FICTION | THE SEEDLING CHALLENGE | POSTCARD FICTION

A Memory Stirs

A fatherly aura in the face of the inexplicable.

This story is part of the Seedling Challenge conceived by Bradan Writes Stories.

This is the fourth installment, a postcard fiction.

To start the story from the beginning, click here. Or, to read the last installment, Into the Man Cave, click here. Or, to read the next installment, Whispers in the Basement, click here.

Stay tuned to watch this story grow and grow!

The weak light filtering through the dirty window offered Sam a meager glimpse of the creature, but he could see long limbs and sinewy muscles rippling beneath pale, slick skin.

Fear froze him. He watched the creature lurch to the bottom of the stairs with steps calculated but silent. But, overshadowing his horror, a memory stirred, awakened by the creature’s posture.

The memory ripped through his bewildered mind.

In it, a vision of their father, Jeff, at Mom’s famed July 4th neighborhood BBQ last summer. Ever an emblem of casual coolness, Jeff stood court with a cigar and a can of PBR, basking in the adoration of his drinking buddies.

Around the pool, children splashed, blending their laughter with the sizzling burgers on the grill and the beer-fueled guffaws and excited chatter of the adults.

Among them, full of determination, Jack approached their father, “Dad, can we go down and get the rifle? Y’know — target practice.”

Jeff looked down at his sons, bemusement curling his lips.

“Ah. No-go. Sorry,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling.

Jack’s bright face fell. “Dad,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t make me look lame. C’mon.”

Jeff chuckled.

Then, in classic Jeff fashion, he entertained his captive audience with one of his signature performances: He wildly cocked his head with hunched shoulders, contorted his face into a monstrous grimace, and growled, “No, my little boy. You’re not allowed in the basement. There’s something you don’t wanna meet down there.”

“Oh, whatever,” Jack said, pushing away his father’s claw-like hands as they tried to grab him. “Can we?”

Undeterred, Jeff continued. “It’s hungry, Jack.” Then he took a staggering step towards Sam. “It likes little trespassing boys,” he snarled, so close to Sam that the smell of cheap beer and cigars washed over him.

The gathered fathers grinned at each other, their beer bellies jiggling with barely contained laughter.

“C’mon, Dad. Don’t be a jerk,” Jack sulked.

Standing straight, Jeff winked, “Sorry, chums,” he said, turning back to his buddies in a cloud of cigar smoke.

A dejected Jack and Sam instead spent the day unleashing an epic water-balloon war upon the neighborhood girls and the occasional stray adult. But their father’s performance left an imprint in Sam’s mind.

Now, as this mysterious creature loomed mere inches from his face, Sam could only squeeze his eyes shut and think, “Shit. He was right.”

Suddenly, a guttural roar erupted from the creature and filled the basement with a fusion of torment and menace.

A putrid blast of air assaulted Sam, filled with the stench of rotting flesh and decay —

— and an underlying hint of cheap beer and cigars.

Sam’s eyes flew open.

His gaze locked with the creature’s blue eyes as they blazed with an intensity equal to the ferocity of its roar.

Sam uttered a single syllable that lingered in the musty air of the basement — a word filled with longing and uncertainty as it desperately sought confirmation or absolution.

“Dad?”

Click here for the fifth installment!