they always wait for more. They won't strike until they're all here. They won't leave anybody out, so long as each one of them craves revenge.
Something tells me that night is almost here. I've tried to shoot 'em, cut 'em up, burn 'em down, but they just keep rising. I've tried moving, but they only follow. And now I'm counting eleven monsters waiting in the backyard and one more sitting on the porch with his whiskey and his shotgun, all just waiting for the end.
All just waiting for lucky number thirteen.
I downed a gulp of whiskey, shrugged at him, and paced back to the living room.
He was still out there two hours later when I got up to take a piss. By then it was too dark to see his face, but I figured I'd seen enough already. I pulled the backdoor open and racked the shotgun I picked up from the corner, nice and loud where he could see it.
He simply waited.
Another two showed up by midnight on their own mounds, and I hit the switch for the floodlights in the back so I could see 'em better. Their clothes were filled with holes like moths or maybe worms had eaten through them, and their faces shriveled pale and yellow where the blood had drained out long ago. The first one to show looked the closest to normal, like he'd just climbed out of bed with his messy, wild hair and his untucked shirt... And the knife handle sticking out of his chest.
I sat down on the swing on my back porch and waited, one leg and two barrels of buckshot folded across my lap. I took another sip of warm Jack and waited out the dead, who soon began to claw their way in ever greater numbers from the mounds of upturned Earth they scattered across the backyard.
No matter how far away I buried them, they always found their way back.
Burrowing through the ground until dawn and whittling the light away in fresh graves, each and every one of my dozen victims slowly clawed their way back to me. And once they arrive, they always wait for more. They won't strike until they're all here. They won't leave anybody out, so long as each one of them craves revenge.
Something tells me that night is almost here. I've tried to shoot 'em, cut 'em up, burn 'em down, but they just keep rising. I've tried moving, but they only follow. And now I'm counting eleven monsters waiting in the backyard and one more sitting on the porch with his whiskey and his shotgun, all just waiting for the end.
All just waiting for lucky number thirteen.
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