The gun in the nightstand calls to me, like a beacon, or as if it is some part of my being that has been separated from myself. What it would do to the people that I care about is the only thing keeping me from ending it all.

No matter what I do, no matter what I tell myself, the terrible question always comes back: why are you alive and intact, while better men were killed or crippled?

The phone goes off and I nearly jump out of my skin. Annoyed, I walk over to it, eager to silence the irritating sound. It is from my younger brother.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I should call more. I hate to ask, but I could really use your help.”

Horrified, I try to think of how I can tell him that I can barely afford to survive, let alone lend anyone money. I finally settle on the truth, “Listen, man, I would help, I would. It is just that I am between jobs right now and short on cash.”

“It’s not that. Can you come over?” there is a noticeable pause, “And can you bring your guns?”

Prowlers

The drive feels longer than it actually is. A straight shot up one of the area’s major highways gets me most of the way there. Then it is onto a farm to market, before turning off onto a side road; and another side road, and yet another. Backroads of backroads, a maze of them that runs so deep you start to wonder how folks got to and from their houses before GPS became normal. The gnarled blacktop of the FM turns into white dust and rock. Some of these roads look like they were cut into the earth, with tall bluffs on either side. Others feel like powder and fat stones were haphazardly piled onto the ground, and then given a once over with a bulldozer, so that the top is somewhat flat.

I start to see pieces of old furniture that have been dumped. The shiny silver, majestic gold, and metallic blue of empty beer cans litter the ditches.

Out here people tend to keep their property in good shape. You won’t find the lines of derelict cars or piles of sun-bleached plastic toys that you would in a trailer park or cheap development. Grass is more likely to be kept mowed; houses are far more likely to be made of brick or rock. But if you head down such roads you will still see your fair share of racecars and rebel flags; as well as hear the occasional gunshot, either from hunting or target practice.

Gallons of purple paint slathered on tree trunks and fence posts. Signs warn against trespassing, some are more threatening than others. Most homes sport heavy gates and high fences. Large dogs chase my truck from one end of their yards to the other. Out here the police can be a good forty-five minutes away; people have to fend for themselves.

People always act like Texas is a dead desert. Some parts are, but we have a bit of everything here. This particular part of the state is more of a forest than anything. Maybe not that thick or tall of a forest. Nothing like the Black Forest in Germany, or something like that. But it can get pretty hairy, almost like a hedgerow in some places. Although winter has taken a bit of a toll on it. In the summer there are places where the trees hang over the road so that they create an almost sunless tunnel. Now the bare branches hang over the pavement, twisting out like some Hollywood prop maker built them for an old horror flick.

I find the right road, and after something like twenty minutes I fly past his driveway, have to hit the brakes and backup. Then I see the gate and forget for a second that I did in fact remember to bring the key to the padlock that he had given me when he had first bought the property.

His driveway is a trillion miles long. It is basically two lines of dirt with grass growing up in the middle. The thing winds its way through patches of grass and tall brush, has high dirt berms in places. At one of the curves a big brown boulder sits, placed there who knows how long ago by glaciers, now being slowly devoured by the green and white patches of lichen that dot its surface.

I reach the final corner, cruise up the straightaway to the house. It is a nice place, built out of pink and red brick.

The old barn peaks out on the left side. A dilapidated ruin of faded red paint. I drive past a small white metal storage shed. The door is open, I can see that it contains a riding lawn mower, along with a bunch of random junk and tools piled up around it. On the other side of the house, a rusted-out tractor, looks like it is from the Dust Bowl. The tires are completely deflated. Tall grass and even a small tree have grown up around where the mower can’t get to it.

They are packing up the car, have it filled with bags and suitcases. His big red pickup sits beside it under the carport, along with a white, windowless van that I don’t recognize. His wife lugs an ancient off-tan suitcase into the trunk, spots me and starts walking to the spot where I am parking my truck next to his.

“Howdy,” she says, clearly struggling to smile, “Long time no see.”

I get out of the cab, “Ya, I should come by more. But, well, I’m still looking for a job and all.”

She adopts a reassuring tone, “We understand. What did he tell you?”

“Said you guys have been having trouble with prowlers. I asked him why you don’t get the police on it, but he just said that they wouldn’t do anything. I guess that the sheriff’s office is kind of spread thin out here in the sticks. Besides, what could they even do? Camp out in the woods and wait?”

She frowns, looks away, staring off into the trees, “It aint that.”

“What, you do something to piss off the local Gestapo?”

“No, not that. The local police, the sheriff’s deputies, and the guys over in Irebog are good people,” Irebog is a little town located about twenty minutes away, “They would help. It’s just that, well, I will let Jerry explain it.

“Okay,” I reply, unsure of what to make of things, “You and the kids leavin’?”

“Ya, staying with my sister until you boys can put a stop to this. I’m not gonna lie, I’m scared. You guys need to be careful.”

“You know me, I will.”

She gives me another smile before turning to head back into the house. My brother exits the front door with a big ass duffle bag in his hands. He smiles at me, “I see that you managed to find your way out here.”

“Ya, had to kill a minotaur, but I made it. How much crap do they need to spend a night at their aunt’s?”

“Hopefully just a night.”

The family’s little Jack Russel bolts out of the door. She runs over to me and I pet her head and scratch her ears, then the kids come out of the house and give me a long report on how school is going.

A few goodbyes. The kids pile into the back of the car, making a racket. The dog gets into the passenger’s seat and is belted in, which makes me laugh. With a last wave goodbye the car starts the billion year journey down the driveway. We wait till it disappears around the bend before heading inside.

The living room is simple and cozy. A big flatscreen sits against the inner wall, on one side of the hallway, with a large sofa in front of it. On the other side of the hall, a massive bookshelf, which sports everything from pulp sci-fi garbage, to cheap airport thrillers, to technical manuals.

“You still talking to that VA rep,” he askes.

“Yep, she is talking about getting me a security job. It won’t be great. But it should at least pay the rent.”

“That’s good, that’s good.”

I study the signed NASCAR poster that sits in a glass frame, “This is more than just a couple of bored teenagers cutting across your land or creepos peering into your windows,” I state.

“I first noticed that something was wrong about a week ago. The day before we had finally gotten around to clearing out the old barn. I did some cleaning up in the yard and I saw that a few things had been moved. Figured it was just the kids,” he chuckles nervously, “Or that I was just startin’ to get old and forgettin’ things. Then we had some heavy rain one night, a little thunder. I was in the living room watching TV, Mikayla comes running in screaming, says that something was staring in her bedroom window.”

I shudder. Visions of perverts and the things that should be done to them fill my mind. Then I realize that he said something, as opposed to someone.

“I thought that it was funny, she was just scared by the storm,” he smiles softly, “Hell, I was kind of scared by the storm. But she looked really upset, so I went into her room and made a big show out of checking out the window and under the bed and all of that. When I got back from work the next day and decided to give the house a once over because the winds got pretty strong that night,” he pulls out his cellphone and after a few seconds of messing with it he hands it me, “Found those outside of her window.”

He has brought up the device’s picture gallery. A line of tracks goes up to the side of the house. I’m no hunter, yet it becomes quickly apparent that they don’t belong to any animal from around here.

“It is someone screwing with you. Wore fake feet to make those prints. Nothing real would have claws that big.”

“A prank? Out here in the boonies where everyone and their mother has a dozen guns?”

“Some people are dumb enough to do it. Remember when Jamie said that he saw that bigfoot?”

“You still think that it was a prank? Who in the hell would dress up in a bigfoot costume in over a hundred-degree weather and walk in front of a semi-truck?”

“I just told you, people can be stupid as hell.”

“Whatever. But that don’t explain it.”

“Why not?”

“Just let me finish. So, I get worried about it, show Lacy. I was afraid that she would freak out, but she suggests that we have the kids spend the night in the living room. Told them it was indoor camping, they loved it,” I feel myself smile, despite the circumstances, “Meanwhile, I stay in her room, waiting, sittin’ on the bed and staring out the window. I was just about to pass out when I spotted it.

“Under that big tree out back. Its eyes, the eyes were massive, jet black, sorta wrapped around its head a bit. The claws on that thing, I don’t think that anything on this planet has claws that big.”

My brain struggles to process what he is saying, “What happened?”

“We stared at each other for what felt like forever. I guess that it was staring at me, sure as hell felt like it. Then it just took off up the tree.”

“Up the tree?”

“Ya, climbed up it like it was nothing. I lost sight of it in the branches, spent a good hour, I think, trying to find it again.”

“Jesus,” I exclaim, not sure what else to say.

“I thought about getting a flashlight and shining it up in the tree. Never did work up the nerve. The kids were long asleep by then, Lacy too. I spent the rest of the night walking around the house silently, holding my shotgun. I would go from window to window, looking at them, but too scared to actually look out of them.”

“You didn’t get a picture of the thing?”

“I didn’t think to. It all happened so fast, ya know?”

“Ya. I can’t blame you.”

“I did get pics of the tree,” I slide forward in the gallery, finding a series of photos of marks in the trunk.

“Damn, man. Now I see why you didn’t bother with the cops.”

“Can you help?”

“I don’t know, man. I mean, this aint exactly my wheelhouse.”

“Come on, you’re a security expert.

“Guarding FOBs down range isn’t the same as guarding against,” I struggle to find the right words, “whatever you are dealing with here.”

Fire in his eyes now, “So, you are just going to leave me?”

“I never said that. I’m just not quite sure what you want me to do.”

“Shoot it. Or at least scare it off.”

His eyes soften, turn desperate.

“Listen. I can stay a night or two. See what is up. If that will make you feel better.”

Now his eyes light up, “It would. Thanks, I knew that I could count on you.”

I turn away, looking out the window again, “Ya, ya, it’s no problem. Who’s van, by the way?”

“Someone that I brought in to help, found him on the internet. He’s outside doing something, should be coming back anytime now.”