"I Can't"
(1960. Night)
Crunk. Papa had chambered his double barrel shotgun. He was grim and silent, and the fire was making his features, from his full beard and his bushy eyebrows, to his fixed and determined eyes and stance, even more disturbing.
He began to go for his coat, while Ed was half turned by his bed in midst of prayers. Mama was kneeling with him, a bedtime tradition. "G-go on now Ed," she said with a slight catch in her voice. "Say your prayers."
"Please bless…" he began, while Papa made his way out the door with his coat, hat, and his rifle in hand.
After he finished, while Mama began to fluff the pillow and tuck him in, "What's wrong with Daddy tonight?"
Mama looked back at the door and drew in a breath. "Nothin' Eddie." She looked back at him. "You don't mind me and you go right to sleep, you hear?"
. . . . .
It was nighttime. And the night… it groaned and howled in low, ethereal tones. It howled for his soul. Raked over him with the gentlest fingers born of the wind. The night reached for him, called his name. The night… it was ALIVE. He must not stay, but he must see to his own before he sealed himself away.
His truck stood like some shed, hollow husk from a molted cicada in the dark. He normally half left the windows down to keep the car from being too hot when the sun was out in the day. Tonight, he shut it completely; both the front windows were cranked up. Nobody would enter the vehicle unless they broke the glass, and that would both hurt them dearly and be in vain for he had the keys on his person.
The wind stirred up the dust and swirled around his boots as he hurried for the rest of his farm. The horse snorted with a small hint of nervousness as he approached. It shuffled its feet somewhat, it too able to tell something was off about the night. It would be amazing if any man or beast could sleep this night.
. . . . .
Prayers were finished and Mrs. Harley tucked her young boy into his bed. They didn't have much but they did not need more than the wealth of the land and what God provided for them in his due time. They were simply happy to have what they did, but there was no joy to be had on this night. Whatever was going on outside their house, outside their very property, it was invading their every thought and filling them with nothing but dread. They were afraid of something they couldn't name. And that was the worst part.
She was at the window staring out, as her husband, Tom, got the horse and moved it, with great ease for the beast was exceedingly willing, into the barn. She didn't close the shutter over the window by the front door just yet. Only once her husband had reappeared from the barn and begun to lock the barn door in the dark, grim blue of the night, did she begin to close the shutters, preventing her from seeing anything, enveloping her in the red and orange of the firelight by the fireplace.
She started slightly as Mr. Harley came, grim and silent, striding with some haste, back into the house. And all she and her son could do was keep staring as he stood his rifle by the door, and then, set the long wooden board that barred the door against opening into its place in the holders.
He quietly turned with a slow exhale and began to take off his coat, outlined in the fire by her side. "Will it be all right?" she asked her husband, trying to keep her voice from being too loud, but Ed could still hear her.
Tom was quiet and somber as he moved two chairs to the fireplace and sat himself in the one closest to the door. She sat down in the one opposite, and almost pleaded with him to speak with her next words. "Should I be afraid?"
No answer came.
. . . . .
Puffing and panting and sobbing. The figure wildly raced about in clear panic before halting. Then the figure began running in a new direction, wild and desperate still, swatting away a dry tree branch in the way. The pain that might have come from such an action did nothing to cause any sort of reaction from the man, as he hurriedly shuffled downhill kicking up dirt clouds. He froze at the bottom and looked about in a crazed manner that testified to his fear.
Someplace! Anyplace! He needed to find some way to get off the road! He needed shelter! He must find a sanctuary at once! Before… before that found him! Not this! Not this! His soul cried out for help, his senses sought to pierce the darkness all around, to seek out some means of salvation.
Was it still coming? Oh, it had to be! No way it had stopped! Please, oh please, oh please, oh please! His mind, heart, and soul were begging, pleading. Please God! Please!
He didn't want to die! He needed help!
. . . . .
Papa sat quiet and tense and looked about the cabin before he settled down with his head, chin-first, resting on his hands. He simply stared at the fire in silence and some unspoken kind of concern about something it seemed only he knew.
Mama had, with a troubled and grim effort, taken up her knitting. She was somewhat able to relax, but remained stiff, the needle with its thread going up and down with her right arm.
Edward rested in his bed, but he wasn't facing the wall. He was simply staring in troubled fascination at Mama and Papa, his every reaction hinging upon what they did, especially his Pa. Papa never looked so concerned or miserable like he did right now. Ed wanted to sleep but his eyes were kept wide open by the cold that he felt even underneath the blanket. Why was it so cold when the fire was burning strongly in the fireplace? Why was daddy so quiet and Mama so worried? What was happening? Something had been worrying him since sunset and now he couldn't stop thinking upon whatever it could be. What was going on that made him afraid to sleep?
. . . . .
He vaulted the fence but yelled out in alarm as the wooden beam broke off and took him with it. He had been running to break free of the woods, stopping at intervals to stand and look back, and then he was running again, weeping miserably over the poor light provided by the moon. He couldn't see so well with the clouds and the sliver of moon in the sky; but he could see enough. Enough to know his plight.
The scratches upon his face and hands and the bloody stains on his overalls stood out in the blue light of this most terrible night. He fought to get to his feet, pushing to untangle himself from the wooden limb that he had broken in his haste. Why must it be like this? Why?! He kept pleading in his heart for any hope, and numbly registered the thickened stalks and leaves of the corn as he plunged headlong in blind desperation through the field. The leaves cut and burned but his fear eclipsed any thought of them.
"Uhf!" He slammed into something and fearfully his gaze snapped up. The scarecrow! He'd run into the watcher of the cornfield which meant that he knew whose field this was. The instrument almost felt like it was a dark reflection of God, hanging on his cross, with arms spread out, and empty, black eyes piercing his soul. His numb and paralyzed stance broke as his whole form was struck by a greater chill. His face swung wildly about as he had been doing repeatedly since the beginning.
It was near! He was instantly praying in his heart that he was close to the house before it could get him. It mustn't. It mustn't! He tripped and went rolling.
Now he was attempting to hurriedly regain his feet to run.
. . . . .
The face of Tom Harley looked about the house, seeming focused on the ceiling, but he was silent about any thoughts he might have. It was almost as if he knew that something was going on outside the house.
. . . . .
He was on hands and knees, and flipped so that he was scrabbling back in a half crab-like fashion, but the soil was betraying him, and his terror was making him sloppy. It was almost on him! Coming through the plants! His nose was full of its stench, his ears were ringing with the unholy presence, his eyes were unable to stop seeing its face, and his mind was overwhelmed by it.
A crack as he was ensnared, and then he went rigid from the pain, even as he was suddenly jerked to a halt. It had him! It had his leg! A wail and he slid back the way he came. Because he was pulled. To it.
. . . . .
Mama stopped her knitting and looked about, eyes wide and fearful. She was listening; Ed could tell. Probably because she must have heard something just like he had. The fire continued to snap and pop. A log shifted.
. . . . .
The pain! The pain! He scrambled on hands and knees still alive, but only with three, for the fourth drug behind him. His leg had been hurt. Enough to hobble, maim, seriously injure, but not break or bring forth blood.
He was going to die! But it wouldn't be swift. It was letting him suffer because it was not enough to kill. There was no pleasure in it. He somehow gained his good right leg and managed to somehow start moving towards the hill and the break in the dense foliage. Please, God, don't let it catch him!
. . . . .
Edward was breathing shallowly, with wide eyes watching Mama and Papa simply sit by the fire, trying to act as though they could ignore something, or at least not think upon it. But he could feel it just like they could. Mama was back at her knitting and Papa was simply pressing his forehead against his hands with his eyes closed as if he was in some sort of pain.
All had gone quiet again, save for some brief noise. Was something going on that his parents didn't want to talk about because of the bad feeling? *Thump-thump-thump*
Ma and Pa both started. "Tom Harley! Open up, it's me! Clayton Heller!" A pause. "Tom?" Then more insistent banging. "Tom. Please open the door! Oh Tom, for the love of... will you please open this door?!" And when no answer was given, except for Mama to glance in desperation to Papa, "For pity's sake, Tom, please open up! It's after me Tom, its gonna get me!"
"Merciful heaven's Tom," implored Mama leaning over to Papa. "We can't just sit—"
"It's got nothin' to do with us," Papa said firmly, sitting up straight while the man outside kept beating against the wood and imploring to be let in. "We have to Ellie," he went on his face tight and his voice matching. *Thump-thump-thump* "This isn't us. You know." His eyes and body language brooked no argument.
"What kind of a Christian are you for the love of God?!" yelled Clayton's voice through the wood. "You're not someone who can just abandon another! Maybe others but not you! Please Tom! You gotta help!"
Ed was starting to breathe faster, and he was growing more scared with every second. Papa, Mama, the yelling, everything. It was making him close to panic. He just wanted this to stop, whatever it was.
"You gotta help me, Harley! You gotta!" *Thump, thump*
"Tom," Ellie begged. It was the last nail, for Eddie sat up straight in the bed, her fears and Clayton's yelling having translated to the boy.
"Mama," he pleaded, his eyes nearly shining with tears.
"See to the boy," Tom said gravely.
"LORD ALMIGHTY TOM its gonna get me unless you OPEN THIS DOOR! Oh, please Tom, help me!"
Papa slowly turned to face the door, still sitting on his chair, while Mama joined her son on his bed and simply held him tight. She was scared just like him, he could feel it in her hands. He sniffled in fear. "Why doesn't daddy let the man in?" he complained in a forlorn voice.
"Oh Eddie he just can't," she sobbed cradling him close to her. "He just can't." She turned his face to her own pleadingly. "Shut it out Eddie, don't pay attention to it, forget it Eddie." Then she hugged him again, her fearful eyes locked on the door… and the wooden board that kept it shut.
Tom then rose slowly with his gun in hand and slowly moved towards the door. There was a rumble from outside. A storm might be brewing.
. . . . .
Clayton was pressed against the door. He had been pushing and pressing on it in his desperation while he had been crying out for entry. The door wouldn't give no matter where he put his hands. It was barred shut. Unless Tom removed the brace on it, he'd never have a chance of entering for the door was locked by the man's own will.
"Get away from the door," came Tom's voice from the other side. No malice, just an urgent desire to not be troubled. "Get away from me an' my family."
"Tom, please!" He sobbed and begged out the words, wringing his hands. He began sliding down the wooden door in exhaustion born from his soul-crushing sadness and desperation. He wept from the depths of heart and soul as the sky rumbled and flashed. "You gotta help me. There's nothin' left in me; I can't run no more." He was sunken down on the porch in his great weariness. "It's coming." He closed his eyes in pain over all that had led to this one hope that was dwindling. "I never killed that girl. I wouldn't dare on my soul—"
"I don't know nothin' about that, and I don't want to," yelled Tom's voice through the door, audible over the howling of the wind.
"They said I did Tom but I didn't. Oh Tom, I can't get away. Please help. Please… open the door. Please." He lay flat now at the entrance, his hobbled leg all but forgotten, as he miserably drew in air into his tired lungs. He was suddenly so heavy, so tired, so very hollow, and empty. He had nothing left as the sky rumbled again. There was nowhere else to go. And he couldn't fight anymore. He had no strength left.
"I can't. I'm sorry about all of this, I am, but I cannot risk my family for you. It's between you and God, I cannot properly judge or intervene. Now listen well, I got my shotgun here with me by the door…" Tom's voice took on new sadness. "Get away, please… get away afore I have to use it."
He couldn't speak, couldn't reply. The wind had shifted the dust in the air just enough. It was right there! *BWASHT-ZZT-T-T* A particular crack of lightning permanently illuminated it, framed it, in his mind, and reignited his terror. And then it started to move…
*CRACK* He was shaking violently, trembling… no, please, no, no! He whimpered and began scrabbling to the side knocking over a chair. CLAY...TON...
. . . . .
The scream made Tom lean towards the door to strain his hearing for all he was worth. What was happening right outside on his front porch? He took his one last chance and breathed as loud as he could to be heard over the thunder. "Get right with God Clayton! While you still draw breath you have a chance! It's your only hope man!"
There was another yell, after the sound of what must have been Clayton tumbling off the porch towards the ground around the house. He might have been going to the surrounding area in the back, but it would do no good if he was, for there was only one door into the house.
His gun he placed down by the door as Ellie embraced him in her grief and fear. "God have mercy," he breathed as he quietly closed his eyes and simply held her. All he could do was pray. Pray that it was quick, but also pray that Clayton had God before the end.
"Oh Tom," Ellie sobbed into his chest as she buried her tears and clung to him like he was a rock. He could only stare with pain into the fire. Oh, that evil never existed.
. . . . .
*BLAST-T-RRGGGRRR* The sky flashed and thundered as his hand touched upon empty air and he plunged with a cry, thudding painfully upon the broken earth and tree roots that formed a natural ditch, then rolling, to finally slam into the muddy water that partially filled the bottom. He may as well have fallen into his grave, as flashes revealed the figure's continuing advance. His muddy hands sought purchase to climb, but he couldn't brace well with his hurt left leg.
He started scrabbling in haste. It was coming down after him! It mustn't grab him again! His soaked hands found a root. No sooner was he pulling himself up than he was suddenly yanked back. It had him! It was all over if he let go! He cried out in pain as it squeezed without mercy. And then… his hands slipped.
A snarl by the thing and he screamed as he was swung up in an arc by his injured leg and slammed against unforgiving muddy earth. Another snarl and again it swung him, dashing his body against the other side. He coughed up blood. His ribs, his back, they must be broken, and his left leg was now a ruined mess that he couldn't feel at all, but somehow knew was still attached.
Clayton must have briefly blacked out because he snapped awake midair and landed on the solid ground near some tree. He coughed another bloody stain up and sobbed out a groan of effort as he reached out his hands to try to move somewhere, anywhere, to just get away.
. . . . .
Eddie went unnoticed by his parents as they simply stood by the fire and clung to each other. Surely they heard the cries over the storm. Eddie was drawn by some morbid curiosity to see what was happening outside.
He approached the back window as if he was in a trance and looked out. And he saw. Everything. It. It had the man daddy wouldn't let in… and it was killing him. It seemed to be taking joy in the deed because of how it held him off the ground so that his limbs jerked and danced. It must have run him through like the long ends on daddy's hay fork, and now it was making sure it prolonged how long it took him to die. Flashes from the sky illuminated it amidst the howling and swirling of the wind and dust among the trees. And Eddie's mind was forever scarred with the image of how Clayton Heller died.