Creepy - My History is a Fist: Takes from Uncle Henry's Farm

Episode Date: December 7, 2020

Henry's got stories to tell before it's all over... ***Written by TW Grim and narrated by Joe Stofko***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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including the American Red Cross, Resounding Joy, a music therapy group in California, and Operation Home Front. Wounded Warrior Project also provides a year-long track program. That's designed to help veterans transition to college and the workplace. Wounded Warrior Project helps families of veterans reconnect through events that support family bonding and transitional skills.

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Thanks, Joe. Creepy has donated $100 to the Wounded Warrior Project. If you'd like to find out more, please visit Wounded Warriorproject.org. As far as this week's episode is concerned, many of you have been asking for it, so... No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing and disturbing creepy epistice and urban legends in the world.

Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents My History is a Fest. Tales from Uncle Henry's Farm. Part 4 Written by T.W. Grimm

With Kessneration by Joe Stofco And produced by Steve Blizzin. If you know anything about life on a farm, you know that a farmer spends as much time on the upkeep of his property as the actual business of farming. Grounds keeping duties is a full-time job all by itself. There are hundreds of yards of fence and demand,

endless acres of grass to mow, and multiple leaks and multiple roofs that should have been repaired back in the spring, possibly the spring of last year. There are barns they need a good sweeping, gardens they need good watering, and numerous walls that you probably get a new coat of paint before winter rolls in. No matter how hard you try to get it all done, there's always another chore or two lurking around the corner. Well, Uncle Henry has his good days and is not so good days, but even on his best days, he simply isn't physically capable.

capable to manage the farm anymore. His fields are being shared crop by a neighboring farm this year. Corn, of course. It's always either being there corn around this neck of the woods. But the bulk of the menial chores around the properties have fallen squarely on the Aiken's shoulders of yours truly. A very stupid nephew who can't say no to literally save his own damn life. I've been dragging myself out of bed before dawn every Saturday morning to beat the traffic.

And then it's a full day of struggling with heavy shit. ship beneath the merciless summer sun. I crash on Henry's fold-out sofa after a few beers on Saturday night, and then I'm on my way back to the city on Sunday morning, usually with blisters on my poems and aching muscles in my back. I'm not exactly a young man myself anymore, and it shows. The extra cash has been kind of nice, but I think I'll take that money and hire someone local to be the groundskeeper next year.

That sun gets too damn hot. The bugs are just about enough to drive you crazy. Henry was having one of his good days last weekend, so he volunteered to take along and keep me company. My task for the day was to cut up and dispose of a fallen tree. A fair chunk of Henry's property is first-growth forest, and after a good storm at a safe bet, there will be at least one tree blocking an access road

to one of the fields at the back of the farm. Other times, they'll get caught on another tree on the way down, creating a hazardous death trap. Either way, it needs to be dealt with as soon as possible. Now, I'll readily confess I'm not very fond of operate in a chainsaw, not since I had one kicked back on me and come within a hair of ripping my face off. Despite my misgivings, with operating a whirling chain of death, however, it was a job that had to get done,

and Henry isn't in any condition to be working a saw these days. I was just glad Henry was feeling well enough to spend the day outside. I climbed up on Mean Green and followed Henry's agent Sierra out to the west end of the farm. Henry sold off the majority of his equipment last year, but he kept Meen Green, a 40-year-old John Deere tractor with an open station and a seat that's mostly duct tape. It's a temperamental beast that refuses to die, and ride the damn things almost like wrestling a gigantic mechanical bear. The tree in question was a big, grand, old silver birch. It had taken out a couple smaller trees on the way down, but they weren't really in the way anything important.

The birch, however, was lying squarely across the service road, blocking access to a large field of borders of the western edge of the property. It was at least 80 feet long, and it had created quite in a mess on the other side of the road when it hit the ground. Henry got out of the truck and grinned up at me with both hands stuffed into the pockets of his coveralls. He said, So, this is it. He's a big bastard, ain't he? Been laying on the ground for damn near a month now. You can kind of scoot by on the other side with an ATV. But Johansson needs to get over there and do some irrigating soon.

You think he can get this thing squared away before you leave tomorrow? I examined the broken jagged crown of its upper branches and gave Henry a reluctant nod. We'll see. It'll be tricky. on the other side, or do you want me to just nip it off on either side of the road and forget about the rest? Henry shot me a judgmental look and flapped a hand at the confused tangle of limbs on the far side of the road. You're looking at a winter's worth of firewood there. People pay big money for a quarter of wood these days. Don't waste it. I went about the business of getting the saw ready, and Henry plopped himself down on a folding lawn chair. He lit a cigarette and started bitching about

how I was doing everything wrong, which is par for the course when you're working for Henry. It's not malicious, exactly. And I really don't think it means any harm. He genuinely believes that everyone else is something of an idiot, and it needs to show him the error their ways. What are you doing? You're getting the bar and chain oil all over the ground. He growled. How about you pour some in the fucking saw while you're at it?

Jesus Almighty boy. Well, golly, am I ever? glad you came out with me today. I smiled. How about I put that piece of shit tractor in gear and let it roll down the gully? How about that, you mean old bastard? And rechuckled.

You'd probably do that anyway, just out of sheer incompetence. Hey, make sure that chain is good and tight, and don't leave a lot of slack. I shot him a dirty look and snapped. Do you want to do this? I might have to. You're fucking it all up, and you have

even started yet. Henry grinned. I took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and stifled the urge to push over his chair and send him ass over teacettle onto the ground. Like most farmers, Henry does things in a very particular way, his way. And as far as he's concerned,

there could not possibly be any other way. I bit my tongue and stirred up the saw. Thankfully, it caught on the second pole, or Henry would have gleefully writ me a new one with that dry and understated countryman's wit. He may not be in the best of health these days, but Henry's tongue is as sharp as ever. I had no desire to operate a saw for two days in a row, so I worked at a feverish pace and had the majority of upper branches chopped up by two o'clock. By this time I was dripping mess of sweat and simmering resentment.

Henry's a great guy to sit down and drink some beers with. but he is definitely not my favorite supervisor. Hander squinted up in my red, scowling face and said, You can weave all them logs right where they are. They're not in the way over there. Pull the trunk off the road, and we can go drink some goddamn beer. Sound good? I mopped the sweat off my face with the towel I brought for that very purpose and muttered.

Hell yes. Sounds just dandy to me. I fetched a couple straps out of toolbox in the back of the Sierra, fired up the tractor. The trunk was incredibly heavy. He dug a deep groove in the road as John Deer rumbled against its massive weight. I thought, fuck the stupid road, I'll fix with a scrape a blade in the morning. I kept right on pulling.

Henry stabbed a finger at the damage and shouted, See? I told you you should have cut it up first, you damned idiot. I ignored his outrage and focused on finishing the task at hand. The black flies were swarming around my head in a bloodthirsty cloud. My shirt was covered in blotchy salt stains, and my poor arms felt like they were made out of poorless set jello. I didn't give a good goddamn about the road at that point.

I just wanted the ordeal to be over. I was more than ready to go back to the house for a cold one. Henry cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled. Stay on the tractor. I'll untie the strap. He frowned at the knot and hollered. You call this a bolein knot? What the hell is he?

you do. Hercules himself couldn't untie this fucking thing. Shut the tractor off. I cut the engine and started to apologize, but Henry waved me off and started searching his pockets. He groaned. Ah, hell, I left my knife sitting on the night table. You got that knife on you, kid? The one you took home with you a little mile back, or did you lose it already? No, Henry.

I grunted. I didn't lose it already. I'm not five years old for Christ's sake. I'm a grown man. I fished out the pocket knife and dropped it into his hands. Henry laboriously sawed through the strap and grumbled. This blade could be a lot sharper, you know. Your dad always kept it real sharp.

Here, I'm done with it. We'll sharpen up that blade tonight. Don't let me forget. Henry stood up with a grimace and waved a hand in the direction of the barnyard. Well, that's it for today, kiddo. Listen, I need to check. on something before I leave. Just head on back and park the tractors somewhere near the barn.

Help yourself to a beer while you wait. I said, sure a thing, boss. See you when you get back. And left him to attend to his secret of Aaron in the bush. I walked me and green up into third gear and gunned it back to the barn, bouncing around in the seat like a cowboy at a rodeo as I jonesed and bumped across uneven terrain. I parked the tractor and stood in front of the open door, the mini-fridge in the garage.

Luxuriating in a wave of frigid air as I poured a gloriously, shockingly cold can of beer down the arid canyon of my throat. It was ecstasy. I tossed an empty can into the recycle bin and immediately popped open another one. I was halfway through my second beer by the time Henry pulled up in front of the garage in his pickup. He joined me at the fridge and said, Oh, shove over and let me get in there, kid. I'm melting over here. He tipped a cold one back and gasped.

Ah, that's something, ain't it? Anyhow, he did a good job today. Don't worry about the road. Fuck it. Joe Hanson can take care of that on Monday. Here, take this, and thank you very much, my boy. He reached into the breast pocket of his coveralls and thrust a folded water 20s into my hand.

Without counting, I could tell us at least twice the amount we'd agreed upon for a day's labor. I started to protest and Henry shook his head. Ah, you take the money, eh? I won't miss it. It's expensive living in the city. Go on, take it. I said, I don't know, Henry.

Are you sure? I mean... Call it an asshole tax. Henry laughed. Because I can be a right son of a bitch to work for. Well, lots of people would tell you that. You can bet on it. He took a look at his watch and said,

I'm thinking we should get supper started early. I could use some grub right about now. How about you? Supper was footlongs on the barbecue, piled high with fried onions and served on a paper plate. We sat in the wooden swing chairs at the side of the house and looked down into the valley as we ate. Summer was in full swing, and the valley was a vibrant rolling mosaic of greens and yellows, blues, and reds. An astonishing palette of color is waving in the breeze. I could tell Henry had something on his mind, and I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

He was thinking about my pocket knife, a three-inch folding blade that had once belonged to my father. Or rather, he was thinking about the story behind the knife. Ordering his thoughts in his unhurried, meticulous manner as he ate his hot dog and sipped away at his beer. I kept quiet, let Henry mull it over in peace. My father is a difficult subject for anyone who knew him and I've spent most of my adulthood trying to distance myself from his memory He was a hard man, harsh and unforgiven And he was also a very troubled man

Soldiers are expected to return from war and simply forget about the awful things they had seen And done while fighting in a foreign land The results can be disastrous Henry put down his hot dog and said Uh-oh, look over there. I better pack it up. He pointed some ominous-looking clouds They were gathering to the west.

They were talking about maybe getting some rain on the news this morning. I think it's coming. Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at the kitchen table with the rain pound and a droning tempo on the roof above our heads. We cracked a few beers and shot the ship for a while. Our conversation drifted back and forth from small matters to global concerns and all things in between.

I fetched this another round, and when I got back to the table, Henry sighed. Well, I suppose it's time. Let me have a look at that knife of yours, kid. I passed it over, and Henry fetched a magnifying glass out of the junk drawer in his kitchen counter. He squinted at the faux-pearl handle

and the fluorescent light above the sink and said, Come here, and look at this. It's right here, just above the... The rivet. He dropped a knife into my hand and gave me the magnifying glass. I took a peek at it myself and said, Looks like a J, a P, and a D. Is this someone's initials?

Henry popped open his beer with a tab opener I bought for him a while back and nodded. He pulled a wet stone kid out of junk torrent, and started sharpening the tarnished blade with painstaking care, meticulous of work in a cutting edge against the stone in careful, patient little circles. I sit my beer and waited for him to begin. The war. Henry murmured.

It was always the goddamn war with your dad. He never left it behind. I was exempted from service on an agricultural deferment, but while he wasn't so lucky, the draft board snatched him right up and off he went overseas. He came back an entirely different person. I know you might not believe this, but before he left, Your dad was a hell of a nice fella. He'd joke around and laugh, never had a bad word to say about anyone.

He'd come back meaner than a rattlesnake, and he was a drunk. I know that's not exactly news to you, but it was worse when he was young. He'd drink hard liquor from noon to night every day of the week except Sundays. On Sunday, well, he'd start drinking right after breakfast. A lot of them came back like that, you know. It was the only way they could sleep at night. I nodded and said. He kept it up for 50 years.

He was always somewhere between feeling no pain and completely shit-faced. I don't condone it, but he had his reasons. Henry interjected. Like I said, Wally was a completely different person when he got back home. He didn't laugh no more, didn't hardly even talk to anyone. He'd work on the farm all day. and then he'd sit out there on the swinging chairs in the evenings with a bottle, drinking, and staring at nothing.

He was always playing around with that pocket knife, turning it in his hands, rubbing it with his thumb. He always made sure it was razor sharp. But I never saw music, not once. Well, nobody knew what was wrong with him. Your grandparents were scared of him, their own son. I remember your grandma took me aside one time and said They killed him, Henry

That isn't my son My son is dead I leaned back in my chair and grunted I can only imagine what he was like when he first came back I bet that was hard to deal with Henry chuckled a little and shrugged A gesture that spoke of an old and endearing sadness He

Oh he was He was quite a handsome When he got mad, that's the fact. Actually, this all started with your dad losing his temper. I knew he wasn't someone to fuck around with, but hot damn, I thought he was going to kill someone that night. I'm surprised he didn't. I'd taken him out to a bar for a few drinks.

It must have been sometime in 48 or 49. I remember I was still working for the electric company at the time, living on my own in an apartment in town. I was sitting around after my supper one night and thought, hell, I should drag Wally out for a few cold ones. He never leaves that damn farm. That ain't no good for no one to be isolated like that. Anyway, we were sitting there at the table with a couple of local farmers, just having a few beers and shooting the shit about the coming harvest. Your father was in a mood that night, even more than usual.

He was sitting there with his head down, fiddling around with that damn knife, not saying a word, just playing around with a knife and hammering back the whiskey like there was no tomorrow. He just didn't want to be there, and I should have seen that. He wanted to be left alone. Well, one of the farmers we were sitting with, he was pretty shit-house himself, robbing nine beers deep. I could see he was starting to be. to get annoyed that Wally was sitting there and ignoring everyone.

I was just about to tip back the last of my drink and get us out of there when the farmer suddenly smacks his hand on the table in front of your dad and says, we're talking here, boy, pay attention, what's the matter with you? Your dad didn't even look up. He just kind of smiled to himself and said, you're not saying anything worth listening to Alzheimer and leave me alone. Well, that didn't go over too well with the farmer. Enris snorted.

He leans across the table and says, You need to learn some manners, boy. Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you. He made a grab for Wally's knife, and holy Jesus, all hell broke loose. Your dad popped out by his chair like he was sitting on a spring and bellowed. You don't touch that, motherfucker.

No word of a lie. He must have hit that big basket. ten times on his way to the floor. The guy was already done, but your dad was just getting warmed up. He started kicking and stomping on him, just kicking the absolute piss and shit out of this guy as he tried to crawl away. The other farmer jumped up and grabbed him from behind,

and Wally gave him a judo flip, clear across the pool table. He hit the wall on the other side so goddamn hard I heard the beard glasses rattled behind the bar. Henry paused to wet his whistle. He shook his head and let out a flat humorous little wheeze of laughter. She's now, the bouncer was pretty drunk, too. But when the second farmer hit that wall, he finally noticed what was happening.

He came in swinging haymakers. Wally just kind of batch him out of the air and kicks the guy square in the kneecap. I heard the snap from clear across the bar. The bouncer fell square on his ass and started squealing like a stuck hog. your dad screams down at him. You want some more, big man? And he hauls off and he boots him right in the face. I sighed.

He'd always tell me, if you get a chance, kick him in the face. They can't tell themselves they could have won the fight if you kick their face in. Henry blinked at this and muttered. That's one way to look at it, I guess, but I'm not sure if there's much honor and kicking a man when he's down. And these poor bastards,

they were definitely down for the count. The first guy was trying to warm his way under a table. The second guy was running out the door, and everyone else was scrambling to get the hell out of the way. The bartender started yelling he was going to call the cops, so your dad gave the guy under the table one last kick in the ribs, and he walked out of there without so much as a backward glance, just cold as ice.

Well, I ran out after him, Now, Jesus Christ, Wally, you want to go to jail? The hell is wrong with you. Your dad glared at me from under those bushy eyebrows and says, Stupid, tons of bitches are lucky I didn't kill him. Take me back to the farm. Well, he didn't talk on the way back. I was kind of scared I might say the wrong thing. Wally didn't seem like he was much in the mood for small talk. But when I pulled into the driveway, Wally didn't get him. out of my truck. He rolled down the window and fired up a cigarette. We sat there for a while,

just being still and listening to the night. He paused and added. Things look different in the dark, don't they? They look different and they sound different too. The world around you always seems just a little bit strange after nightfall. I was sitting there looking across the barnyard into the night, and I realized I couldn't really tell where we were anymore or where we were even supposed to be. Reality is so fragile, you know. All it takes is the absence of light for the whole thing to start coming apart.

Wally pitched his smoke and said, I don't know what come over me, Henry. That Clod Hopper grabbed for my knife, and it just set me off. He had no call to do that. I says, no, he didn't. But neither did you, Wally. You damn near killed him.

And that bouncer, hell. He'll be eating soup and walking with a cane for a good long while. Someone might be coming to talk to you, Wally. You better pray none of those men die tonight. Well, Wally sort of huffed and scowled out the window. He knew I was right. I says, I want you to tell me something, okay? and I want to know the truth, Wally, so be straight with me.

Your dad thought about it for a moment. Then he goes, I won't lie to you, Henry, you're my brother. So I ask him, what the hell is it with this little pocket knife of yours anyway? Why are you so obsessed with the damn thing? Henry stopped to fumble his cigarettes out of his breast pocket. He absin-mindedly offered me one, and I shook my head in irritation. I'm done with some. cigarettes, Henry. Remember? I'd my last smoke three weeks ago. You keep trying to give me one.

Ah, hell that's right. He smirked. I just got so used to you bumming all my goddamn smokes. It's automatic now. Henry lit up and coughed harshly on the first drake. What? He weised at me. Don't I look glamorous? He saw the way I was looking at him and rolled his eyes. Don't you look at me like that. There's nothing worse than an ex-smoker or ex-drinker. A bunch of zealots, the whole lot of you. I don't know.

I think lung cancer might be worse. I'm a shot back. Then Henry offered me a soft smile. Shut your pie hole, smart ass. I'm telling a story over here. So, anyways, Wally lays his knife on the dashboard and says, I've never told you nothing about what happened overseas. Believe me, there's a reason for that. Four years, Henry, four years is a long time.

I says, okay, where'd they send you to fight? And without missing a beat, your dad whispers, hell. They sent me to hell. I sat there and waited until he was ready to start talking again. After a while, he clears his throat and says, You gotta understand, there weren't any rules over there. Wherever we pushed the Germans out, we left a big shitty mess behind us. I saw so many horrible things over there. The people were starving, Henry. We'd settle down somewhere for the night, you know, build a fire and heat up some chow.

No matter where we were, as soon as the smell hit the, year, it wouldn't be long before we'd be surrounded by a circle of people that looked like skeletons. They'd stand there and watch you eat. They'd watch your spoon as it went from the can to your mouth over and over, and you could hear their stomachs growling. They'd start drooling. They couldn't help it. Henry's lip twitch and a cynical smile. They don't show that part in the Hollywood movies. do they? They show the big explosions and the heroics, but they don't show the people who get caught in the crossfire. They don't show them slowly starving to death. I said, not very often, no.

I don't think a movie that shows a like it is would do very well on the big screen. Henry grunted. Your father could have set those movie producers straight. You bet he could. The things he told me that night sweet Jesus. It just kept pouring out of him. Story after story. And I couldn't hardly believe any of it. The one that stuck with me the most was the kid who got hit in the stomach during a firefight. He was 18 years old, didn't even shave yet this kid. And there's his inert spread all over the ground. The kid kept screaming, I don't want to die. And Wally yelled back, you ain't getting out of this, you stupid bastard. You don't get to die. And then he gathered up all the kid's guts falling around on his hands and knees, picking the boys' innards up off the mud. He tried to

stuff him back into the kid's body, but he was already dead. I nodded mutely, staring at the table as I remember the taste of cheap rum in the darkness. Sickly sweet and accurate as it burned its way down my throne. took his boots and his rations after he was gone. He told me that's how it was over there. You didn't? Waste good boots on a dead man. I finished and Henry gave me a sharp look. I suppose you've heard these stories a time or two yourself. Henry drawled. His tone was casual, but he was watching my face carefully with his mild brown eyes. Wally didn't have any business telling a kid a story like that. Did he talk about the war a lot?

He talked about it sometimes, sure. Mostly when he was drinking. Boyce was hoarse. I cleared my throat and washed away the odious phantom residue with a rum with a long, swig of cold beer. My father rarely drank beer or wine. He barely even considered them to be an alcoholic beverage. Rum was his poison.

Bottle after bottle a dark, sickless, sweet rum. Henry nipped away at his beer and waited for me to say whatever it is I needed to say. I remained silent. In my mind's eye, my dad slammed his fist down on the kitchen table and slurred. Got one in the stomach. Right here. I was ten years old. Tired, confused, and very afraid.

I've been pulled out of bed with no explanation. And now I was sitting in the dark with a coffee mug. full of some awful, murky-looking liquid on the table in front of me. The clock on the wall read ten minutes past two in the morning. Dad was glaring at me from across the table, slowly working himself into a fury as he gave voice to the demons. Henry studied the expression on my face. He briefly looked like he was about to ask a question

that would lead to some very uncomfortable answers. Then he thought the better of it. The moment passed, and he continued on with the story. After a while, your dad sort of peters out with these awful memories, and we just sat there for a while in the dark. It was getting late, and I wanted to call it a night, but I couldn't go home, not just yet. He still hadn't answered my question.

I told him, I'll cover for you if I have to, Wally. You're my brother. But you have to tell me the story behind that knife. I can see you don't want to talk about it, but I think maybe you should. Your dad lets out this big, long sigh and says, Do me a favor, Henry. Go in the house and get us both a drink. I'll take whatever you got.

We'll need it. I abruptly found myself wishing for a smoke. A cigarette goes so goddamn good with the beer. I popped some nicotine gum instead, made a sour face to the package. You're right, Henry. It does taste like mint-flavored dog shit. I smirked and said. Yeah, stick to your guns, young fella. Your smoke-free, enjoy it. So, anyhow, your dad was in France at the time.

They were cleaning up whatever was left of the Germans after the D-Day invasion. Most of the time, they threw down their rusty old. rifles and surrendered on sight. They were starving almost as bad as the peasants. Wally said most of them were either teenagers or old men. Some of them didn't even have any ammunition left for Christ's sake. And don't get me wrong, it was still dangerous work. When the Nazis retreated, they left all kinds of booby traps behind. A GI would lean down to pick a German helmet up off the ground and get blown to smithereens. They'd get full. Fired out by snipers and step on landmines and every now and then, someone would start screaming and just not be able to stop.

Everywhere they looked, there was nothing but death and destruction. Everywhere they went, there were bodies laying in the mud and buzzards wheeling around in the sky. The winds slapped the window with a sudden blast of rain, making me jump a bit in my chair. I said, it's getting pretty wild. out there. Glad I'm not driving home tonight. We might end up losing power. In the scowl. Maybe I should hunt up some candles soon.

Anyway, they captured some Germans after a battle near a village called St. Michael. One of them turned out to be an officer. Not just an officer, he was a major. When they marched the officer and his boys into the village at gunpoint, the villagers all gathered round and started screaming for his blood. screaming for his blood. Your dad said they had to point their rifles at the mob to get them to back off. They were in a frenzy. They started throwing rocks and yelling death to the monsters, cut off their heads. So this guy could understand English pretty well, and the only thing he'd say was,

I will speak to another officer, or I will not speak at all. Now, Wally was only a sergeant, but he was the highest ranking man there. So the job got pushed onto his shoulders. They said, send in the old man. He'll get this guy to talk in a hurry. That's what they called your dad, the old man. And he was only 22 years old. Politicians don't send grown men and women to fight their wars.

We send our children. So your dad goes into the tent where they're holding the officer. And he finds this arrogant prick sit. there with his pipe in one hand, a flask full of schnapps in the other, and his boots propped up on the table like he owned the place. Wally grits his teeth and says something like, Hello, Major, I hope you plan to cooperate with me. Well, the shitty bastard just laughs at him and says, Go find a real officer. I don't have to talk to you. Well, at this stage in the game, your dad didn't much care any more about proper procedures.

or any shit like that. Wally jumped over the table and tackled this son of a bitch, jammed his pistol into the crowd's mouth and said, You'll talk to me, you horse's ass, or I'll bury you. The words, I'll bury you, flicked a switch in my head. And once again, the president abruptly fell away like shattered glass. Just like that, I was seven years old and playing with a rusty toy dump truck at the edge of the field.

The field board of the property, my father was renting from a local floor. farmer. It consisted of a grubby little one-story house, a heavily rutted gravel driveway, and a quarter acre of scraggler weeds, and bleached out dirt. I watched as a long, dark sedan drove up to the house, a bad feeling starting to roil in the pit of my stomach. I could sense that the sedan was a harbinger of impending chaos. A man in a somber-looking suit got out of the car knocked on our front door. My dad answered with a sullen glare and a surly,

Who the hell are you? What do you want? The man thrust the man man envelope into his hands. Dad immediately started bellowing at the top of his lungs. He followed our unwelcome visitor as he beat a hasty retreat to his car, screaming that he was a leech, a parasite, and a goddamn greedy good-for-nothing crook. Dad crouched down to look at the man through the driver's side window as he threw his car into reverse and he shrieked, I'll bury you.

You hear me, asshole? I'll bury the whole fucking lot of you. Heter gave me a watchful look and said. What? What is it? Dad was sharecropping for another farmer, I said, and I cracked a sad little grin. This was back in the mid-80s. Do you remember that?

He breached the contract somehow and got us kicked off the land. We ran to the little shack somewhere and a guy came out to serving papers for a lawsuit. Dad went fucking ballistic, threatened to kill the dude and bury him. Yeah, I remember the lawsuit. Henry Weezed. He threatened to kill the guy, did he? Sounds about right. He wasn't shy about making his feelings known.

No, he certainly wasn't. I agreed. It was time for another beer. I pushed back my chair to stand up, and it's almost blinded by a serum bolt of lightning through the kitchen window. At the same instant, an explosive, boom, rattle the dishes in the cover. The lights flickered up, plunging us into a thick and oppressive gloom. Well, shit.

Henry groaned. It could be a while before the lights come back on. And there's some candles in the junk drawer. I'll put the beer in my cooler. I said, Hey, I can drink a warm if I have to, Henry. Don't worry about it. Go to hell with that.

Henry snapped, and he headed over to fetch the cooler from the big closet by the front door. I can't stand them warm. Grab that big ice pack out of the freezer, would you? We settled back down at the kitchen table and watched the storm rage outside the windows. The candles flickered and wavered in the stealthy drafts that found their way

through the walls of the old farmhouse, making the shadows skitter and dance. across the walls. Well, choking on the barrel of a pistol straightened up the old boy's attitude right quick. He said his name was Otto Heinemann, and he'd been sent to the village to take charge of the outposts

just a few months before the D-Day invasion. He claimed most of the unit had runoff into the woods when the Allies came storming through, himself included, and that he'd only just come back that very day to rob the village for supplies. Now, your dad didn't believe this story for a second. Why the hell would they send a high-ranking officer

to take command of a tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere? He nodded along with everything the Major Heineman was saying, playing it cool, and then he asks, Why do these people hate you so much? What were you doing to them? The slimy shit weasel got real nervous and went, Well, of course, the people hate us, we defeated them. Wally wagged a finger in his face and told him,

That's not much of an answer, Major. Why don't you try again? The officer saw the look in Wally's eyes and sniveled. There may have been some difficulties between the villagers and a small group of my men. I investigated the situation. and sent the troublemakers away. Henry reached into his

trusty old cooler and pulled out of fresh beer. He managed to pop it open without using the tab opener, and he flashed a cheerful grin. Look at that. He crowed. Open in cans and everything today. What do you think, kid?

Maybe I'm turning the corner on this old age bullshit. I smiled and said, well, maybe. We'll have to see how you're feeling tomorrow. It was a long day. Anyway, that German officer was obviously full of shit. Oh, right up to his eyeballs.

Henry agreed. Wally stared him down for a while and let him squirm in his chair. And then he says, There were some difficulties? Well, you don't say. What kind of difficulties are we talking about here, fella? Some rape, murder, those kinds of difficulties? The officer tried to say he never done anything wrong,

and Wally gave the bastard a good hard whack on the noggin with his pistol. Blood started running down his face, and he cowered behind his hands. Wally said he had to walk outside right then and there. Or he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from killing the son of a bitch. He found his men talking with a few of the villagers. One was a kid, barely in his teens, a boy named John Paul. de Chardin. I tapped my knife and said,

The initials. This knife belonged to the kid? I'm getting there. Henry snorted. Hold your horses. Now, Jean-Paul could speak some English, and one of Wally's boys could speak some French. So, between them, they were able to hammer out

one hell of a tail to everyone else. As it turns out, Major Otto Heineman was actually corporal. April Otto Heineman, he'd led a revolt against the sergeant who was in charge of the outpost, and they shot him out in the field. Now, I imagine something like that probably would have ended with a swift round of executions back in the heyday of the French occupation, but communication and order was breaking down. They were pretty much on their own out there. Heart of darkness, I said, and Henry gave me a blank stare. Heart of what? What the hell are you talking about over there?

It's an old book. Never mind. I can imagine the kind of horrible shit that was going on after the revolt. Well, Otto had himself an obsession with the occult. I've actually read that a lot of the Nazi commanders were experimenting with black magic and occult stuff. They were dabbling with pretty much anything that might give them an advantage in the war. I don't know if it's true, but I'd rather even tried to build themselves a goddamn UFO. As for Otto Heinenman, he was convinced he could use human sacrifice to communicate with the dead. He'd torture and murder people in a barn and the outskirts of the village, him in his circle of followers,

and he would try to speak with the departed or with things that had never been alive. The night before the invasion, Otto made contact. A misty form appeared above a circle of blood, and it told them to run for the woods. They all left that same night. When the invasion came marching through, not a single allied bullet passed over their heads, the cowards. I realized I was sitting at the edge of my chair in a tense, awkward position, and I forced myself to scoop back and relax. I said, well, Dad ended up getting a few of them anyway. Better late than never.

I suppose. Henry muttered. Your dad asked the kid how he knew about any of that, and Jean-Paul said, I was there what had happened. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and showed them the healing cuts on his back. They'd hung him from a support beam by his ankles,

and they bled him into a circle Otto drew in the dirt, Before each cut, Otto would look up at the ceiling of the barn and say, A gift of life, hot and fresh. I wanced in sympathy and shook my head. Jesus Christ! So he left him hanging there and ran? Yep. His grandma come in and cut him down soon as they left.

Now, Otto set up a camp deep in the woods, and they only ventured into the village to find food, or to snatch up a warm body for their rituals. The villagers wanted revenge. Blood had been spilled, and they demanded blood in return. I wrinkled my nose and said, I'm pretty sure I would have handed over those assholes in a harpy. Fuck them.

Yeah, your dad wanted to hand the kid a pistol and let him take care of business, but he needed Otto alive for a little while longer. They marched him into the woods and made him lead them to the camp. Otto's hideout turned out to be just a bunch of Zelpan tents standing in a circle around a cold fire pit.

No one was there. Wally looked over at Otto and said, Looks like your boys ran off without you, Adolf. Otto just smiled at him and said, Perhaps they did, we will see. Just then, someone hollers, Come over here and look at this, So Wally goes on over to see what's happening,

and there's a dead body dangling by its ankles from a tree branch. They had hung someone upside down and skinned him alive. Even his eyelids were gone. The body was so fresh, it was still glistening. Wally said he looked at it for a minute or two, trying to wrap his head around the horrible cruelty of such an awful fucking thing. And then he pulled out his trench knife and yell. bring him over here.

They dragged Otto over and made him get on his knees, while Wally shows him the knife and says, I ain't going to waste good ammunition on a worm like you. But I'll tell you what, there, Major Heineman. You're going to give that man a proper burial first. Someone go find him a shovel. He's got himself a couple holes to dig. Henry paused to pour some beard down his throat.

He lit a cigarette on a candle flame and watch the smoke drift across the stuttering shadows on the ceiling. Wally handed his knife to a private and told him to go cut down the body. Otto watches him hand over the knife, and suddenly he gets a look on his face, you know, like a light bulb went on in his head, and he starts smiling again. Wally took the crowd over to a clearing between two trees and said,

Get digging, asshole, so Otto starts digging his own grave, still smiling away. While that's happening, the private drags over a chopping block to use as a step ladder. Now when he starts sawing at the rope, two things happened at once. Otto threw himself flat on the ground

and an explosion knocked just about everyone right on their ass. Wally could hear the screams of his men over the ringing in his ears. He said his first coherent thought was don't let that son of a bitch get away. And he pulled him, to his seat. He could see bits and pieces of body parts all over the ground. Some belonged to the dead man in the tree, and some belonged to the private that tried to cut it down. Most of his squad were either lying on the ground or staggering around with blood on their fatigues. Wally and Otto were the only ones who were far enough away from the detonation to escape without a scratch. Everyone else got hurt real bad.

Wally didn't have no choice, but to leave them to their suffering and chased Otto through the woods. They ended up at a steep cliff overlooking a river. Wally saw that Otto wasn't going to stop, so he took a shot with his rifle and missed. Otto ran right up and jumped off the edge of the cliff. Wally scanned the river below with his binoculars for a body, but it was like the man had jumped off the cliff and right into the netherworld. He was gone. held up a hand and said, just a second, Henry.

Let me into that cooler. I'm dry. I popped the tab and raked the third of the can and two swallows. My biceps and forearms were throbbing from working this all day. The beer was definitely helping dull the pain. It was going down smooth, as it always did. I'm definitely my father's son. I cleared my throat and asked. I'm guessing Grandpa was a boozer, wasn't he?

Henry looked at me in surprise. He said, You're talking about your biological grandpa, I suppose. Well, he became a bootleger after he left us to sink or swim out in the middle of nowhere. If that tells you anything. I sighed. Yeah, I'm not surprised. Dad was an alcoholic, too.

Let's face it, Henry, you definitely have a bit of a dependence going on. Now, don't look at me like that. You drink too much, and so do I. Not as much as my dad. But this beer gut didn't come from nowhere. Alcoholism runs in the family. You know it takes years off your life, right? You should think about cutting down.

And I should honestly do the same. Henry rubbed his head in irritation and growled. What the fuck is this? I'm telling a goddamn story over here, kiddo. Do you mind? Well, I'm just saying that maybe we should... Oh, can it. Hinner snapped.

What the hell are you on about anyway? People drink. It's what they do. They smoke, drink. You need cheeseburgers until the day they fall down and die. Get the hell over it already, would you? Jesus Christ, I feel like I'm one sneeze away from getting shoved into an iron lung over here. Relax with all this worrying about my house, huh?

You're giving me a goddamn rash. I was stunned into silence. Henry put down his beer and mimicked my open-mouth expression of shock so accurately that I started to laugh. Well, come on, kid. What do you want from me? Lay off with the weird looks and questions all the time. I'll die when I die, and I promise it won't be a moment sooner. Until then, I'll drink my beer and smoke my cigarettes, and I'll live as I damn well, please. I looked down at the table and said, I won't stop being concerned about you. Well, and I'll try to put a lid on it, I guess.

Good. Henry rumbled. Because I swear to God, I'll throw you out into the rain if you don't stop circling around like a goddamn buzzard. Jesus Christ, boy. Anyway, your dad was... God damn it, where the hell was I? Dad chased the guy right off a cliff. I think I already know why no one was at the camp.

They circle back and attacked the village. And they were probably waiting and watching for the Americans to come looking for their camp. They snuck in and butchered every single one of them. Your father was trying to reach someone on the radio, but he wasn't getting the response from the men he'd left behind to guard the rest of the prisoners. He left the dead and dying men in the woods and double-timed it back to the village. It was after sunset by the time he got to the village gate, and he stumbled over the first body in the dark.

It was one of his own men. While he could see, there had been a battle, and his side had lost. He found the rest of them lying in the street. Otto's boys had stripped them, lined them all up, and executed them. He walked around the village with a kerosene lantern trying to identify the bodies of the men he had served with,

and the last body he found was Jean-Pont. Paul, the kid he was talking to earlier. He was lying a little further down the street. They shot him down as he tried to run away. Wally rolled the kid over and saw there was something clenched in his hand. He fried open his cold fingers, and there it was, the very same pocket knife that's sitting here on my kitchen table. He opened the blade and saw that it was sharp. Wally lost his trench knife when the bomb went off, and even a small blade is better than nothing at all, as long as it sharp. He tucked it away and started thinking about what he was going to do next.

They destroyed the radio before they left and ransacked all the supplies while they were at it. There was no doubt in his mind that they all had to die, but there was no way he could take them all out by himself. Wally thought about it for a while, and then he walked out to the barn, where Otto and his cult had been practicing their rituals. He drew a circle in the dirt and dropped Jean-Paul's blood-soaked handkerchief in the middle. Ben cut the back of his hand with Jean-Paul's knife

and dribbled some of his own blood along the edge of the circle. When he was done, he stepped back and said, I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. So if you can hear me, well, come on out, you son of a bitch. Your dad stood by the circle and waited. Almost ten minutes dragged by and nothing happened. He said to himself, This is a bunch of superstitious bullshit.

And he leaned down to grab the lantern and head out. As his hand touched the handle, the lantern suddenly went out. Just poof. Lit one second, cold and dead the next. Wally held his breath and listened in the dark, the only noise was the breeze, whistling through the gaps in the barn boards and the thudding of his own pounding heart.

Wally cleared his throat and called out, Is anyone there? Show yourself. There was a shuffling footstep from somewhere behind him, and he spun around with his pistol in hand. He could just barely make out a shadowy figure standing in the doorway of the barn. He yelled,

Put your hands in the air and identify yourself. At that moment, the moon came out from behind the clouds. When he saw what was standing there, he whispered, oh, sweet Jesus, and almost fainted, because the figure standing in the doorway was Jean-Paul's dead body. I felt the hair prick up on my arms. I gulped down the rest of my beer and muttered. Oh, hell. I don't like that image at all.

I would have shit myself and died on the spot. Henry agreed. The dead boy gave him a bloody grin in the moonlight and croaked. Who calls me hence from the shadows? Wally was shaking so bad, he almost dropped his gun. He said, I did. I gave you an offering, and now I want to ask for something in return. The corpse lurched into the barn and Wally forced.

himself to stand his ground. It crowded in close enough for Wally to smell the dead boys exposed innards, and it said, What do you desire? He looked down into the thing's dead, glassy eyes and said, I want revenge. Well, the demon gave Wally a god-awful smile, and it shambled over to the circle Wally had drawn in the dirt. It dropped onto all fours to see. The sniffed the bloody handkerchief. It traced a finger over the circle, smiling away with its eyes looking at nothing at all. It said, you stand alone. Your fellow warriors lay cold on the ground. You will need to even the odds against you. The awful thing balled up the bloody handkerchief and squeezed it tight between its palms. When it opened them, it was holding a strange little ball.

made of oven-fired clay. It looked a bit like a grenade. It dropped the bulb in Wally's trembling hands and said, Once broken, a terrible flame will devour anything it touches. Handle it with care, and remember to be wary of your enemy. He is a weak man, but he's cunning. Wally stammered, but he's dead. I saw him jump off a cliff.

The demon shook its... said and told him, it may have appeared so, but your enemy has given us many offerings, and he has been gifted many tricks and glamorous in turn. He still lives, and he will be waiting for you. Beware. While he blinked, and just like that, he found himself standing alone in the dark. He said he would have thought the whole thing was a crazy hallucination, except he was still holding that rough little clay bulb in his hands. He could feel something sloshing around inside of it. He walked outside and saw the kerosene lantern glowing and flickering in the distance.

He didn't know what else to do, so he followed after the light, chasing the devil across foreign soil in the dead of night. Can you imagine that? I looked at the candle flame dancing on the table in front of us, and I said, yeah, I can imagine that. I just can't imagine doing it myself. He had a lot of guts, your dad. He wasn't a good man, but he had a lot of guts.

He kept following that distant light, and every time he drew close, it would disappear and reappear somewhere further away. This went on for an hour or so, and then a decrepit old farmhouse popped up in the distance. He knew they'd be in there, sleeping off their stolen wine, in their stolen beds.

He jumped into a ditch at the side of the road and crept along until he was close enough to see the silhouette of a century in the moonlight, standing in the road in front of the farmhouse and smoking a cigarette behind his cupped hands. Wally crawled on his belly until he was close enough to run in and bash the guy in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle.

Wally gave him a few more cracks when the guy went down, just to make sure. Then he snuck up to the house to peer through a window. He could see them all sleeping in there by the light of the fireplace, snoring all over the furniture and floor.

Wally pulled out the grenade, braced himself for whatever might come next, and he tossed it through the open window. It shattered into pieces on the floorboards and all hell broke loose. A wave of blue fire rolled across the room and lit up everything it touched. They barely had time to scream before the entire house was engulfed by those intense blue flames. Wally left them to burn and started searching the

rest of the property. He figured Otto either burned alive with the rest of his men or his body was floating around somewhere in that river. But of course, it wasn't going to be so simple, because evil is a weed. It's hard to kill. Henry got a fresh beer out of the cooler and popped a tab. Two for two. He smirked and raised his can in the air. A toast to an old man that's going to die someday.

There's still all kinds of life in this old carcass, kiddo. All kinds. I'll outlive you all. It'll just be me sitting. there with a six-pack in the middle of a giant radioactive desert. You paint a compelling picture, Henry. That's one of those my ways, if you'd be so kind. Henry pushed a beer across the table,

and the sound the can made against a varnished wood jarred loose another unpleasant memory. This time I was sitting at a table in a smoky little bar with Delilah, the girl I was dating at the time. I'd just turned 21, on. And I was in a dark mood that night. I'd been laid off from my job at a factory that very same day. And I already knew I was going to wind up getting evicted from my apartment. It'd be the third time in as many years. As per usual, I had nowhere to go. And I would end up

losing most of the worldly possessions I'd work so hard to acquire since the last time I was evicted for non-payment. The radio, furniture, dishes, the television, anything I couldn't pack into a contractor-sized garbage bag and sling over my shoulder. It would all be gone. Delilah was in the middle of a long rambling speech about why she couldn't let me stay with her, and I was barely listening. It didn't matter.

I already knew the relationship was over. I knew it as soon as I told her I'd been laid off. for my job. That didn't matter either. I knew there'd be other girls, other minimum wage of labor jobs, other bar rooms, and other beers. What mattered was the hard days to lay ahead, the long weeks of couch surfing and cheap hotel rooms, pounding the pavement and being told to pound sand, stealing change and

small items from unlocked cars, selling dope, doing whatever I think. could eat two meals a day from the dollar menu at McDonald's. It was my 21st birthday, and Jesus, age Christ, I was already so fucking tired of it. All of it. As far as I was concerned, my fair weather fling could gather up her bullshit excuses and go jump off the Boston Bridge. She could graham the entire rotten planet up her ass and shit a cosmic diamond for all I care.

It simply didn't matter. The waitress plunked a fresh beer on the table and slid it over. I reached forward and missed. It slid clear off the table and sailed off the edge, hitting the floor and splattering on the workboots of a big red-faced man in denim overalls and a grubby-looking Hooters t-shirt. He stopped walking, looked down at his feet and slurred. What's what the fuck you're doing, asshole?

The fuck is that? You got all of my boots. I blinked up at his bearded furious face and said, It's not my fault, man. I tried to grab it and missed. I'm sorry. My new acquaintance gave me a yellow-toothed smile and repeated, You're sorry?

Sorry for what, being a pussy? If y'all can't hold on to your beer, don't come out to the bar, you little pussy-ass bitch. You're trying to start some shit. The world around me went murky and distant. I grinned back at him, then turned my head to grin over at the waitress and Delilah before snaking my arm out and seizing him by the crotch. He bellowed in pain and surprised and tried to pry my hand off his groin.

I yanked him in close by his nuttack and jumped up to launch a headbud into his mouth. Delilah screamed, No, what are you doing? But her voice was distant, unimportant. I tackled my new friend to the floor and scrambled a rain down a fury of punches before the big lumbering bastard could throw me off and gain the upper hand. Heard on his face until the thick arm suddenly encirple my neck, instantly squeezing off my air. I was dragged to the side exit by the bouncer, who promptly shoved me through the door and hurled me onto the sidewalk. The bouncer snarled.

Get the fuck out of here, moron. We're going to call the cops. I threw back my head and laughed at his scowling face from my prone position on the sidewalk. Delalik came bursting past him and started yelling at me. I rolled onto my hands and knees and hauled myself to my feet with the pole of a street light. Laughing my ass off the entire time. I buried my face against my arms, still leaning against the pole and I chuckled. Shut up, would you?

We're done. There, feel better now? I did it for you. You're free as a bird, babe. Like, get the fuck away from me. She was shocked into silence. I turned around and satir is swimming in her eyes. All at once it dawned on me that I was turned into a drunken fucking asshole.

Just like my dad. And it made me start laughing again. I laughed right in her face. Then I laughed at her back as she walked away from me. I was still laughing when the cops picked me up a little ways down the street, even as they were snapping on the cuffs and reading me my rights. I couldn't stop laughing. One of the cops looked at me in disgust and said,

What's so funny, bud? You're going to jail tonight. I just shook my head and giggled. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Just put me in the car and take me away, Flatfoot. Just do your fucking job. The cop skinned his lips back from his teeth and pulled out his heavy flashlight.

Next thing I can remember is waking up to one of my cellmates shaking me and whispering. You dead or something, man. Come on, homie. Don't you be no dead body in here with me? I realized Henry was staring at me expectantly, and I said, What? What he's staring at? Tell the damn story already.

Dad burned down the farmhouse with the magic grenade, and then what? Henry snorted and leaned back in his chair, he said. You don't believe a word of this, do you? Then I shook my head. You got some mighty tall tales, Henry. I enjoy them very much, and I'm doing my very best to get it all down, because I intend to put together a goddamn cracker of a short story collection, someday. Now's that for an answer. Henry inhaled deeply inside.

You're mad at me, aren't you? You're mad. I'm not taking this whole getting old and dying thing more seriously. I thought my words over carefully before I lied them to my mouth. I said, I care about you, Henry. I had a hard time after I left home. You bailed me out and saved me. You're more of a dad to me than my real dad ever was, and that's a truth. I was glad you felt good enough to get out there with me today. But days like that are coming fewer and farther between all the time. I worry about your health. I want you to go to the doctor and get a full physical done. Blood work and the whole nine yards. Will you do that for me, Henry? Please. Henry gave me a kindly smile and said,

Listen, kid. There ain't no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. I've got cancer. I gaped at him for a moment, then blurted. No. Cancer? Where's the tumor? Oh, there's more than one.

He murmured. They're pressing on some nerves. That's why I've been having problems with the hands lately. They call it peripheral neuropathy. And it's a real bitch. Now, I got some good health insurance, so don't you worry about any of that. They're going to operate soon, and I'll be doing the chemo. Don't worry, I'll be all right.

I sat there for a minute and watched the rain roll down the windows. Finally, I cleared the thickness in my throat that threatened to make my voice hoarse and quavery, and I said, To answer your question from before, no. I don't believe your stories. Not exactly. I think they're fucking fabulous and super entertaining. But I don't think they're the truth.

Henry waved a dismissive hand and said, It's a big, weird old world out there, kiddo. You and me, we don't know jack shit about it. I can only tell you what I've seen and heard, and you can do whatever you want with it from there. But keep listening before you come. called bullshit because this story ain't done yet. Now, Otto Heineman did have a few tricks and glimmers up his sleeve, just like the dead boy told your dad. He didn't die when he jumped off

that cliff because he never jumped at all. There's probably no magic that can let someone jump off a cliff and disappear in the thin air, but they could make someone else think they did. Like any bully, Otto was a coward at heart. A real fight was the last thing he wanted, so he cast his little trick and hid in the weeds until Wally was gone, and then he followed him. Your dad didn't have any way to call for help, so he decided it would be best to hunker down in a shed behind the burning farmhouse and wait for dawn before he made another move. It had been a long, awful day in a long, awful war, and sheer exhaustion got the better of him. I remember Wally turning to me in the dark while we were sitting there in my truck, and he said, I don't even remember what I was dreaming

about, but all of a sudden there's Jean Paul standing there with blood dripping from his clothes. He makes a gun with his finger and thumb like this, and points it at my chest and says, Wake up! No word of a lie, I opened my eyes just in time to see the barrel of a rifle poking in through the doorway. Wally rolled out of the way and a round punched a hole in the floorboards where he'd been sleeping just seconds before. He pulled out his pistol and fired a couple shots through the door. But Otto already dropped his rifle and was running away. Wally chased after him and fired another shot, and this time Otto did.

dropped like a stone in the barren field beside the barnyard. Wally walked up close enough to put another one in his back, and he didn't get any reaction. Otto was dead. He knelt down beside the body and let out a scream. It wasn't Otto Heineman he was looking at. It was himself. There was a hole the size of his fist where his forehead used to be. His own dead body looked at. He was an His own dead body looked up at him with blood in his eyes and weas. He has many tricks and grammars. He grabbed him by the neck, started strangling him. He struggled with this horrible thing in the dirt for a few seconds, fighting for his life.

And then he realized he was rolling around and strangling himself with his own two hands. There was nothing there. he got up, panting for breath with dirt in his hair, and screamed, Show yourself, God damn you, show yourself. He heard laughter in the wind, and he fired a few more shots into the night before it dawned on him. Otto was trying to get him to waste the last of his ammunition. In his mind, the voice of a dead boy told him to drop his pistol, and he pulled out John Paul's pocket knife instead.

He held it up by the blood. played in the moonlight, so Otto could see it from wherever he was hiding in the shadows. He slowly started spinning in a circle on his heel, and he called out, maybe I made a deal too, fucker. Maybe I got a few tricks of my own, you dirty goddamn crout. Maybe I'll do something like this. He threw the knife at some random spot in the darkness. It whistled through the air and appeared to stick right into nothing of all. There was a shriek of pain and suddenly there was Otto, reeling around and screaming, with Jean-Paul's knife jutting out of his eyeball. He dropped his own knife and tried to run,

but your dad was already on him. Wally took him down and pinned his head into the dirt with his knee. Otto begged for mercy, but he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Wally pulled a knife out of the evil bastard's eyeball and slid his throat. from here to ear. I muttered, Holy Jesus. Then I drank some more beer. And that was that, I guess.

Henry shook his head grimly and sad. Not quite. While Otto was flopping around and choking on his own blood, Wally saw something come floating out of the darkness. A wispy shape made of moths and mosquitoes and swirling motes of dirt. It was more of a suggestion of a form than an actual shape, if that makes sense. Otto saw it coming too, and he tried to crawl away, but the figure swept over him like a wave.

Wally said that for just a brief second it looked like Otto was being dragged down into the ground, and then he was gone. Wally thought he heard a scream somewhere in the distance. After that, all he could hear was the wind, and he knew that it was over. Your dad was finished talking. We sat there in the truck for a while longer, not saying much. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. I had to get the hell home and get some sleep,

but there was one more thing I needed to say before I left. I turned to him and said, you've got to get your anger under control, Wally, and you're drinking too. What happened tonight? It can't never happen again. You've got to make peace with yourself right now, or you'll never be free. I don't think he listened. I chuckled and Henry shook his head. No, he didn't.

But I had to try. He was my brother. Henry coughed into his fist and made a face. Well, shit. I think I'm starting to get tuckered out. Anyhow, this knife of yours has got quite a history. I don't know if you're going to want to carry it around anymore, but either way, I think you should keep it. It certainly does, I agreed, and I put the knife back in my pocket. Dad had quite a history, and so do you, and so do I. My history is empty cupboards and empty bottles in the kitchen counter. It's moving every year for 14 years in a row, and never having shoes that actually fit. My history is a fist, Henry, and even though he's been dead over 20 years, I can still feel the impact.

Henry was quiet for a while, and then he stood up and said, Hey, come here, kiddo. I got up, and for the first time in my whole entire life, Henry gave me a hug. I'm at least five inches taller and 60 pounds heavier, but I felt like a child in his arms. He sighed. I guess you could have used one of these long-time.

ago. And I started crying. I tried to pull away, but Henry kept me close. And it was okay. It wasn't great. But it was okay. It can be a hard thing for a man to do to allow his tears to flow. A bottle or a fist.

That's all some of us have ever known. It's hard to let it out. It's really fucking hard. After a while, Henry pulled back and said, Okay, now you're slobbering all over my goddamn shirt. And I started to laugh. Henry cracked up, too. We both cackled like loons and the fluttering glow with the candles.

When I finally got under control, I sat back down and chugged the rest of my beer. I plucked down the empty can and let out a long, shudder and breath. You can't die, I'm Henry. Do you hear me? You just can't. It's settled then. He grinned. I'll live forever.

Happy? Listen, kiddo. I'm not ready to shuffle into my grave just yet. I'm going to have the surgery and do all that other crap. I'm going to fight this thing. Maybe I'll lose. Maybe I'll win. I don't know.

But I'm going to fight this thing because I'm a fighter. And so are you. I shrugged and looked down at the take. I know you are, Henry. I just... Oh, fuck it. And how for this mushy stuff tonight? I'm ready for bed.

I bedded down on the big, floral patterned couch in the living room, just like when I was a kid. And I fell asleep before I even had the chance to start worrying about the future. In the morning I had a bit of a hangover. I was so sore from working the chainsaw that I could barely get my... I could barely get my sorry ass off the couch. Henry cooked us up big breakfast of eggs and toast, and the atmosphere between us felt better than the night before. Still not great, but better than just okay. And that would I have to do. Henry walked me out to my car. He crouched down to look at me

through the driver's side window and said, I might need some help getting to my appointment. Do you think you can drive me if I can't do it myself? I felt that tightness in my chest again, and I pushed it down and said, Yeah, of course. Either me or Michelle. We can do that for you, no problem. Henry smiled and patted the roof of my car.

Good. Thank you. We'll do as we do, kiddo, because that's all we can do. Remember that. Well, you better get going. Traffic starts to get crazy on the highway after the noon hour. I stuck my arm out the window and gave him a wave as I rolled away down the road, and Henry waved back. There was a great sadness in the way he stuck his hand in his pockets and slump back into the house as I pulled out of his driveway. We're all afraid to die, even a tough old buzzer like Henry.

The grave is cold, and the grave is cold. I promise of better things on the other side seems to get thinner with each year I grow older. Life is hard. Is death really any better? Before I hit the highway, I went out of my way to make a stop at the cemetery where my father's buried. I hadn't visited his grave in over 15 years. I stood there for a while with my head bow, thinking of nothing in particular. Then I placed the pocket knife on top of his gravestone.

When I was ready to leave, I whispered, Fuck you, asshole. And walked away without looking back. I don't think I'll ever be coming back for another visit. In life, my father wanted nothing more than to be alone with his misery. And now, he can have his wish for all eternity. As for Henry and I, well, we'll do as we do. Because that's all we can do.

Henry's a fighter, as am I, as we all are, those us who still live and draw breath anyway. Still, is death the final rest, or do our trials and tribulations continue in the afterlife? I'd like to think we're allowed to lay peacefully in our graves. Then I think of Otto Heinemann's last scream in the darkness, and I'm honestly not so sure about that anymore. More information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

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