Welcome back! This week we`ll continue the story of ‘The Foggy Creek Hellhound’.
The word prompt for this week is ‘Knife’ so the story will reflect the prompt in some manner. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in!
The Foggy Creek Hellhound
“Man, you drive just like my grandma.”
I tossed a dour look at my cameraman. “In case you haven`t noticed, Sir Sarcasm,” I said, getting what I was growing to know as ‘The Look’ in return, “The fog is as thick as Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent.”
That was no exaggeration either. Visibility was about four inches. We had already nearly run over a deer, an opossum, and a herd of frogs leaping across the two-lane that led to Foggy Creek, Maine.
“At least you didn`t go for the pea soup reference. That always make me think of Linda Blair and yeah, this place is creepy enough without the possessed little girl image in my mind. Shit,” he sighed, squinting at the windshield as we crept through heavy mist, “Now I mentioned her and it`s in my head. Quick, say another movie!”
This was a favorite game of ours. Gerard and I were both huge fans of classic films. This affection for the oldies is just another reason that I find the man so attractive. Big biceps and killer wit just round out the package nicely
Keeping my eyes on the shifting low clouds enveloping our dented white KBNY news van, I put my mind to the question. My devious brain coughed up something that made me smirk internally.
“Give me three of the stars of The Fog,” I tossed out, peeking to the right quickly then returning to the road, lest a frog stampede erupt again.
“You`re not even trying here,” Gerard bragged, reaching down to lift his bottle of spring water from the floor, “Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and my girl Janet Leigh.”
“I thought your girl was Margo Channing,” I commented, barely able to make out the small wooden sign welcoming us to Foggy Creek. I rolled my head in circles. I had been driving for close to six hours which would make it just around three in the morning.
“Yeah, I do love Bette, but Janet Leigh? Damn that woman was fine. You ever been more scared then when you watched Psycho for the first time?” Gerard yawned so widely his jaw cracked. I followed suit. “Did you know she measured 36-21-36?”
I glanced down at my 34B`s quickly, replying with a grunt. I heard him drinking, the soft plastic sides of the bottle collapsing with each powerful gulp. I was just about to ask him what he thought about Bye-Bye Birdie when a huge black shape stepped leisurely from the fog on the right. I cranked the wheel violently to the left to avoid the whatever- the-hell-it-was loping across the road. Upon seeing the thing Gerard`s mouthful of water sprayed over the dash. The rear of the van fishtailed slightly and I over-compensated. In a heartbeat the van was skidding sideways on the fog-dampened road. I worked at getting the vehicle straightened. Damn Eddie and his insistence that the tires had another hundred thousand miles on them! The animal in the road stood up on its back legs and lunged at the van.
All I managed to see was a flash of crimson eyes in a lycan-type face before we sailed past. Gerard was yelling something about Bigfoot. The sound of the beast punching the side of the van spurred me to hit the gas. Why, you may ask, would a person speed up when they were pointed at the guardrail? My answer would be ‘I don`t know’, but the fact that I was scared shitless may have come into play. I think Gerard may have bellowed a similar query right before the front bumper slammed into the guide rail. Metal wrapped around metal. We stopped so suddenly the air bag inflated in my face.
Stunned silence ensued, to be shortly followed by a six foot three, two hundred and thirty-five pound Black man falling into what I would term to be a major freak-out. While I regained my mental facilities and battled with the rapidly deflating airbag, Gerard was attempting, by the sounds, to rip the seatbelt from its moorings. The language coming from him was anything but polite.
A thud on the rear doors of the news van made all cussing and airbag pummeling cease. My eyes met his.
“Get your camera,” I whispered, blowing at some stray brown strands lying across my face. Gerard looked at me as if my head had just done a three-sixty.
“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, jerking on his seatbelt until it popped free. He had mine unlatched in a millisecond. As I was about to respond to his question he tugged me from the seat to the floor. My knees hit the bare metal floor soundly. Damn Eddie for saying carpet would just get dirty! Gerard threw himself on top of me, the very model of gallantry. All oxygen left my lungs in a rush. “Keep your head down!” he snarled quietly, placing one of his catcher’s mitts of a hand on the back of my skull. My nose crunched into his camera bag.
We laid there with him on my back for a few nerve-wracking minutes. It would have been rather racy had we not been close to wetting our pants. When nothing else happened after a bit, he sat up and put his weight on my rump. Thankfully my ass has enough padding to support a burly cameraman. I always knew wearing a size fourteen would come in handy.
“I think it`s gone,” Gerard whispered, sliding from my backside to his knees. The knee joint he had blown out in college cracked like a whip. I winced. He snarled and fell forward. My lungs emptied yet again. Usually I at least insist on completing five dates before I have this much male on my back. The poor man moaned in pain while gyrating over me like a walrus coming ashore. It was kind of a turn-on until I began to grow loopy from lack of oxygen.
“Air,” I gasped. He bounced on his good knee over my head. “Your camera is under my left boob,” I informed him breathlessly. I could barely see him. The dash lights weren`t bright enough to illuminate the back of the van. I felt the van rocking slightly as he dragged himself to the rear, favoring his bad knee I was sure.
“I`m not getting the damn camera, Maggie, I`m looking for a weapon,” Gerard snapped. I sat up slowly. All that could be heard now was the sound of crickets as the engine idled. While Rambo searched for something to defend us with, I unzipped the large grey bag, lifted the Hitachi camera out, steadied it on my left shoulder and turned it on. A blinding light filled the van. Looking through the eyepiece I scanned the darkened passenger window.
“This is Maggie Owens. We have just had our first sighting of the….”
“What the hell are you doing?!” Gerard was in front of my lens wielding a plastic butter knife. A small tussle erupted over the camera. He won. Darkness engulfed us once again. “Are you looking to end up as a late night Sasquatch snack?!”
“Were you really going to assault that thing with a plastic knife?” I asked because inquiring minds wished to know. Hell, the knife had still had sour cream on it from our take-out steak dinner.
“You`d rather I used the Spork?” he shot back. I know I said I was attracted to his wit and sharp mind, but sometimes I wondered why he couldn`t just be a pretty face with firm buttocks.
“Just turn the camera on so we can document what just happened,” I hurried to try to fix my hair in the semi-darkness. The shoulder-length mess refused to leave my eyes. The back door of the news van flew open. Gerard tossed me behind him. I thought that was pretty chivalrous of the man, especially since he held the only two weapons we possessed: the knife and the camera. My hand landed on a take-out box. I found a utensil inside then brandished it before me like a Bowie knife. Several beams of light crisscrossed us. My Spork gleamed in the streams of flashlights.
“You them folks from the big city news channel?” someone asked. I didn`t consider Running Falls, New York to be a big city but hey, what did I know? I was clutching a Spork like it was Johnny Depp.
“Yeah,” Gerard coughed. I held a hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the brilliant rays of several Maglights. “You the welcoming committee?” he asked, his voice returning to normal.
“Ayuh, guess we are,” a man drawled, his accent as thick as New England clam chowder, “Welcome to Foggy Creek.”
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