his dream—a new beginning.
As he sat on his new front porch, he stared awe-struck at the early morning sky. He wondered if anyone else ever looked at the sky with a similar sense of wonder. Was it a miracle of divine creation to them, or was it more like a priceless work of art that had been locked away, forgotten, and never looked upon with curious eyes? For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
But his peace was short-lived. As a sense of awareness crept up his spine, it faded away like a mirage. I’m not alone. I’m being watched.
Fear extended its cold fingers throughout his body, but he pushed the feeling away as best he could. A man like him wasn’t supposed to be frightened. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be the protector, not the victim. He was supposed to be the shepherd, not the lamb. It was the worst kind of fear, a menace without a name. He had never been afraid of a danger that he could see and fight. The only thing that scared him was the unknown. When his time did come, he planned to go down swinging.
He couldn’t help but remember the eyes of the predator from the television. Francis Ackerman Jr.
He tried to convince himself that his dread was merely the product of an overactive imagination, but a former cop’s intuition told him differently.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement. With a quick look in that direction, he could find no trace of the beast that stalked him.
A thousand questions raced through his mind. What are the killer’s methods? Does he carry a gun?
In his experience, men like Ackerman didn’t attain the same satisfaction from killing with a gun as they did with knives or bare hands. That could work in his favor, but it didn’t always hold true.
He reasoned that remaining watchful and waiting for the killer to make a mistake might be the best plan, the best offense being a good defense. But he hated defense. He favored action over reaction, but only if the action was properly calculated.
He thought that he heard a noise to his right, but his heart beat with such force that he wondered if the sound had really come from within his own chest.
He watched.
He waited.
A few minutes passed, but nothing happened.
He felt foolish. Maybe the only real threat is the impending danger of cabin fever? After all, he had grown up in a place where another person was seldom a stone’s throw away. Now, he was truly alone for perhaps the first time in his life.
He pushed away the still-lingering sensation of dread and decided to continue with his planned exploration. He looked toward the horizon and spotted a small hill in the distance that would give him a better vantage point to see at least a partial layout of his new property.
Upon arrival at the hill, he sat down and leaned against a lone tree, converting dry ground and tree trunk into a makeshift recliner. He gazed across the South Texas plain and realized for the first time why they called it God’s country. It wasn’t simply because only God could have made such beauty, but also because if he were to scream as loudly as his lungs would allow, God would be the only one to hear him.
The memory of his aunt’s death crept into his mind and cast a shadow on his newfound peace. She was gone, but not forgotten. She could no longer laugh or cry or feel joy or pain, all of which were true tests of one’s verifiable existence. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the thought that he would never see her again. Never again would he tell her how much she meant to him. Never again would he wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon—at least not ones that would taste as sweet as the ones she had made for him. Never again would he be able to ask for her advice and counsel and receive the small tidbits of wisdom that lightened the burdens of his past and gave his tired soul a few moments of serenity.
Or will I get to see her again?
He had no real answers.
As he sat on his new front porch, he stared awe-struck at the early morning sky. He wondered if anyone else ever looked at the sky with a similar sense of wonder. Was it a miracle of divine creation to them, or was it more like a priceless work of art that had been locked away, forgotten, and never looked upon with curious eyes? For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
But his peace was short-lived. As a sense of awareness crept up his spine, it faded away like a mirage. I’m not alone. I’m being watched.
Fear extended its cold fingers throughout his body, but he pushed the feeling away as best he could. A man like him wasn’t supposed to be frightened. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be the protector, not the victim. He was supposed to be the shepherd, not the lamb. It was the worst kind of fear, a menace without a name. He had never been afraid of a danger that he could see and fight. The only thing that scared him was the unknown. When his time did come, he planned to go down swinging.
He couldn’t help but remember the eyes of the predator from the television. Francis Ackerman Jr.
He tried to convince himself that his dread was merely the product of an overactive imagination, but a former cop’s intuition told him differently.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement. With a quick look in that direction, he could find no trace of the beast that stalked him.
A thousand questions raced through his mind. What are the killer’s methods? Does he carry a gun?
In his experience, men like Ackerman didn’t attain the same satisfaction from killing with a gun as they did with knives or bare hands. That could work in his favor, but it didn’t always hold true.
He reasoned that remaining watchful and waiting for the killer to make a mistake might be the best plan, the best offense being a good defense. But he hated defense. He favored action over reaction, but only if the action was properly calculated.
He thought that he heard a noise to his right, but his heart beat with such force that he wondered if the sound had really come from within his own chest.
He watched.
He waited.
A few minutes passed, but nothing happened.
He felt foolish. Maybe the only real threat is the impending danger of cabin fever? After all, he had grown up in a place where another person was seldom a stone’s throw away. Now, he was truly alone for perhaps the first time in his life.
He pushed away the still-lingering sensation of dread and decided to continue with his planned exploration. He looked toward the horizon and spotted a small hill in the distance that would give him a better vantage point to see at least a partial layout of his new property.
Upon arrival at the hill, he sat down and leaned against a lone tree, converting dry ground and tree trunk into a makeshift recliner. He gazed across the South Texas plain and realized for the first time why they called it God’s country. It wasn’t simply because only God could have made such beauty, but also because if he were to scream as loudly as his lungs would allow, God would be the only one to hear him.
The memory of his aunt’s death crept into his mind and cast a shadow on his newfound peace. She was gone, but not forgotten. She could no longer laugh or cry or feel joy or pain, all of which were true tests of one’s verifiable existence. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the thought that he would never see her again. Never again would he tell her how much she meant to him. Never again would he wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon—at least not ones that would taste as sweet as the ones she had made for him. Never again would he be able to ask for her advice and counsel and receive the small tidbits of wisdom that lightened the burdens of his past and gave his tired soul a few moments of serenity.
Or will I get to see her again?
He had no real answers.
Similar Books
