The Cut

By Dean Shelton

In this horror narrative, terror casts a shadow from the city to the country. With all their faults, common folks believing in demons, ghosts, hanks, and the sorts fight for survival. Lives are lost in the city and the country making them realize that safe is not in an area.

Amidst the terror, a beautiful, intuitive young girl, nine years of age, also relates how her deepest beliefs grow out of family and their struggles when they have to face their fears and terror, whether real or unreal. She uncovers a reality that being safe is a feeling rooted in the heart like love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524685522

Dean Shelton

Residing in Georgia, the author uses the mighty pen to produce inspiring and interesting narratives. Also, the author likes writing short stories for those that enjoy a quick read. The author looks forward to continuing to provide narratives, which quickly gets to the point keeping up with today’s fast pace.

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2017 Dean Shelton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/29/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8553-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8552-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Two

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Part Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

PART ONE

Chapter One

It was time to leave to go home, but for me, I was leaving home to go to visit my Moma and my siblings. That’s how my life made sense to me. Things had to be placed in my world order. As a child, reading books, watching television, watching people, walking alone, and experiencing other necessary things that life brought, I believed in change. I believed in me. I believed that I was strong. I had a model to go by. The embers of coal carried heat still. My body felt the warmth, as I stood up from the couch following my Dad’s gesture, and he mumbled, C’mon.

A softer voice floated over the cold air coming in as my Dad opened the front room door reassuring me, See you tomorrow, sweet baby.

Mostly darkness covered the dirt path, the narrow, paved street and the little dark, shotgun houses, since the only lights visible were coming from the stars. We were the only ones out as far as could be seen. Feeling the wind, I was freezing. My toes began to become numb. My coat was no match for this wind. He walked ahead of me, seeming sure that I didn’t need to be told to follow. Usually, some drunks linger all night in the alley-way, but this night was freezing.

My soft footsteps matched his as we hurried along in silence. We walked from a dirt pathway onto broken pavement turning into the dreaded alley with a foul smell of piss, blood, gin and anything else that stank. In silence, my mind raced thinking, ‘This seemed the long way. Why couldn’t we go the other way? There was a street. Anything could happen here. We could get robbed, stabbed or shot.’

Daring not to complain aloud, continuing to walk, trying not to step into anything to ruin my only pair of shoes, I held my arms tightly to my side, bolstered myself and reminded myself that I can get through this. He couldn’t know that I felt any fear.

He would make fun of me. And, afterwards, become angry and promise, ‘I won’t take you anywhere again.’

In turn, I would become upset, because I had to prove that nothing scarred me; and if it did, I wouldn’t admit to such a thing. I had already had seen monsters, real and unreal. My toes, almost frozen, curved in my worn shoes while the wind forced me to stop in my steps and turn to protect my halfway frozen ears and already cold face. I found myself staring at the old, uneven wall.

From the old, uneven wall, her bloodshot eyes starred at me while holding the razor blade between her teeth. She was real. And now, she was not. I may have seen her a few times; and maybe, she had seen me, too. I didn’t see the brutal fight, but I overheard about what happened. I shivered to think about the death match.

Any confrontation could end up like that, to the death. She laughed aloud at me and screamed, I’ll cut you, too, if you keep coming back here! You, here me! Your ‘pappy’ ain’t no count!

No way could I say anything to indicate what was happening, so endurance was the only choice for me. Her vicious threat was between the two of us. I’m a popsicle. ‘Ugh!’

Still ahead, he walked and arrived at the end of the disgusting, smelly alley before me. He turned the corner, and I could see our little shotgun house. That’s what they called them, shotgun houses. He rapped on the door, which was opened by a pretty, small lady, clad in a nightgown and hidden partially behind the door letting us know it’s cold, and she spoke quietly, It’s cold.

We came on in, and I ran straight to the bed that had two more sleepy heads in it. Taking off my shoes and pants, I jumped right into bed pulling the cover over my head. My siblings had already made a warm place for me. The warmth made me feel very safe causing me to fall off fast asleep.

My Moma was cooking something on the hot plate, since we had no electricity. It didn’t bother me. Food was simple. A piece of bread with gratitude would be okay. She handed me a pancake, and I accepted it without complaint, chewing and admitting, It’s good. Thanks, Moma. The house was dim and cold but not as cold as it was outside. My Moma asked, Did you put on double shirts like I told you?

With mouth filled with mushy pancake, I mumbled, Yeh. Really, I just told her that to help her feel better. She didn’t need to worry about me. There were the two little ones and a new baby, more than a handful for her or any mother. That’s probably why she allowed me to go off with my Dad, even though I was not a boy.

Looking toward the windows, some of them cracked, I could see some of the newspaper, which covered the bottom window panes for lack of curtain. The newspaper had started to peel. The top panes let in the light. An old quilt lay on the floor at the door to keep cold air out. Another quilt was spread out for the baby to crawl upon, but for the moment, two little ones played patty-cake while sitting on the quilt. My Dad came in asking, What, we got to eat?

Walking past him, neither one of us spoke. I made my way to the make shift bedroom to sit in a wooden chair thinking back to last night, ‘What was that? Every time, something crazy happens there. Why is he always going that way? Is he doing that on purpose to scare me? I can answer that one. No, he’s not trying to scare me, because he knows I don’t get scared. At least, I won’t admit it. I get angry.’

School was out because of the winter freeze, and he was out of work, since he worked outside. The only thing left for us to do was go back to my home. My visit here reassured me that my Moma and siblings were okay. They were safe and warm.

He was standing near the door putting on his old wool coat.

A voice hollered to me, You, ready. Get your coat. Let’s go.

I still hadn’t doubled my shirt and picked up the light coat that was no match for the wind.

My Moma leaned from behind the door quietly urging, Put on your coat.

I hesitated, not because of being hard-headed, only to let them see that the cold didn’t bother me. It did. My stubborness prevailed.

My Dad didn’t pay any attention. Maybe, he was pretending that he just didn’t care whether I did or didn’t. We made the same way thru the same path, but this time, people were about.

Drunk people, bent on knees in the soiled pathway, were gambling with dice. One man stringing a guitar rambling his words, a few women and men sharing a drank from the same bottle of gin, all were crowding the pathway. We made our way thru them carefully, unless someone angered another with a mere bump-into motion or a what-you-gonna-do expression. For certain, there was a haunt here. It was real, and it was unreal. My hands involuntarily covered my nose, Ugh!

He stopped for a minute to have a laugh with one of the drunks causing me to stop, also. What it is, man?

Let me hold something, man.

Ain’t got nothin’. They both laughed walking away in opposite directions.

Holding my breath, I continued to make my way through the people to follow him when my foot stepped on a finger reaching for a dice. A gargled voice cursed, Damit!

Instinctively, my Dad turned around asking, …a problem?

Shaking my head to imply there was no problem, the drunk followed my actions and added, You ain’t nothing but a kid, and a boy at that.

I dared not contest him amidst all this chaos. If he wanted me to be a boy, it was fine with me. My Dad turned to continue to walk in the cold without the wind but stepped in ice patches that crunched beneath his step. The ice patches crunched beneath my feet, also. The ebbing sounds of cursing, scrambled voices sent relief to me. We’ll be out of this filthy place in a minute.

The next crunchy footsteps broke into a puddle of blood, which he ignored. I starred wondering, while a force pushed me toward the wall, that nasty wall covered in who-knows-what. Falling into the wall, I fell onto a floor into a room. Jumping up from the floor, angry and confused, I looked around. ‘Where is my Dad? Did he leave me?’

Calling out to him and not hearing a sound come out made me seek a door, some way to get out to the outside. Suddenly, a gust of heat surrounded me confusing me. I knew that there was a winter freeze. Got to get out of here, quick.

Then, there was a door. Instinctively, rushing to open it, my feet were caught by something, forcing me to look downward seeing the quilt. It was the quilt at home. It was our quilt! Moma, I called out to a figure that looked like my Moma.

She came into view just like that saying, I’m here. You’re okay. Then, I’m home, with you?

No.

What are you talking about?

About us.

What about us?

Our safety.

Safety.

The room became elongated and hot. She disappeared. My forehead began to sweat. Still in a panic, I felt and thought, ‘It’s getting very hot in here. I need to open the door right now.’ Racing to the door, my hand grabbed for the knob, which was hot; and upon snatching back to keep from burning my hand, the hot knob fell off the rustic door onto the floor.

CHAPTER TWO

Siren shrilled to let people know that the paddy wagon was on the way. A paddy wagon, black with plenty of room to carry a lot of so- called lawbreakers, brought the police with billy sticks and black jacks, which they relished using on poor people, especially the ones that were drunkards, gamblers and the sorts. The streets, narrow and short, revealed dark alleyways and secluded paths. Smart ones will use those as get-a-ways.

But, if they get seen or mentioned, the police made a visit to their shotgun homes to get their man or woman. In this place, there is no where to hide. Living in a shotgun house mimicked living in the plain outside. The toilet was usually outside. The washing chores happened outside. The younguns found sunlight to read outside.

On the cemented sidewalk, after fighting viciously, two people withdrew from the melee bloody, obviously alerted to the shrill of the siren of the oncoming paddy wagon, for which they remembered the routine very well. Unlike the others