THE WALK HOME
Atticus had the singular hum of whiskey in him. He wasn’t drunk, per se, but he was damn tingly. He could feel the musical rhythm of his limbs as they moved his personal symphony forward. Trig was practically jogging to keep up with his strides. Jogging and grunting and snorting, which are the familiar sounds of all French Bulldogs as they move through the world. Trig looked up at him from time to time, as if to say, “Buddy, do we really need to move at this pace?” Atticus smiled back at him and slowed it down to a strut.
The path was pitch black this time of night. The only glow came from the cottage down the lane. Atticus could make out the stone walls and the caravan park slightly beyond the dirt, but that was about it. Trig seemed on high alert. His blockhead turned this way and that looking for unseen dangers. He seemed particularly in tune with the horse pasture on the opposite side of the wall. There were plenty of bunnies in that field. Maybe Trig’s super-senses were smelling them. Atticus stood for a second at the wall. He looked over the fence where Trig had dragged him. He didn’t see anything, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up nonetheless.
Atticus started walking again. That’s when he heard it. A sound like a stick being run alongside the stone wall. A dragging wood on rock sound. He stopped and turned around. There was no one there. But, when he stopped, the sound stopped too.
Atticus started walking again. He was almost at the cottage and the noise began again. It was louder this time. Not sure what to do, Atticus quickened his pace and Trig snorted louder with the extra effort.
The front porch light lit up the whole path as they crossed the cottage. Atticus swiveled in an attempt to confront whatever jokester was making the sound. The noise stopped again when he turned. Yet, still, there was no one there.
Atticus called out to the path itself, “Who’s there?” And the silence responded to his question with its nothingness. A black, sour pit grew in his stomach and made him pick up Trig. He ran with everything he had.
To get to the house, you had to cut through the forest for the last 5 yards. He made a hard left and tore through the trees with Trig engulfed in his chest like a football. The noise followed them, but now it sounded like a whip.
“Woosh!” “Woosh!” A branch whipping through the air. The “woosh” of the thing came so close to Atticus’s ear, he ducked every time he heard it.
Then it hit him. The slap stung the back of his neck. He dropped Trig and the dog took off for the house. Atticus swung around and grabbed at the “wooshing” sound, which repeated quicker and quicker with each slash of the air. After grasping at the blackness like a man surrounded by mosquitoes, Atticus made contact.
He grabbed the sapling and pulled it toward him moving whatever was at the other end into the light. The hands appeared first, but then a face. He stood frozen looking at it with the stick held tight in a death grip. The face looked back and smiled. His heart leapt when it did.
It was his mirror image, in every way. The man looking back at him was him. He didn’t mean just the smile. No. He was looking his twin. There, before him, was the same smile, the same eyes, the same 3 day stubble, the same crease between his two eyebrows, and the same receding hairline. Atticus let go of the switch and reached forward to touch him. But, the creature pushed his hand away and stepped back into the black.