Sanilla Tennessee is the quaint meth ridden town you'd expect it to be. Filled to the brim with southern hostility and maybe five fast food joints. It's the type of town that hold secrets almost as well as it holds water. Considering it floods twice a year and is smack dab right on the Mississippi River, one might be inclined to tell a tale or two.
That's what Thomas was doing the night of the accident. He was at a friends house smoking menthols and drinking beer, telling stories of the good old days of highschool. Thomas had been ignoring his wife calls all day, knowing fully what they were about. His son, Kyle, had gone missing again.
Not that it was too big of a concern. The boy just liked to play hide and seek unprompted. Thomas had done the same growing up. They'd probably find him passed out in a cupboard somewhere tonight. Thomas nodded to the beat of the music around him and made a mental note to check under the house again when he got home. However, as he peeked at the screen of his phone and read 53 missed calls, a bit of dread pushed its way up. He quickly swallowed it along with some beer.
It was around 2am when Thomas decided it was time to pack up and go home. His friend had long retired and Thomas had decided he was tired of sitting in the hot garage alone. Stepping out, he noticed one of his tires had deflated a bit. He went around and popped the truck before falling to his knees. Pale, cold and glistening with too much sweat, Kyle lay in the trunk of Thomas's car.
It had been three months since the funeral. Everything was still the same on the outside, on the inside Thomas was in shambles. His wife had stopped speaking to him for awhile, only now has she started asking him little favors and request from time to time. Thomas has refused therapy. He felt uncomfortable talking to some lady about what was on his mind.
What was on his mind? The constant replaying image of his son dead in the back of his trunk and him being too drunk to do anything but to call his wife. The puddle of sweat still wet the day after the police took him. That stupid Bruno Mars song playing in the background as he found him. The blood, still wet on Kyle's finger tips and the claw marks that now speckled his trunk.
It was time to get his mind off of it. What better way to do that then to do what all straight white males in Sanilla Tennessee do when they're stressed. I'm talking about hunting of course; fishing is a more joyous occasion.
Sitting in his deer stand, Thomas sat stunned in his thoughts. The moss that covered the ground had been undisturbed for hours. The leaves stood almost as still as Thomas as he stared longingly at the gun in his lap. As the day grew darker, so did Thomas' thoughts.
If he squinted through the tree line he could still see his sons toys still splayed about the yard. Thomas thought once again about how he had outlived his son. How did he not hear him? Why didn't he look for him sooner? How could he-
The woods, being silent the whole day, had finally made a noise.
And not just any noise.
Thomas jolted up and jumped to the ladder, falling in his rush to get to his son. It had come from deeper in the woods but still, Thomas knew his boys voice. He sprinted, not stopping one second to ask why or how. All he could hear was his son.
It rang again like bells on his ears. Kyle sounded scared, this pushed Thomas faster and deeper into the woods, finally reaching the marsh.
"Daddy, let me out! I'm done playing!"
Thomas stopped dead in his tracks and quickly looked over the scene. The marsh was compeletly empty save for one deer. It was a buck missing one antler, staring straight at him. Before he could register and decide his next move, the deers' mouth flopped open like a stringed puppet.
"Its hot in here daddy! I'm thirsty"
The deer's mouth bounced back and forth, not matching the tempo of what it was saying. Thomas watched in muted horror as it stood up, its spine cracking and popping. He watched as its hips jolted out of place and jammed their way into new places.
Thomas watched as it took a step towards him, and another. His final wish was to hear his sons voice again.
About the Creator
From a town similar to Sanilla, Softy has always had a flair for the dramatic and horrible; often writing gore for their school papers. Now they live in Colorado where their flair is encouraged and well respected.
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Original narrative & well developed characters
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Awesome, I loved the text.
Brilliant story, it had my nerves on edge
Lovely and slightly chilling!
WOW! That was brilliant!
This is was a great shirt read.
Enjoyed the story the tragedy at the beginning tied well into the horror of the story.
kind of sad, but a good story.