I thought if would be fun to write a short horror story on this blog. It usually helps me with creativity when I tinker with a genre I don't normally write. Here goes. Not plotting, just pansting. Not editing, just writing, just having a good time.
DAY OF THE MOLES
Tara leaned against the window. The gentle breeze shook the curtains. She frowned. It would only take a few minutes for her hair to get tangled. The rain had just abated. Soon she'd be able to go outside and tackle the moles. The ugly little critters had dug craters all over the yard. She sighed. She'd been blinded by love. That's the way it works for young brides. When Sam suggested they move to the country, well, she had been eager. Anything to please him. Besides, the country would provide a peaceful atmosphere in which to raise their kids. They might even get a few dogs, but those damn moles had to go.
"Tara, you're thinking too hard again."
The voice at the doorway interrupted her train of thoughts.
"Sam, did you call the exterminator like I asked you? I can't do everything around here, you know."
Sam regarded his young bride. His friends had teased him about marrying a woman half his age, but it had been out of his control. One look at those golden curls and honey-coated eyes and he'd been smitten for life. He reached out, took her in his arms, and silenced her complaints with a hardy kiss until she panted for air. Then, and only then did he answer her question.
"They're only moles. If you're so worried I'll go out there as soon as it stops raining. You shouldn't get so wound up. It's bad for the baby."
He rubbed a warm hand over the expanse of her belly. She glanced down at the large fingers then up at the tender smile playing at the corners of his lips. Her heart swelled. All frustration was easily forgotten. Before she could utter another word, he left her there by the window and hurried outside. She tucked the curtain aside and watched him exit the house with a shovel in his hand.
Sam glanced at his wife then held aloft his shovel like a sword. The theatrical gesture was mean to amuse her, but it made him feel like a knight. He dug deep into the ground succeeding in scattering a few moles. Casting the shovel aside, he dropped to his knees and peered into the hole. He thought his saw a paw.
A swift shove of his gloved hands found him elbow deep in dirt. He dug to the right, then to the left, then straight down. The scent of moist earth tickled his nose. The air tasted like nature. Immersed in the moment, he dug even deeper. Surely, moles would not burrow so deep.
He made to straighten up but couldn't move his arms. It was as if something were holding him still. He tugged harder, but the thing wouldn't let go. The moist earth that had just seconds ago offered so much comfort was growing warm, now hot. He squirmed, turned his head about, called out to Tara.
The young woman hurried out of the house. She almost stumbled over the threshold trying to reach her beloved. Two yards separated her from the broad expanse of his shoulders. She reached out. The piercing sound of his scream paralysed her with fear. Two seconds later, when she could finally propel her legs forward, Sam, the man who had become her life, had been swallowed by the ground. All that remained was a tattered shirt and a puddle of blood.
Socrates believed that the gods provided us with a type of insanity. The illness was responsible for poetry, mysticism, love, and philosophy. He called it Divine Madness. We call it intuition, inspiration, the muse. Regardless, I have been contaminated. This blog is an attempt to share the ramblings in my head by the subtle stroking of keys. I'm going to touch upon those situations that move me and define me as human.
