They're Not Just Good For Doctors

Little Robby pulled the quilt up over his head. He heard the chains being drug over the wooden floors below. Even at twelve, he knew the stories. He heard the clip-clop of hooves on the stairs. Those stories didn't usually end well for the children involved, children who had not exactly been angels throughout the year.

Little Robby had a big list of crimes, ranging from bullying the Chess Club to fighting the soccer team. Even the teachers were scared of him, and those who had stood up to him had quit. If not for his mother being the principal and his father owning the local factory, he would have been expelled. His mother liked that her son helped her keep the kids in line while his father appreciated his taking the leadership of the school, so they actually supported their son.

The school was his. He smiled. Then he heard the clip-clop coming up the hall. The smile faded into the grimace of fear. He mentally went over a map of his room, looking for a way out; he sighed as he realized the window was all he had. He pushed the covers off him and rolled out of bed, then ran to the window. Steeling himself against the cold outside, he pulled the window up and climbed outside. His boxers didn't exactly protect him from the wind, so he looked for a way off the roof.

Luckily, a tree branch pressed against the roof, and it looked strong enough to carry his weight. He walked over to the branch, then used it to jump to the tree, and then climbed down the tree. He ran to the door and punched in his code; he was back in the house, back where he was warm. Until he heard the chains dragged in a different direction, one away from his bedroom, one towards him.

He needed to find some way to defend himself; he had left his knife in his room. His mind raced to find a solution; he soon settled on the kitchen, full of so many bladed options. Sure, the firearm safe sat in the garage, but he didn't have the password, not yet. He ran into the kitchen; no need for stealth when the pursuer knew where you were.

He grabbed the butcher knife in one hand but decided against it due to its weight. Instead, he grabbed the knife from the butcher block; the weight felt right in his hand. He smiled just a little too ferally; he was ready for the creature hunting him.

Then it came through the kitchen door and his boxers became wet. The creature may have looked humanoid, but was covered in fur and chains, was carried on two goat legs, and had two huge horns on its head with just the slightest of curves. It carried a satchel on its belt and a large barrel on its back, one more than capable of carrying Little Robby away.

He ran into the dining room. The creature just smiled and started walking, resuming the now too-familiar clip-clop.

Little Robbie had hidden underneath the table, but now realized how lame that was as a hiding place. It didn't help that the creature stopped, bent down, and waved at the boy. The boy stood up, looked for some sort of distraction, and saw the fruit bowl, the one his mother always kept full.

He smiled, then started throwing fruit at the creature. The creature was not impressed by the bananas or oranges. Little Robbie's smile was fading into a frown. He tossed an apple at the creature.

The creature caught it, looked at it, then smiled. From the thick lips of the creature came a deep voice, saying, “Fine apple, boy. Now, sit yourself down so we may talk.” Little Robby obeyed instantly. “Good.” The creature bit into the apple. “This is a sweet apple.” He then looked at the boy. “Fine, give me three more of these, and I'll give you a year.”

Little Robby looked in the fruit bowl and saw a few more apples. He reached and grabbed three apples. He handed them to the creature. The creature took them and put them in its satchel. He smiled at the boy. “One season for each apple. If you are the same boy next year, then my barrel gets a new occupant.” His hand reached out for the boy's bare chest. “My mark will remind you of our trade.” With one swift motion, the creature scratched the boy. The creature withdrew it hand, turned, and left. The boy knew when he had left the house, even if the door had never opened.

Little Robby felt himself breathe again. He blinked several times, then sighed. He put the knife on the table as he picked up the fruit he had thrown and returned it to its bowl. He put the knife back in its butcher block, then wiped up where his bladder had let loose. He returned to his room and closed the window.

He changed his underwear and then buried himself in his covers. In the morning he woke and yawned. “It was just a nightmare, right?” He felt the scratch on his chest. He gulped.

He knew that he could either become a saint over the next year or become part of the school's unwritten history, the one passed on through the whispers, the one that told of those who should be forgotten but never were. He smiled as he rolled out of bed, knowing which path he would choose.