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Scary stories The Horror! The Horror!By Rick Horowitz
Afterward, they'd say it was all a misunderstanding. But at the time, it sure felt like more than that. Lots more than that. This was summertime, the first part of July, and one of those nights that's so filled with summertime quiet you can hardly hear yourself think. The crickets were chirping up an absolute clamor down by the pond, and in the crook of the tree where the lightning hit that one time, the hoot owl was letting everyone know he wanted in on the conversation, too. It was nothing but normal for midnight in Bushville. In fact, there was so much of a racket, it's a wonder anyone even heard the shouting. It was coming from across the pond, up over the rise -- a little bitty sound at first, but different from all the other sounds. Then the sound got bigger, and you could almost start to tell it was a voice, a man's voice, though you still couldn't hear what it was saying, only that whatever it was, it wasn't too happy about it. Pretty soon the man's voice was attached to a man's head, coming over the rise. There was a torso following, and then legs and feet, churning double-quick over the hard red clay. One by one, and then in a clump, the bedroom lights of Bushville blinked on, and then the porch lights. What was all the commotion? "There!" the running man cried, and he tried to point behind him as he ran, and all the while trying to find breath enough to shout and run and point at the same time. "Right...over...there!" "What's right over there?" But the running man had run out of strength to say another word, let alone answer any questions. He stood there, bent over, in the very middle of Bushville, his chest heaving, his hands glued to his thighs. The neighbors tried to wait him out, but curiosity kept tugging at their tongues. They asked him again. "What's right over there?" This time, he was able to produce a word or two between gasps. "Terrible!" he whispered. "In Kerrytown -- terrible!" "Something terrible in Kerrytown?" Kerrytown was the next place down the road. Nobody in Bushville went there much. "Is it those hoodlums?" The man shook his head. "Worse," he said. "Worse than hoodlums? Is it robbers?" Another shake of the head. "Worse." "Worse than robbers? Murderers? There are murderers in Kerrytown?" Still another shake. "Worse." Now it was the neighbors who gasped. "Worse than murderers?! What's worse than murderers?" He gathered up the little strength he had left, looked them straight in the eye. "Trial lawyers!" And he'd no more than said the words when the crowd turned itself into a mob. Can you blame them? Everybody in Bushville knew that trial lawyers were the scourge of society, not to mention the scum of the earth. They'd all heard the horror stories about trial lawyers sticking their noses in where it wasn't any of their concern, and putting the squeeze on some poor corporation just for having the bad luck to kill someone, or even just maim them for life. So far, they'd been fortunate in Bushville, but if trial lawyers had really been spotted in Kerrytown, it wouldn't be long before they'd be slithering right down Main Street, smiling and serving their slippery legal papers. "And getting rich off other people's suffering -- it's un-American!" (An American way of getting rich, they all agreed, was having your daddy's friends set you up in business and then buy you out for bigger profits each time you go under. That's different.) "If we don't stop 'em over there, we'll be fighting 'em here!" "Light the torches!" "Grab the pitchforks!!" Suddenly the Bushville night was bright as day. Dozens of men -- and women, too, and even some of the little ones -- all started marching toward Kerrytown to set things right. That's when it happened. The handle on someone's torch came loose as it waggled to and fro, and the falling flames set fire to a nearby jacket, and to the fellow who happened to be wearing it. This panicky flaming neighbor tossed his pitchfork in the air; it came down prongs first, drilling two perfect holes in a nearby shoulder. The owner of the shoulder dropped her own torch, which instantly ignited someone's shoes. Trying to outrun his flames, Mister Hotfoot then barreled right into a half-dozen other marchers and knocked them smack on the ground, accompanied by even more random prongings and blazing blazers. And in the midst of it all -- in the midst of the falling and the tossing and the dropping and the knocking -- somebody in Bushville, bruised or burned or bloodied, shouted out in the night, as clear as a bell: "I'll see you in court!" Of course, they'll deny every word of it. Posted 7/8/04. When
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Rick Horowitz
