The Gore by Joe Citro

Author:Joe Citro [Citro, Joseph A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press

Harley’s house looked faded, old, and oddly still in the clear morning light. A mist rose from the tall grass surrounding the place as last night’s dew transformed into vapor. The swirling vapor-ghosts vanished quickly as they drifted up to meet warmer air.

The sagging porch roof, braced by new-looking two-by-fours, had the gentle sloping contours of a smiling mouth. Above it two upstairs windows stared like vacant eyes at the sunrise. The house’s faded paint peeled like sunburned skin.

Roger rushed across the lawn. In two noisy steps he clattered across the porch and pounded loudly on the closed door. He listened for a stirring within.

Nothing.

Still no response when he knocked again.

He looked through the porch window on the left, then its twin on the right. No movement in the dark interior. The upright shapes of Harley’s ancient furniture looked like the shadowy forms of crouching attackers waiting for the order to spring.

Roger felt a moment of self-doubt. He wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps morning light and clarity of thought had made his nightmare-fears vanish like the vapor-ghosts.

What if all this is a false alarm?

What if he was making a 14-karat fool of himself?

He waited, looked around, listened. Still Harley didn’t answer his knock. The old boy was certainly a sound sleeper.

Roger tried the door; it was unlocked. Pushing it open a crack, he called, “Harley!”

No answer.

Warm, musty air from inside wafted across Roger’s nostrils. He detected the pungent blend of wood and tobacco smoke. Many years had made these odors a permanent part of the house’s atmosphere. Mixed among those scents was the trace of something else, something sharp, unpleasant, a sweet-sickly odor. Roger figured cleanliness was not a high priority for the old man.

After knocking again Roger entered the house. He grappled around near the doorframe, searching for a light switch. Then he remembered — Harley had never seen the need for electricity. Fortunately the morning sun burning through the dirty windows provided enough light for Roger to move around without knocking things over.

Something clanged.

Metal on metal.

Roger’s breath locked in his lungs. Someone was in the kitchen!

He stuck his head through the kitchen door, looking for the source of the sound, calling out for Harley. The room was a mess — dirty plates, crusted pots and pans strewn everywhere. Empty cans littered the tabletop and counter: beans, hash, chili. Old Ballantine Ale bottles, containers for Harley’s home brew, stood like green-uniformed soldiers in random formation.

A field mouse darted across the countertop, rattling a pot’s lid in its frantic flight.

Roger exhaled. Heart still pounding from surprise, he checked the parlor, the back room, and the tiny pantry. When he found the door to the cellar he pulled it open.

“Harley!”

Nope. Not down there. . . .

That’s it, thought Roger, he’s gotta be sleeping. He headed back toward the front door where the stairway led to the second floor.

For a moment his attention arrested on the tall grandfather clock in the hall. It was seventeen minutes after five.

I can’t believe all this noise hasn’t wakened him.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.