Snipe Hunting

Status: Finished

Snipe Hunting

Status: Finished

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Snipe Hunting

Short Story by: catt dahman

Genre: Horror

Houses:

Short Story by: catt dahman

Details

Genre: Horror

Houses:

Summary

Grab your old feedbag and get ready to go snipe hunting! This mixed bag of creepiness has beautiful vampires, an unwilling alien, a surprising zombie, some ESP and a violent snipe hunt you'll never forget. Enjoy paybacks. obsessions, and more crazies than you can shake a stick at. Life gets wild when you are haunted by an insect, your friends are out to get you, and no where is safe anymore. Don't go in the woods and remember the locks on the doors won't work...there is no way out when you go on a snipe hunt.

Summary

Grab your old feedbag and get ready to go snipe hunting! This mixed bag of creepiness has beautiful vampires, an unwilling alien, a surprising zombie, some ESP and a violent snipe hunt you'll never forget. Enjoy paybacks. obsessions, and more crazies than you can shake a stick at. Life gets wild when you are haunted by an insect, your friends are out to get you, and no where is safe anymore. Don't go in the woods and remember the locks on the doors won't work...there is no way out when you go on a snipe hunt.

Content

Submitted: May 19, 2012

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Content

Submitted: May 19, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

Snipe Hunting

 In Laws Chapel, things begin to happen when the sun kisses the horizon, when crickets begin to chirp, katydids chorus, and screen doors snap closed.  Fathers shut off the lawn mowers and toss beer cans into the garbage before closing the garage doors, and mothers go about, closing the windows of the house for the evening.
If it is Thursday, a women’s group meets at eight o’clock in the evening to play bridge, drink cups of herbal tea, gossip, and share the town’s collective grief about anything from the new deputy’s uniforms to possums in the trash. At one of these gatherings, you’d see Marietta Knight, née Smithers with her too-tight slacks and homemade toll house cookies and vivid complaints about her simpering, lazy students and their ridiculously stupid parents who she swear are all out to get her. There would be Ellen Moore with her delicate finger sandwiches and racist and homophobic jokes that she tells with glee. Leisa Wells brings veggies and dip and a side dish of juicy information on all the patients who go to see the doctor she works for. Cami Norwood likes to bring desert and complain about the disgusting Catholic perverts, and the Godless Jews, and the dreadful Methodists who are one step from demon worship. And finally, you find, at these female gatherings, Theresa Gant, with her cheese plates and details from the police scanner she listens to day and night.
They are widows, who if you ask how their husbands died, will stop chattering with happy smiles and go cold as a witch’s teat. You might guess it was an accident, or a wild bear that had torn them apart, a gas leak, or a maniac on a rampage, but you would be wrong. No one said a thing, but when dusk came, doors closed, windows shut, and everyone went inside.
If you asked Emery McCollough why everyone feared the night, you’d get the truth about the little spit-and-ya-miss-it town, though you’d shake your head in disbelief. He would tell it all, although he would periodically laugh like a hyena and go blank as he told.
He would say that in the last of a lovely spring, as he kicked a can down the main street, he had run across a few of the local men who stood outside the local watering hole. They were more drunk than sober.
“Hi, Emery.” Ned Norwood called happily. He liked Emery pretty well, despite the fact the boy was some Bible thumping religion.
Emery said hello and laughed right along with them. His mama said they laughed at him, but he didn’t know that for sure, so he simply laughed when they did. “What are you doing?”
Jim Moore, careful to never act like a sissy or hold a hand shake too long for fear of catching an effeminate nature said, “We are having us one heated argument here.”
“You are?” Emery asked, “About what?”
Carl Wells covered a cough that he feared might be something serious and vowed he’d see the town doctor as soon as he could, “We’re arguing about who gets to go collect snipes.”
“Snipes?” Where are they?”
Ben Knight looked sad, “We’re awfully selfish. Emery…have you never caught a snipe?” he thought absently about how Emery was no-doubt a lazy student with few manners.
“We should be horse-whipped for being so greedy with the snipes.” Donny Gant wondered what kinds of crime were on tap for the night and was ready to head home soon. But his friends were on a bender now; he would have to wait.
“It’s my turn.” Ben said.
“I want to go.” Carl stated.
“Can I? Please let me.” Emery asked. He was almost jumping up and down in excitement.
“I guess we could let Emery have a turn.” Jim said.
Ned explained that Emery would have to go home and get an old feed sack, go out into the woods, sing the National Anthem as loudly as he could, and watch for the snipes, bagging them.
Emery repeated each step and ran away to snipe hunt. He was going to be a real-life snipe hunter too! The five men decided to have a few more beers in the tavern before they went to the woods to spy on Emery in the moonlight.
They saw him on the bank of the small stream, a stuffed feedbag beside him. Emery had a second feedbag he was holding open while he sang. The moon darted behind clouds before they could see anything but shapes, but there was something thrashing in the woods, coming right towards them.
All five men screamed a very long time.
But if you visit Laws Chapel, be sure to be off the streets at dusk, stay out of the woods, and pay Emery a visit if you get the time; if you’re very lucky, he will give you a rare treat and take you snipe hunting.
 


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