Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford Read Free Book Online Page B

over to me. He licks my face, trying to get some of the sugar there. I shudder. I hold the remnants of the stick high so he can’t reach and I try to push him away. He slobbers all over me. The wet-dogsmell becomes overwhelmed by his breath. There is a distinct smell of something dead on it. I imagine him tonguing dead butterfly pieces all over my face and push him off.
    “Down.” I give him my best stern voice.
    Obediently, Brock backs off and sits.
    “Good boy.” I watch more kids pass, trying not to pay attention to Brock in front of me. It’s difficult; I’ve never seen my dog beg like this. Never seen him beg at all, actually. He whimpers again and bows his head to nibble on his scratches. It’s been days since the battle and the scratches don’t seem to be healing at all. They look worse and the skin is bare from my dog biting at it.
    He’s not panting or whimpering anymore. He stares at me with black, unblinking eyes. He breaks eye contact to stare at the Popsicle.
    “No beg!” I scold him with my finger.
    Brock takes a step toward me and growls. He’s never growled at me before.
    “No beg,” I repeat, but my voice fails me, and I whisper it.
    Brock steps closer and bares his teeth. I stand up. He barks. I throw the stick across the yard, and he chases it. He picks it up and chews it with the side of his mouth, his face in a half-grimace. Jagged splinters litter the ground around his paws. He whimpers but continues to chew. He gnaws until the entire stick is in pieces. He looks back at me with his usual dumb-dog smile and his tail wagging.
    “You’re welcome, fucking mutt.”
    Brock keeps wagging his tail. I can’t stay mad at him. “I’m sorry,” I say and walk over to pat his head. He lifts his snout and licks my hand.
    I go inside to get my backpack and do some adjustments to my hair. I wash my hands. When I come back out, Brock has left, leaving only the dead butterfly.

[rec 00:03:43]
     
     
    Warm colors sharpen as the focus forms an image of an older woman. The image shows her more radiant than you know her now. It reminds you that she was happy once. She sits obediently as the image brightens, darkens, blurs and sharpens.
    Woman: My. You’re so professional.
    Offscreen: Well, you know. All right, I think we’re set. Are you ready to begin?
    Woman: Yes, dear.
    Offscreen: What’s your favorite scary movie?
    Woman: I like the old ones. The ones you guys watch are too gory for me. However, I really like Jaws. That has some pretty gruesome parts in it.
    Offscreen: Yeah. Well, kind of .
    Woman: Movies about nature always upset me, because nature is so unpredictable. There was a reason that Jaws kept people off the beaches for an entire summer after its release. Because it was real , that it could really happen.
    Offscreen: Hm.
    Woman: I know it seems a little silly. It’s the same with The Birds . That movie creeps me out. They seem so docile, and we keep them in our houses. Ew, it makes me cringe thinking about their little black eyes.
    Offscreen: Have you seen Cujo?
    Woman: No, what is it?
    Offscreen: It’s about a dog. He’s bitten by a bat and becomes rabid or something.
    Woman: Yes, that’s what I’m talking about. Corrupted nature. These are all good examples of how a “controlled” animal can turn on us, thus toppling the hierarchy.
    Offscreen: You are old.
    Woman: Oh, you be quiet. (Laughs) Is that what you were looking for?
    Offscreen: Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks, Mom. Can you state your name for editing purposes?
    The woman does and the image goes black.

Suspects
     
     
    These days, it only takes the wrong kind of glance to get people suspicious.
    Especially with everyone on edge and all.
    “What’s going on?” I ask. Steve stops walking and slings his backpack from one shoulder to the other.
    There are two police cars parked in front of Old Hilborn’s house with lights flashing. The sheriff questions the decrepit old man while two deputies crowd him on both sides. The