[ WP ] Growing up , your father always kept a loaded .44 hidden in every room of your house . Now you understand why .

Dad was n't the perfect father. In fact, he really was n't that good of a person either. He yelled when he drank, he swore when he yelled and he drank, well, pretty much every day. That's what got him in the end, the drinking. He was well on his way to a sick shade of yellow by the time I learned my primary colors. I remember wondering if he would turn orange when sunburned. I also remember the sting of his hand across my face when I asked. *'' Does THAT feel like a sunburn?'' *. I guess that's how you answer one question with another. I quickly learned not to be so inquisitive. 
 
 This, among other things, attributed to my utter lack of remorse when I got the phone call. Mom had been upset, although I'm not sure why. She used to be inquisitive too. *'' Did you drink the rent away again? Who's calling at such a late hour? Are you ever going to fix the breaker box?'' *. She had the bruises to show for these. I used to call them question marks. 
 
 The phone call was n't entirely unexpected. He had been in a bad state for a while. 
 
 *'' Your father died.''. * 
 
 Three words of relief for me. Three words of freedom for my mother. She found him at home, splayed cross the basement floor like a drunk worried about falling off the earth. That's probably what he was when he went. Drunk. 
 
 *'' You're going to have to come home for the will.''. * 
 
 A will? What the fuck could he have possibly left anyone other than an unpaid bar tab and a bad taste in the mouth? Not one cent is what I was expecting. More than I bargained for is what I got. 
 
 A sealed envelope, a list of instructions and a half used box of bullets. This is what I got. A man so cheap, he would n't even leave a gun to match the ammunition he gave up over his dead body. Hell, he would n't even part with a full pack. I do n't even think the bastard gave as much as handshake while he was breathing. 
 
 The instructions were clear, if not a bit unusual. I was to open the envelope at the house. The house I grew up in. My father's house. I was to open it alone. And most curious of all, I was to open after killing the power at the breaker but not before the sun set. Bring the bullets. Odd indeed. But I followed them. To a'T'. 
 
 With the breaker flipped and an hour to spare before the death of daylight, I cracked the flap of the envelope. Therein contained a letter, a list and the deed to the house. This house. This literal and metaphorical cracked foundation on which he built a disaster of a marriage and raised a wreck of a son. If these wall could talk, they'd probably scream. The kitchen would be as loud and clashing as the paint mom chose to go with the cracked and discolored tile. I could almost hear the four letter words shaking the halls as I started in on the shaky handwritten letter. 
 
 *Liam, * 
 
 *If you're reading this letter... well... you know. I'm gone. I'm not going to lay out this sad sack of shit apology to you. I know what I did and I've made peace with all of it. What I've done was right. Your mother, God bless her, stuck it through and I hope you see it for what it was too. A duty. * 
 
 I guess he really lost it towards the end. 
 
 *You should n't have much daylight left if you did as you were told. There's a.44 revolver in each room of the house. Take that box of bullets and load them up. Start upstairs and work your way down. Be in the basement by sundown. * 
 
 And that was it. A letter fit for a soldier but addressed to a son. An 8 gun salute to the dead, it seems. 
 
 The list was the location for each revolver. Under the sink in the kitchen. Behind the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. Tucked away in the shoe boxes treated like memoirs in the closet of my old room. I sought them out and loaded them all pondering if I had now gone insane as well to go along with this. The eerie creaks and groans of the wood through the silent house did n't help these thoughts and the sun started to cast deceptively sinister shadows as it dipped deeper towards the horizon. 
 
 The stairs to the basement were so worn that I could feel the sunken path in the wood from thousands of foot falls. My father must have been in and out of this basement more than the local liquor store. And that's saying something. I carried a candle with me as I could not find a flashlight and the flame lit the basement to a certain degree. Enough to see your way, but definitely not enough to assure you that you're alone. Unsettling. 
 
 In the middle of the basement, I came across a table. One sole revolver laid atop it as well as another list. No shaky inscription here. Along the top of the page, in large, bold letters: **RULES**. 
 
 **1. Keep all guns loaded from sundown to sun up. It only hunts at night. ** 
 
 **2. It's drawn to electricity. It does n't always come, but will if it can feel it. ** 
 
 **3. It hates the smell of alcohol. Will avoid at all costs. ** 
 
 **4. Do n't let it leave. Ever. ** 
 
 That's when the ground started to shake. That's when floor opened up. That's when it started to make sense. 
 
 That's when I heard my mother. 
 
 *'' Are you ready?''. * 
 
 
 
 
 
 

