August's Eyes by Glenn Rolfe

Author:Glenn Rolfe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror; gothic fantasy; dark fantasy; flame tree press; creepy stories; serial killer fiction
Publisher: Flame Tree Publishing
Published: 2021-07-26T12:48:27+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

John’s car sat alone in the driveway. Pat rolled onto the lawn, ditched his bike in the dooryard and walked straight to the front steps. He knocked on the door and waited. There was a bloody abrasion over the back of his right wrist. He studied it to see if it was swollen or not. It was sore, but he didn’t think it was broken.

When no one came to the door, he knocked again. Harder this time.

He heard a thump come from behind the barrier and heard the creak of the floorboards as someone approached.

A few seconds later, John’s sleepy face appeared.

“Pat, what the hell happened to you?”

“Can I come in?” Pat asked.

“Of course.” John moved aside and gestured for him to enter. “Jesus, man,” he said as he closed the door.

Pat paced by the sofa.

“You gonna tell me what the fuck happened or what?”

What had happened? He’d gone to see a creepy guy about a graveyard job, freaked the hell out and then dumped it on his bike like an idiot.

Tears leaked from his eyes.

“Hey, sit down,” John said.

Pat did.

“Now, are you okay?”

Pat nodded, wiping his cheeks with the bottom of his shirt. “Yeah,” he said. “I just…. I dumped my bike.”

“Your wrist is bleeding, and it looks like your shoulder is too.”

Pat looked down and saw that John was right. There was a dark wet splotch where the pain pulsed beneath the white fabric. He fingered the collar of his t-shirt and tugged the material back to look at the wound. A glistening sheen of blood covered the ugly scrape.

“Come on,” John said, getting to his feet and gesturing toward the hall. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Pat followed John down the short hallway and into the bathroom.

In the mirror, Pat saw a battered kid who would definitely freak his mother out. The right side of his eye was scorched dark red, a patch of scraped flesh exposed and raw.

John handed him a washcloth and a bar of Dial soap.

“Clean the dirt out as best you can. I’ll go grab a cold pack for your face…or shoulder, whichever you want to put it on.”

“Thanks,” Pat said, wincing as he tended to the scuff on his face.

A minute later, John returned. “Here,” he said, handing Pat the cold pack.

Pat pressed it against the right side of his eye.

“Take that shirt off. I’ll patch that shoulder up first.”

Pat did as he asked.

“So,” John said as he pressed a warm washcloth to the shoulder wound, “let’s hear it.”

“I went to Alvin Caswell’s place,” Pat said. “I went to see if he’d be willing to part with one of the cemeteries he takes care of and—”

John stopped and looked at him. “He did this to you?”

“No, I dumped my bike, like I said, but I was rushing down his driveway and hit a divot or something.”

“You’d tell me if something happened, right?”

“Of course,” Pat said.

John went back to the wound.

“So, my mom, well, she got me all creeped out about this guy.”

“Yeah,” John said.

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