doing so felt like a chore, the urge to hyperventilate, scream out and cry was the only avenue he wanted to pursue. Most importantly, he wanted to do anything possible to release the stress, which had built within—the least of his concerns was to act and look professional. Electrical currents through his nerves came with a jolt, sending shivers down his spine, cording the muscles in his neck as he clinched his jaw and ground his teeth.
Around them, a subtle breeze shifted across the land. It teased the grass and rustled through the fields of dry wheat. Baker flinched with every step as a dry heat radiated up from the gravel below, pummeled by the elements at every angle. The twine of his nerves continuously frayed, splitting more and more with every footfall that lead him closer to the barn.
He thumped his fingers across the gun’s stock, tapping it with the rhythm of a tribal drum. He hated the fact that they were operating blind, going about this themselves and without the aid of additional firepower. The truth was... they should’ve waited, just as they should’ve loaded the old lady into the backseat of the car and returned to town.
Baker’s mind swam and was twirling in a never-ending list of shouldn’t , with the first one being—they shouldn’t be doing this.
He swallowed his fears, tightening his grip on the gun. His palms were sweaty and his hands shook. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Cohen in the same nervous boat as he.
Ahead of them loomed the ominous looking barn, backlit in the rising sun. Its shadow fell across their heads, casting a cool change in temperature as they crept through the gravel. From a distance, the whole scene possessed a peaceful, if not serene-like charm, similar to a delicately painted landscape that one could find in the lobby of a dentist’s office. Up close, it was different, appearing more like the dilapidated ruins lifted straight from the set of a Hammer Film, rather than a quaint slice of Americana that it was.
Decades ago, the barn had been painted red, years of bitter winters and blistering summers left the once apple red exterior withered and worn. Chips of browned paint peeled from its wooden surface, littering the ground.
It didn’t take long for either of them to realize that they were not alone. New sounds broke the isolating silence, resonating from within the rotten boards. The sounds they heard were obviously of a manmade origin, yet unnatural at the same time. Low, deep, and guttural whimpers rose through the wood. The lawmen froze, their blood froze to a bitter slush.
Baker pulled the shotgun snug against his shoulder, until his arm fell numb and after a couple of moments more, he grew oblivious to its discomfort.
He caught his breath, as his stomach churned and quickened its rotation. In a matter of seconds, Baker was certain he was going to blow chunks of coffee and toast across the dirt.
Inside the barn, the low-groaned death rattles reached a fevered pitch.
He glanced down the length of the barn, but couldn’t find the window Ruth had looked through. Realizing that it must be on the other side, he glanced back to Cohen and mouthed the words, wait there. He turned, pressing his face against the barn. Its splintered surface dug into his cheek as he readjusted his angle and tried to look through another crack in the wood.
He could see nothing but shadows.
“Damn it,” he sighed.
Quietly—save for a low breeze, Baker strained his ears against the wall. No sooner had he, when another moan drifted forth, fading quickly to the background. He staggered back, startled. It was a horrific sound, making his blood run cold. He cocked his head to the side and glanced to Cohen.
Cohen, in response, shrugged.
Together, the two men stepped towards the partially closed doorway. The closer they got, the more intense and louder the intruder’s cries became. A couple of yards shy and they were greeted by something more—a moist and sickening splash,
Around them, a subtle breeze shifted across the land. It teased the grass and rustled through the fields of dry wheat. Baker flinched with every step as a dry heat radiated up from the gravel below, pummeled by the elements at every angle. The twine of his nerves continuously frayed, splitting more and more with every footfall that lead him closer to the barn.
He thumped his fingers across the gun’s stock, tapping it with the rhythm of a tribal drum. He hated the fact that they were operating blind, going about this themselves and without the aid of additional firepower. The truth was... they should’ve waited, just as they should’ve loaded the old lady into the backseat of the car and returned to town.
Baker’s mind swam and was twirling in a never-ending list of shouldn’t , with the first one being—they shouldn’t be doing this.
He swallowed his fears, tightening his grip on the gun. His palms were sweaty and his hands shook. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Cohen in the same nervous boat as he.
Ahead of them loomed the ominous looking barn, backlit in the rising sun. Its shadow fell across their heads, casting a cool change in temperature as they crept through the gravel. From a distance, the whole scene possessed a peaceful, if not serene-like charm, similar to a delicately painted landscape that one could find in the lobby of a dentist’s office. Up close, it was different, appearing more like the dilapidated ruins lifted straight from the set of a Hammer Film, rather than a quaint slice of Americana that it was.
Decades ago, the barn had been painted red, years of bitter winters and blistering summers left the once apple red exterior withered and worn. Chips of browned paint peeled from its wooden surface, littering the ground.
It didn’t take long for either of them to realize that they were not alone. New sounds broke the isolating silence, resonating from within the rotten boards. The sounds they heard were obviously of a manmade origin, yet unnatural at the same time. Low, deep, and guttural whimpers rose through the wood. The lawmen froze, their blood froze to a bitter slush.
Baker pulled the shotgun snug against his shoulder, until his arm fell numb and after a couple of moments more, he grew oblivious to its discomfort.
He caught his breath, as his stomach churned and quickened its rotation. In a matter of seconds, Baker was certain he was going to blow chunks of coffee and toast across the dirt.
Inside the barn, the low-groaned death rattles reached a fevered pitch.
He glanced down the length of the barn, but couldn’t find the window Ruth had looked through. Realizing that it must be on the other side, he glanced back to Cohen and mouthed the words, wait there. He turned, pressing his face against the barn. Its splintered surface dug into his cheek as he readjusted his angle and tried to look through another crack in the wood.
He could see nothing but shadows.
“Damn it,” he sighed.
Quietly—save for a low breeze, Baker strained his ears against the wall. No sooner had he, when another moan drifted forth, fading quickly to the background. He staggered back, startled. It was a horrific sound, making his blood run cold. He cocked his head to the side and glanced to Cohen.
Cohen, in response, shrugged.
Together, the two men stepped towards the partially closed doorway. The closer they got, the more intense and louder the intruder’s cries became. A couple of yards shy and they were greeted by something more—a moist and sickening splash,
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