The Long Dark Billy Farmer (romantic novels in english .txt) 📖

I opened a door in the bedroom that weirdly led into the kitchen. I pulled out every drawer I saw. I was looking for the one drawer that rules them all. The one that is stuffed full of crap like menus from every restaurant in town that does take out, tools of various types, pot holders, and the one thing we needed most, needle and thread.

After only a few minutes searching, I found what I was looking for. “I’ll be damned,” I said out loud. “Everyone does have that drawer.”

Needle and thread in hand, I began to walk out of the kitchen when I saw something out of place near the kitchen table. The battery in my headlamp was nearly dead, so it was difficult to make out the form hidden in the shadows of dark kitchen. I moved slowly towards the table, where a human-shaped silhouette began to take shape. I came to a dead stop. Holy shit.

“I’m so sorry for being in here,” I said, inching closer to the table. “Our friend is hurt. I didn’t think anyone was home…” I stopped, leaving plenty of space between myself and the table. I could see the form of who was sitting there, but the shadows concealed whether it was a woman or man, and honestly, to me, it didn’t matter. I was an intruder in someone’s home, in Alaska, the place where everyone has a gun.

“Hello?” No answer. I lowered the gun barrel, taking a passive of a stance as possible. For all I knew, the person could’ve had a gun pointed at me as soon as I entered the kitchen, and my life hung on a single false step. “Hello,” I repeated.

I adjusted my headlamp, hoping to get a better view of the person. It was a woman… Her eyes were wide open like she’d seen a ghost or something. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. Her mouth was closed, lips pinched so tight that there was scant difference between the upper and lower lip. My first inclination was that she was dead. There were a newspaper and a half empty glass of water sitting on the table beside her. Maybe she had an aneurysm or something – just died while reading the morning paper.

I moved closer, feeling comfortable enoughin my assessment that she was no longer with us. Sam’s voice could be heard from the living room. He and Tish were talking about something, but I couldn’t make out what precisely. It never entered my mind to call out to them. Hell, I’d forgotten I had found the needle and thread. My focus was squarely on what was unfolding in the kitchen.

The woman was middle-aged and had been, at some other time, attractive. Then, though, her skin was a sickly, blueish-gray color, slick and shiny from a film that covered her exposed skin. Her eyes were dark and too large for her face. The whites were replaced with the same sickly gray color of her skin, except they were interspersed with large deep red blood vessels. Her irises and pupils were almost indistinguishable from one another. I’d never seen a dead person’s eyes before, but not even in my most wicked of magic-mushroom driven dreams could I imagine conjuring up anything that remotely looked like hers.

A sudden noise nearly caused me to jump out of my boots. It sounded like something heavy had been knocked over in the snow outside the house– muffled but loud enough to send another wave of adrenaline through my already saturated nervous system. I quickly walked towards the window facing the back yard. Even with the extra light twilight afforded, the only thing I could see of note was the pile of broken appliances. It didn’t help that my headlamp was casting a reflection off the window pane. I switched it off, but still couldn’t see anything.

More ghosts, I thought. I returned my focus to more important matters. I flipped my headlamp back on.  Damn, were her eyes creepy as shit. Wait.No – no, I didn’t just see that.Fuck that, I remember thinking.

I moved closer but saw the same thing several seconds later. One of her eyes was as wide open as it was before. The other one, though, blinked, two times in as many minutes.

Another noise. This time inside the kitchen. Footsteps, I thought. The shadow-cloaked figure moved towards me. Acting on pure instinct, I swung the rifle around to greet my assailant. I remember striking something hard as I swung the rifle.

Much of that encounter was clouded in adrenaline and pure unadulterated fear. I do, however, remember hearing Titouan’s voice, while taking aim at my attacker. Too bad for Titouan, my mind didn’t register the possibility that the known voice might belong to the still veiled figure.

Everything happened in slow motion besides the trigger pull. I remember the flash of the muzzle and the smell of cordite. I fucking shot Titouan in the face.

“Goddamn you, William!”

I didn’t kill him, or it didn’t appear that I had. Dead people didn’t run, but their eyes weren’t supposed to blink either. He took off towards the living room, holding the right side of his face.

“Shit.” I couldn’t believe I shot him.

“Fucking bastard shot me,” I heard him say from the living room.

I heard Sam tell Titouan, “It’s a damn scratch. You ain’t goin ta die.”

I was relieved by that. He was a dick, but I didn’t want to kill him. Somebody else would probably end up doing it, but I didn’t want that person to me.

I felt a tug. Of all people, Avery was the one who took the rifle away from me. Seriously, he was the sensible one? I was bad off.

“Are you okay?” Avery asked.

“Did you see her?”

Avery looked confused. “Her?”

“The woman sitting at the damn table!”

Avery raised his lamp to get a better look. “I do not see anything.”

Since my headlamp’s battery was fading, I took Avery’s