I’m prone to quiet spells when it comes to social media and posting; I don’t like bludgeoning people with my work. Sometimes it’s a necessary evil, I know. Still, it’s not my style. My silence doesn’t mean I haven’t been crafting, however. I’m currently putting together my first poetry collection, as well working on a new horror novel.
Speaking of horror, I’d like to share my latest short story, WHITE, which was recently published on Pen of the Damned. My partner Nina D’Arcangela and I have changed Pen of the Damned‘s format; all stories must now contain a maximum of 1,500 words, down from 2,500. You should visit our site if you’re not familiar with us; a new story featuring a different Damned author goes live every Tuesday. And even if you do know who we are, come on down and visit the Damned!
So without further ado, please enjoy my tale, WHITE.
They preferred the angry gnash of the storm over the silence.
Like nervous teeth, the panes chattered. The rafters creaked; dust floated down upon their heads.
The man—the man who had been taken in—spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. If it wasn’t for your family, I’d still be out there. Or worse.”
No one answered. No one argued his point, either. Finally, the father spoke. “The shed is about twenty yards back. It’s unlocked.”
The man massaged his crooked chin. “Door swing in or out?”
The father believed it was a good question to ask; this man was sharp. Pride swelled within him. It had been harrowing, but his family had done good, risking their wellbeing to drag the man in from the outside. But a pit burned the father’s stomach. The man had gotten lucky once. Luck would not prevail a second time. “In.”
“Long as the wind didn’t bang it open, I’m good.”
The father pressed his hand against the pane, its surface cooling his fever within. He could see nothing beyond the glass, however. “The generator is in the back, set on blocks. It should be deep enough into the shed to be protected. When you stand in front of it, look down to your right. The gas can will be there.”
The father felt his family press behind him. Mother’s face stooped lower than the boughs of the snow-laden trees. What remained of them, anyway. She clutched their children—son and daughter—under breasts that hadn’t been touched in years. “Yes.”
“Mm-hmm.” The man knew what that meant. The generator would power the house for another full day, at most. “I won’t allow your family to grow cold. I’ll fill it. When it runs out, we’ll figure out what’s next. Together.”
The man shrugged into his coat, careful not to worsen the tear along the shoulder seam. He tugged his wool hat until it hung low over his brow. He looked at the children, the souls-sucked-dry children. “Together,” the man repeated, not sure for whose benefit he’d said it, and cradled his rifle in his arm.
He reached for the door, but the father seized his hand. “Keep low. Don’t stop.”
The man grunted and was ready. The father twisted the knob. The wind shoved the door aside, and immediately the shrieking swallowed the man as well the snow, the blinding snow. The father threw his back into the door, snaring the blizzard’s icy tendrils in the jam. The storm howled; the panes rattled like tormented bones. “He’ll make it,” the father said, talking to the walls. “He’ll make it.”
The father watched as the man sunk thigh deep into the drift, watched and lost him to the white. The blizzard erased his footprints in one exhale. Then he waited. The minutes passed. “We needed him,” he said to the mother. “It could’ve been me instead.”
“It should have been you instead.”
He exhaled icy smoke, then chewed the inside of his mouth. He slowly turned around, keeping vigil at the pane. Snowflakes clung, mounting and growing ever deeper, white locusts of a great plague. Minutes. Minutes. Minutes passed.
“Gas can’s emptied by now.” The father visualized the man’s progress, the man’s steps. “Priming it…cranking it over…he knows what he’s doing…he knows…”
The children sniffled on the hardened snot clotting their noses. And their mother hugged them close to a heart that had long grown cold.
The father clutched the knob. Waiting. It vibrated in his hand. “Any minute.”
A gust charged the house, a mighty bull outside the walls. The rafters groaned; dust danced upon their heads; small, ghostly marionettes. “Any time now…”
He heard a distant crack. Another trunk snapping. Another tree succumbing to the storm. He thought of his neighbors, the elderly neighbors, for whom he’d once mowed their lawns. “Any…time…now…”
A spirit beckoned from the nether; the man emerged, white, spectral white, coat and hat and legs white, face and brow crusted in wind-driven snow. The rifle slung like a long ice shard over his shoulder. “I told you,” the father said, voice rising like the wind, “I told you!”
The man, mere feet from the door, polluted the drift with a crimson spray. The father jerked from the window as if struck. But his eyes stuck to the pane.
They swirled round the man, the needle teeth, the razor claws, unnatural piranhas of winter’s blight, tearing and cutting as the gale disguised their intentions. The wind kept the man upright, and the drift kept him mired. And they swirled, swirled till the man was no more.
The crimson spray disappeared, the drift a new blank canvas from which to paint. The man’s entrails clung briefly to the pane before slipping away.
He shuddered, the father did, but he would not cry. He covered his mouth. “We lost a good man.”
Then a loud click in the father’s ear. “We lost a good man,” the mother said, “and now we have none.”
The father felt the cold metal against the back of his head. It pushed forward, forcing him toward the door. “We have power now. When it runs out, we’ll figure out what’s next. Together,” the mother said to her children.
“You won’t survive without me.”
“Maybe not. But I sure as hell won’t die with you.”
The rifle burrowed into the base of his skull. He clutched the knob. He would freeze to death without a coat, without the proper clothes. He prayed that would be the best thing to come.
The father stumbled into the maw of the blizzard. It chewed him alive.
“There, there, my babies,” the mother cooed to her children, watching as their father filled the pane. “There, there.”
~ Joseph A. Pinto
© Copyright 2015 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.