The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller by Richard Long Page A

all that time to think about what was going to happen when she came home and saw the mess he made.
    When he was old enough to climb out of the crib, Momma locked him in the cellar until she came back, leaving a jug of water and some cold cuts and bread. There was a bucket in the corner for him to “empty himself,” but he tried not to because the smell got so bad. He hated the cellar more than anything. It was where she took him when she said he’d been really bad, even though he wasn’t sure what he did to make her mad. He tried so hard to be good all the time, but no matter how good he was, he wasn’t good enough for Momma. He needed to be punished. He needed it all the time.
    “If you ever tell Norine, I’ll find out and lock you down here for the rest of your life. You’ll never, ever see her again.”
    He never, ever thought about telling Norine. Or any of the men that came to visit.
    When the big, blue-eyed man came to stay, Momma didn’t hit Martin or say the bad things for a little while. But soon she started up again, bit by bit, like she was slowly sticking her toes into a steamy bathtub to make sure the water wasn’t too hot. One day while he was roughhousing with Daddy, Momma started laughing really loud. “He’s such a little shrimp!” Momma yelled. “You could throw him across the room like a bundle of dirty laundry!”
    Martin got really scared when she said that. But the man didn’t seem scared at all. Instead, he looked at Momma like he’d never seen any other Daddy look at her. He looked at her like he was mad.

The old pickup truck bumped and rattled down the dirt road like a circus ride. They turned onto a smooth black highway that seemed to stretch out forever in a straight line. After a while they turned onto another dirt road.
    The smell hit them about a minute before the mountains of stinking oil cans, rotten food and battered refrigerators came into view. The truck screeched to a halt and it only took a few seconds before signs of life started to appear. The rats were bold and big as possums. Fat, greasy rats, shiny with the stink of old meat. One even stopped and stared right at him. Martin would have jumped back into the truck if hadn’t been for the voice calling out to him, “Hey, little man, gimme a hand with this gear!”
    He was in the back of the pickup making lots of clunking noises. Martin darted over in a flash, eager for his noisy bulk and fearlessness. Daddy put his arm around Martin in a hug that was the nicest thing Martin had ever felt from anyone besides Norine.
    “Don’t you worry about dem filthy, stinkin’ rats, m’boy. You’ll be seeing in just a teeny weeny bit that they’re no match for a big strong lad like yerself.” He squatted down until his big blond head was only inches away from Martin’s tiny face. Martin smelled something sour on his breath, but compared to the dump it smelled like sweet perfume. “After today, you’re not gonna be afraid of anything, anymore, ever. Doesn’t that sound good?”
    Martin smiled a great big smile that was as honest as it was happy. “Yes!” he cried.
    Daddy smiled back and began his lesson:
    “The thing… blam! …about rats… blam! …you see… blam! …is that rats… blam! …are a whole lot better at runnin’… blam! …than they are at fightin’.”
    Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam! Each blam! punctuated the explosion of a cat-sized rat. They were frantically scurrying everywhere, torn between the fear of the cannon-loud shots and the hunger for all the newly fresh meat of their fallen brethren. The blam! generators were a pair of brushed silver, .48 magnum revolvers that were actually shooting out two-foot long flames from their barrels with each blast. The kick was so great that the pistols practically hit the man in the forehead each time he fired. It was incredible to Martin that he could control each one with a single hand.
    “The other thing about rats… blam! …is that they’re such hateful…