Swine

My hand traced the polished oak of the casket. I refused to look inside. I was too afraid. At that age, death was impossible—until a peer proved it wasn’t. I cringed, pulling back my hand.

The priest rose to the pulpit. He rested a palm on each end, then side-eyed me, an indirect way of telling me to sit down.

I walked to the pew in the front row, which was weird. I thought the reserved seats would’ve been for the Harpers—after all, it was their son who died—yet they sat behind us.

I squinted at them, questioning with my eyes, expecting a response, but they didn’t even look at me.

Awkward.

They seemed sad… but a different sad. Like Mr. Harper just watched the Packers lose kind of sad, or Mrs. Harper wasted a hundred bucks at the slots kind of sad. Certainly not the we just lost our son kind of sad.

Mr. Harper sat with his eyes closed, fat arms resting across his pot belly. It jiggled when his wife’s bony elbow nudged into it. He snorted awake. I questioned the bruise on his right cheek.

My unofficial item, Kattie Windmiller, sat alone in the back. She didn't tell me she would be at the funeral, then again, I couldn't find my phone.

I sat reverently next to my mother. Her large black hat cast a shadow across her face. She didn’t look at me. No one had. I pretended not to know why, but I did. I was being blamed for Kip’s death.

I’d forgotten how he died, even though I was there. In truth, I’d forgotten everything about that night. But the murmurs in the pews filled me in enough to know:

Kip Harper was sixteen, too young to die. Last week, they found his body. Today, they were burying it.

I leaned forward, cheek in my hands.

“Brothers and sisters, thank you for being here today.” The priest’s voice was boring. His style was old, unpolished, wrinkly like his leather face. He looked through the bottom of his low-set glasses like he was painting figurines.

My eyelids grew heavy under the priest’s lulling voice.

My mind took an unexcused leave and suddenly… it was last October.

***

“You have no choice!” Mom stood with a hand on her hip and leaned on the island. Her eyes were bigger than the questions I had about her request—well, order.

“I have plans!” I groaned.

“It’s the right thing to do. You’d be thankful if you were the new kid in town.”

“No I wouldn’t,” I snapped. “I don’t need someone to make friends for me!”

Mom waved her arm like she was casting a spell. “You’re going over to hang out with Kip. End of conversation!”

There was no way I’d win this one. I never did.

I retreated to the basement and booted up the Xbox. But my negative K/D on Call of Duty only amplified the frustration.

Wasn’t I too old for an arranged playdate? I rolled my eyes.

My back pocket buzzed as my friends elaborated on the plans I was supposed to be a part of. I’d invite them to Kip’s, but sparing them seemed more noble.

"My mom’s forcing me to hang out with the new kid today… smh." The text whooshed as I hit send.

"That sucks."

"L mom."

"Bro seems like a dweeb. Good luck."

I smiled at the sympathy.

The door to my ’78 Bronco creaked shut. The scent inside never spoiled, and the roaring engine was a symphony. I made eye contact with myself in the rearview. My dark eyes still wore a glare.

I rounded sharp corners hidden behind groves of colorful Missouri trees. It was darker now. I flipped my headlights on.

The map pulled me off the blacktop onto a gravel road. My view was limited—just trees, dirt, rocks… gate.

I squinted at the sign posted across it.

Warning. No trespassers. Violators will be prosecuted.

The words were barely legible.

I exited the vehicle. The air was colder than expected. I opened the tailgate and snagged the flannel I’d taken from the lost and found at school.

I pushed at the gate, but a chain locked to a post held it.

I chuckled. Finally, a good excuse to go home.

I dialed my mom, but was met by voicemail. No bars of service.

“Hello?” I shouted. My voice echoed softly up the dirt road.

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

I returned to my truck, almost skipping with joy.

I put the Bronco in reverse and began to pull out, but a man stood behind me.

I slammed on the brakes. My eyes glued to the rearview mirror. My heart rate accelerated.

He stood there for a few seconds, eyes hidden behind the brim of a trucker’s hat. His clothes were ragged, filthy, like he’d just been to war with a herd of elk.

He finally walked along the side of the truck, stopping at the driver’s window.

I gripped the wheel, choking on my breath.

Finally the face peered through the glass.

“Hey, Jace!” the man shouted.

The voice was familiar.

I released the wheel, color returning to my white knuckles.

My hand cranked the window down.

“Kip?” I asked.

“Yeah! Don’t you remember me?” Kip removed the hat and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Of course. Why do you think I’m here?” I asked.

“Sorry about the, uh… gate.” Kip’s voice faded as he walked toward it. “My family likes to keep it locked to prevent cattle from escaping.” He pulled a key from his pocket and clicked the chain free.

“Oh… cows,” I whispered to myself, unimpressed.

The truck rattled as I rolled over the cattle guard.

Kip closed the gate behind me and walked to the passenger door.

“Can I get a ride?” he asked.

“In those filthy clothes?” I dug.

Kip looked at his overalls and began dusting them off.

He looked up at me for approval when he finished.

I rolled my eyes. “Hop in,” I said, as if forced.

The road conditions grew worse as we moved up the large, forested hill.

This was a situation I never thought I’d be in—giving the loser kid a ride in my Bronco on a road with no visible end.

“How far out here are you?” I asked.

“Far enough.” Kip chuckled.

What kind of an answer was that?

“My mom and dad really like their privacy.” Kip tugged at my clothing. “Hey! You found my flannel!” he shouted.

“This is yours?” I asked.

“Yeah. Lost it a few days ago.” Something crinkled in my pocket as Kip poked my chest. “Looks better on you anyway. Keep it.”

I tightened my lips and nodded. “Thanks, Kip.”

Yellow light squeezed through cracks in a thick wall of trees. I assumed there was a house somewhere within. I parked the truck and stepped outside.

“This way,” Kip said, as if guiding me to my prison cell.

The property looked like a junkyard. Old cars and trucks, rusted and ruined. Mysterious piles under tarp. Fridges and freezers sprawled strangely across the yard.

"Mom's at the casino again tonight so you won't meet her."

What a shame, I thought sarcastically.

I followed Kip along the beaten path to the porch, where he stopped at the door.

“Look, before you go in, there are some things you should know.” His goofy demeanor turned serious.

“What?” I asked.

Kip peeked through the window. “Only go in the rooms I say to, don’t ask my dad too many questions, and don’t go downstairs.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

The more time I spent around Kip, the more I wanted to go home.

He opened the door, ushering me inside first.

The home looked like a hillbilly war zone. Taxidermied animals on every wall. Floors buried in beer cans, tables overrun by ashtrays, and a couch with a fat man sprawled across it.

“Kip!” The gross man scratched the gray scruff on his greasy neck.

“Yes, sir?” Kip answered quickly, like a slave to his king.

“Beer.” The obese man held out an open hand.

Kip stepped over cans to reach the fridge, pulled another beverage, and handed it to his father.

Mr. Harper’s sausage-like fingers cracked it open. He sipped, then gulped quickly like cough medicine.

He held out his hand again and Kip placed the gate key in his palm.

“Who’s this?” He pointed toward me.

“This is my friend from school,” Kip said.

“It’s nice to meet you.” My wave was less than enthusiastic.

Mr. Harper took another sip. “No it ain’t.”

My face twisted. “Sorry?”

“You ain’t gotta pretend, son. We all know what you think of us.” Grease on his forehead reflected light from the television.

“Ah, come on Jordan! Throw the ball!” Spit sprayed from his mouth, irrigating the stained carpet.

“Just ignore him,” Kip whispered. I followed him to his room, tiptoeing over empty cans of Budweiser.

A strange door in the hall caught my attention, locked with a deadbolt. I ignored it.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Kip closed the door.

“He’s been difficult lately.”

“Drinking?” I asked.

Kip shrugged. “Eh, Dad’s always been a drinker. It’s the cancer and the experiments that’ve been difficult.”

I squinted at Kip, utterly confused. Our eyes met uncomfortably.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said.

“What, like science experiments?” I pressed.

“Sort of… I don’t really know. He says he can’t tell us.” Kip’s eyes shifted to the vent in the carpet. “But recently, late at night, I’ve heard him talking to someone. He says it’ll heal him.”

Kip handed me a PS4 controller. “Here.”

I loved video games—they were the perfect distraction. But tonight, even video games couldn’t pull me from Kip’s words. I lay on the floor, blanket wrapped tightly around me. It was late. The house was quiet, only the sound of Kip’s breathing.

Then there was something else. A clanking. It rang through my right ear. I turned my head toward the vent, pulling closer, resting the side of my face on the cold metal.

“Uhyah! One more, you fat fool!” Muffled growls echoed up the vents. “Not that one. That would be a mistake!”

I held my breath to hear clearer.

The voice was still muffled.

I sat up. “Kip!” I whispered.

He continued to snore. I shook him gently, but he didn’t budge.

The vent was useless, and I was growing impatient.

I stood. The room was dark, but faint light from the hallway glowed through the cracks in the door.

I shuffled out of Kip's room and into the hall.

I walked to the once-bolted door, now unlocked and propped slightly ajar.

I slowly swung it open and peered down a long set of stairs. The faint blue glow at the bottom twisted a knot in my stomach—and the scent pulled it tighter.

I wanted to gag at the humid aroma of rot, but I feared being caught. I pulled the flannel over my nose and listened carefully.

“The boy is a blessing in disguise. He was brought here for you!” the voice gurgled.

“I can’t,” Mr. Harper whined.

“You will die if you don’t. This deal is all you have left,” the voice slithered.

Mr. Harper sniffled. “Am I not filthy enough for you? After all I’ve done?”

“Don’t question me!” the voice growled. “Two thousand years since I’ve last been one with a swine! Two thousand years since I’ve last been in control! Since I was rebuked by the human God!” The glow dimmed as the voice crescendoed.

“Don’t hurt me! Please—”

The light was drowned out by the expanding shadow.

“Then you will obey, pig!”

I crept further down. When I stood, my legs fell through a rotten step. Splinters raked up my body. I caught myself by the arms, my head poking through the wood like a trapped animal.

I wanted to look away but couldn’t. Six tables. On five, bodies decomposing. The aroma of death filled my lungs with fear.

Mr. Harper’s face jerked toward me, features emerging from the blackness.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Warm urine trickled down my leg.

“Lord, help me!” My words cracked in the dark, sounding small—like they’d been swallowed whole before they reached heaven.

This was no man. His greasy face warped, eyes sunken. His nose undeniably pig-like. His transformed face rolled in discomfort.

The shadow behind him stretched to the ceiling. “Truly a blessing, my pig,” it relished. “Fulfill this final task, so we can be one.”

Mr. Harper charged at my dangling feet like an angry boar. He snarled and lunged, sinking his sharp teeth into my exposed calf.

I yelped in horrific pain but reacted quickly, kicking the side of his face with my other foot.

The creature I once knew as Mr. Harper fell backwards, knocking a rotting body off a table.

I struggled to free myself from the broken stair. I pushed, pulled, wiggled. Nothing.

A hand grasped the back of my flannel and hoisted me up.

"I told you not to go in there!” Kip yelled.

For once, I was happy to see him.

“He bit me!” My voice squeaked.

Kip didn’t let go as I limped helplessly to the top of the stairs. He slammed the door shut, locking the creature in.

I felt my calf—blood streamed from the wound. It didn’t hurt, not yet. My adrenaline was too high.

My panicked breathing fought for air.

Kip grabbed me by the shoulders. “Get to the woods!”

“No, I’m getting in my truck and going home!” I said.

“You can’t. The gate is locked and he has the key! You’ll need to wait until morning.”

I rolled my eyes—not sarcastically, but with frustration.

“I’ll go with you.” Kip followed.

I was afraid. Angry. Helpless.

I felt like the victim of a bad hunter, like a wounded deer, grazed by the bullet and forced to suffer a long, painful death.

I cursed under my breath, limped through the back door and across the yellow lawn, lit only by a half-moon.

I could hear Mr. Harper slamming into the basement door. He squealed with every blow.

I entered the forest, dodging fallen logs, brush scraping against my wound.

Kip picked up a large stick. “Keep going, I’ll hold him off.” His eyes met mine. “I’m sorry, Jace.”

I nodded. I hated Kip, but appreciated him at the same time. Maybe he was as much a victim as me.

I trekked deeper into the woods, stumbling upon a small cave covered in thick vegetation.

I crawled in slowly, trying to protect my injury. I adjusted and peered toward the yellow glow of the house.

Kip’s silhouette took the shape of a baseball player walking to the plate.

Mr. Harper pounded relentlessly, like a ritual drum against the door—then it stopped.

My vision of Kip blurred as the distance grew between us. But I could see him place both hands on the stick.

“Dad, don’t!” he warned.

The creature shot out of the house, sprinting on all fours. Kip stepped up to the plate and swung, snapping the heavy stick across Mr. Harper’s face.

The creature squealed, flopping to the earth.

“This isn’t you!” Kip said.

“I must complete the ritual!” Mr. Harper snorted.

He lunged at his son, butting him to the ground. Kip’s head cracked against a large rock, knocking him unconscious.

“He killed him,” I concluded.

I held back the urge to puke and gritted my teeth. Every part of me wanted to run. But you can’t outrun a demon.

I crouched deeper into the cave, only my eyes peeking over the rock.

Mr. Harper dropped to all fours, scanning the forest floor like a hound. He sniffed at a pile of brush, then tasted. His fat tongue caressed branches, finding a familiar scent… my blood.

My hand clutched my leg, still dripping.

I truly was a wounded animal, leaving behind a perfect blood trail.

Mr. Harper’s walk shifted to a predatory run as he followed the evidence.

If I didn’t move now, I’d have no chance.

I crawled out of the cave and started for the road.

I could hear him behind me, snarling, snorting.

I tripped on a stump. I tried to find my feet again, but—

Something sank into my neck, accompanied by hot breath, pungent and foul.

I felt nothing, but knew everything was wrong. My vision began to fade.

Then, that familiar voice called from the dark—a voice of dark-rejoice.

“It is complete.”

***

This was no dream. It was a reminder. How could I have forgotten?

I awoke, my eyes adjusting to sun streaking through the stained-glass windows.

Kattie Windmiller stood timidly at the pulpit, her blue eyes watering, blonde hair shining. She was crying. Crying over Kip? She barely knew him. My stomach sank. Was I jealous of a dead guy?

"I'm still... sick to my stomach..." she sniffled. "I snuck a note into his pocket at school—the pocket of the flannel they found him in. I wanted him to know how much I cared. He will be so missed."

Kattie walked off stage and sat down.

The flannel?

The priest returned to the pulpit. "Now, if you would please join me in prayer."

I stared at the oak coffin, still afraid to look inside, but knowing I had to.

I clenched my jaw and rose.

I moved slowly to the front and peered into the wooden box.

My eyes fell on the body.

Somehow, I always knew—just refused to admit it.

I looked one last time at the truth. My own, fleshy reflection.

I turned to the crowd. Everyone bowed, unified in solemn prayer.

Everyone, save one.

Mr. Harper's head stayed fixed, eyes burning into mine.

Beneath his snout crept an unholy smile.