“I count thirteen head in there, Mister Scurry,” my father said. He looked at the clipboard in his hands. “So we’re four short.” It was always a mystery, how many animals these fellows were hiding. It might be a couple of steers, like Scurry, or it might be a dozen. It was always some, though. They couldn’t help it, trying to keep something back. They didn’t know how serious it was, or they pretended not to know. They were shifty and ignorant, and they were a danger to us all.
>From Bridge of Sighs, Pinckney Benedict‘s scary new short story in the current issue of Zoetrope. Check it out.