Grandpappy by Patrick C. Harrison III

Grandpappy by Patrick C. Harrison III

Author:Patrick C. Harrison III [Harrison, Patrick C. III]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Adult
ISBN: 9798838179890
Google: 9P-lzwEACAAJ
Amazon: B0B1BJDFHS
Barnesnoble: B0B1BJDFHS
Goodreads: 61400466
Publisher: Independently published
Published: 2022-01-01T05:00:00+00:00


twenty-one

I wake up drenched in sweat in Mom’s old bed, the air conditioning unit in the window rattling like mad. The damn thing is probably sputtering slowly to its eventual demise. Without looking at the clock or my phone, I know it’s the middle of the night, sometime between two and three. My body tells me this somehow.

It wasn’t the noisy AC unit or my sweat-soaked clothes that woke me.

It’s the crying baby.

I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it several nights in a row now. Maybe every night since I’ve been here, however many nights that is. Somewhere between two and two-dozen. Either way, I’m getting sick of that crying.

“Hush up with the crying!” I yell, rolling to my back and laying my arm across my eyes.

I’m laying on top of the crumpled comforter, fully clothed, even with shoes on. The baby keeps crying. Louder now, I think.

“Shut up the goddamn crying!”

The baby does not shut up the goddamn crying. It seems to get even louder. Or angrier. Do babies get angry? That cry sounds angry. Feed me some fucking mush and give me my fucking bottle, you lousy excuse for a parent, that cry says. Change my diaper! Wipe my ass! Pat my back and make me burp, you fucking slug of a human!

Babies are a lot like Grandpappy, except they make more noise.

Whose baby is that and why the hell is it in the house? Babies generally don’t participate in breaking and entering operations. Not that I’ve ever heard of anyway. And they certainly don’t do it one night after another. Maybe the bastard isn’t in the house. Sure as hell sounds like it is, though. Grandpappy’s nearest neighbors aren’t close enough for me to hear such a sound so clearly. Sounds like the fucker is in the hall right outside my door. I mean, my mom’s former door.

“Please get your baby out of the house before I call the police,” I say, not quite yelling. I’m a reasonable man. If whoever is in the house takes the baby and leaves, I’ll happily do nothing but roll over and go back to sleep.

But the baby keeps crying.

“Fuck,” I say, sitting up quickly, swinging my legs off the bed, my head suddenly twirling with dizziness. I think I’m dehydrated or something.

Groaning, I lift myself from the bed and sway my way toward the door, feeling like I’m walking on a boat in the high seas. I jerk the door open.

“I said—” I start but then fall silent, blinking my eyes, adjusting to what I’m seeing in the hallway.

There is the baby. Right outside the door, just the way it sounded, crying loud as ever.

Well…it’s not an entire baby; only half of one.

The head and torso of a baby are in the hallway crying. It’s a chunky little thing, what’s left of it, and its beefy arms are trying unsuccessfully to crawl across the floor. It would have a lot easier time if it had some legs to help push it along.



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