Libertarian Librarian

The rain pounded down on the small tin roof. It was a steady, driving rain, the kind that plastered your hair to your scalp in an instant and left wet, slimy trails on your skin. The kind of rain that whipped tranquil rivers into seething maelstroms of dirt, brush and rocks. It beat the enthusiasm out of your body, washed away any trace of cheerfulness, and left nothing but a gray veil of despondency. For nearly a week it had been raining this way, and the glowering clouds hanging low on the horizon showed no signs of leaving.

The rain pounded down on the small tin roof and into the rich, brown mud that blanketed the ground. There were critters that liked the rain, liked the mire of mud, liked the feel of mud oozing across skin. There were critters that hated the sun, hated the warmth, hated life. Plenty and plenty of critters that couldn’t live without the mud, that wallowed in the mud, that moved easily through the mud. Critters that were mean.

The rain pounded down on the small tin roof, into the rich, brown mud that blanketed the ground, into the sides of the tiny, three-room, wood shack that supported the roof. Inside, the rain’s pounding was a staccato marching of hobnailed booted on tin plates, a deafening percussion section in an out-of-tune orchestra. The percussion accompanied a faint, ragged melody that floated on the stifling air of the shack. “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day… rain, rain, go away come again some other day.” The notes were sung in the cracking tenor of a voice no longer a boy’s and not yet a man’s. “Little Billy wants to play, rain, rain go away.” The melody ended in the sobs of a boy who lay curled into a tight ball on a rickety bed. His tears trailed through the grime that coated his face into the first faint growths of a beard that wasn’t sure if it wanted to be there yet. He hiccupped into the bed’s dirty pillow, pulled his thin jacket tighter, and stroked the thin, cold, hand lay on the bed next to him.

A pool of dried blood, black in the faint light of a kerosene lantern, had formed around the hand. It had been torn off at the wrist, a long jagged scar tracing its way from the wrist to the third finger, where a plain, gold ring hung loosely. The young boy stroked the hand, and cried on it, and held it gently to his heart.

It was all that was left of his mother.

Gradually, the youth’s sobs faded and he began to mutter quietly under his breath. “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring,” his voice caught momentarily. “He bumped his head on the side of the bed, and he couldn’t get up in the morning.” The words trailed away while the rain pounded onto the tin roof and the mud outside deepened.

Something rattled the front door, and the young boy bolted upright, the bed creaking under him as he moved. “Go away! Leave me alone!” The door rattled again and the youth clutched the hand close to him as he sat on the edge of the old, sagging mattress. Tears were still hovering on the edges of his eyes, but he held them back. He had to be strong. He couldn’t give in, not yet. Not while it was prowling around the house.
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The rain had been falling—pounding, really—for over a week when it got his father. Life had been the same as ever until his father’s chickens started disappearing; one by one they were gone with nothing left behind a small pool of green slime. His father set traps all over their property, but he never caught anything and more chickens would be gone in the morning. Finally, his father decided to stay in the chicken coop all night, shotgun at the ready, to be sure he got whatever it was that was taking his chickens.

“By God, Ma,” the old man said as he went out into the ceaseless rain with only a lantern and his twelve-gauge. “By GOD I’m gonna get the sonofabitch what’s been killing my chickens! You and Billy get some sleep and we’ll have us some alligator for tomorra’s supper.” With those words he had stubbornly turned on his heel and stumped off through the mud and rain to guard his chickens from the sonofabitch alligator that was eating them. Only it wasn’t an alligator. It wasn’t anything like an alligator.

Billy and his mother were awakened late that night by a shotgun blast and an unearthly scream that knifed through the night. “What was that, Ma?” Billy had asked in a fearful whisper from the old, flower-print sofa that doubled as his bed.

“I don’t know for sure, Billy, but I think we’ll be having alligator for supper tomorrow.”

“That didn’t sound like no alligator, Ma.” His heart was beating fast, and the scream still echoed in his head.

“Now don’tcha worry, Billyboy….” The rest of her reassurance was cut off by another screech and the simultaneous roar of Billy’s father. Another shotgun blast echoed in the night.

“Ma?” his voice quavered.

“Shh. No questions right now, Billy, ‘kay?” she whispered and slid out of bed, then gently pulled Billy off the couch.

“Okay,” he whispered back while his heart beat in time with the pounding of the rain on the roof.

They hurried through the living room and into the kitchen, tiptoeing in silence. Billy’s eyes widened as his mother picked up their biggest carving knife. “Just in case,” she whispered, and smiled at him.

He tried to smile back, then an agonized scream seared the night, wiped his smile from his face, ripped a bottomless hole in his stomach. “Oh lord, oh lord,” he whispered earnestly, nearly moaned as he and his mother rushed out onto the front porch. “Please, no,” he pleaded.

The night was dark and the sheets of rain plastered their hair to their scalps. “Bob?” his mother called into the curtains of water, but only the steady sound of rain burying itself in mud answered her.

“Pa?”

Again, no answer.

“Billy, you stay here. I’m gonna go take a look.” His mother’s face was set and grim in the dim light. Billy was shocked at the anger and fear he saw in his mother’s gentle face. She pulled him close to her and held him tight. He clung to her like she was the last sane thing left in the world.

A faint wail tore her away, pulled her raging into the waves of rain and mud. She disappeared quickly, only to reappear in silhouette as a hot red flame cut through the night in front of her. The chicken coop was burning fiercely ahead of her and Billy could see her tiny form slogging its way through the mud, carving knife brandished over her head. She was next to the apple tree now, half-way to the chicken coop. Beyond her, something huge thrashed within the burning frame of the coop, wailing that soul shattering scream that had awakened them earlier. The sound seemed to go on forever.

The fire was dimming as the rain crushed it, and Billy could barely see his mother stubbornly forcing her way through the mud. She was almost to the remains of the coop. Of the thrashing creature, Billy saw nothing. The huge creature had disappeared, dissolved away into the mud and debris of the coop. Its cry was disappearing, too. Dwindling more to that of an injured child, and then fading entirely, leaving a hole in the world that made the driving of the rain sound quiet and peaceful.

The fire was gone, and Billy was alone. Alone with the rain, alone with the after images of some huge monster thrashing in the light of the fire, like blind Sampson. An empty house loomed behind him. In front of him, there was only darkness and fear.

“Ma?” he cried, tentatively.

No answer.

Unwanted, a childhood rhyme rose into his mind. A cure-all for foul weather and bad times. “Rain, rain, go away,” he muttered while his eyes probed the featureless curtains of water, “come again some other day.”

It didn’t work. The rain didn’t stop, didn’t even lessen. It still fell with demonic intensity, plastering his clothes to his miserable body. Pummeling him as if it intended to break him down into something less than human, break him down into the mud and muck all around him.

Something slithered in the darkness. Billy’s eyes stabbed the rain for some sign of his mother while he tonelessly repeated the refrain, “Rain, rain, go away. Come again some other day.”

A darker shape loomed out of the surrounding void, and Billy’s heart leapt as his mother’s outline slowly swam into view. He ran to her and wrapped his arms around her so fiercely, she gasped. She held him tightly for a few minutes, and then gently unwound his arms.

“Let’s go inside,” was all she said, but there was a look of tenderness in her eyes which stopped all but one of Billy’s questions.

“Pa?”

She said nothing, only shook her head sadly. The tenderness was still there, but behind it he could see a sadness so deep it threatened to overwhelm him. Turning away, she took his hand and drew him into the shack. They slept no more that night, but sat holding each other in the warmth of a small fire Billy managed to light.
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Bill sat on the edge of the old mattress with his head bowed. The creature had stopped prowling around the front door, and Bill stared at his mother’s hand, lying cold and heavy in his lap. He traced the pale, blue scar with his index finger. The skin was cold and smooth. His mother had acquired the scar many years ago while trying to nurse a wounded bobcat kitten that Bill had found. She tried to save the kitten, but she had failed. All that remained of the incident was his mother’s scar and Bill’s memory of the kitten’s eyes staring at him while his father buried the cold lifeless creature.

A dull thump behind him made Bill jump off the bed. He whirled around in time to see the side of the shack buckling inward. Bill backed into the small nightstand as another thump rocked the shack and splinters of wood flew. Fear paralyzed Bill as the wall began to shatter under the impact of heavy blows. He glanced around the room in a frenzy of indecision before his eyes fell on the small lantern on the nightstand. Another concussion shook the house and a good-sized hole was ripped in the side of the wall. Brown-green, slime covered tentacles began to ripple and ooze through the hole, straight towards Bill.

With grim determination, Bill smashed the lantern onto the slithering mass. Flaming kerosene enveloped the slime and an ear-piercing wail swept over Bill. The tentacles thrashed for a moment, then ripped themselves back out through the wall. Bill had no time to celebrate his victory—he was too busy smothering the fire started by the kerosene. All the while he fought the flames, an idea was forming his mind. If he could just get to the shed. Just get to the gallons of gasoline and kerosene his father had stored there, he had a chance.

Bill stamped out the last of the flames with a grim grin of defiance on his face. It would whimper over its hurt for a while, he was sure of that, but it was hungry and it wouldn’t wait for long. He was going to be ready. “You’re not gonna get me,” he muttered and he chewed his lip while a feverish light capered in his eyes. Bill gently put his mother’s hand into his jacket pocket. He buttoned the pocket carefully while his idea crystallized. Tears streamed down his cheeks and into the growing puddles of water forming on the floor as rain hammered through the hole in the wall.