White Island stood off the coast of Maine, and it was as good a place as any for killing.
I’d tracked Redd Martin to the island, and it’d taken me the better part of the day to get across the water to it. There wasn’t anyone who wanted to take me to the keeper. It seems that the man, a cousin on Redd’s mother’s side, was less than amicable.
In the end, I had to purchase a boat and row myself across.
I was not in a pleasant mood by the time I tied up to the dock.
When I reached the keeper’s house, I was met by a man in his late fifties and who stank of lard. I’m not sure if he bathed in it, and I’m not sure he didn’t.
I asked him, politely, if I might speak to Redd.
The speaker spat a stream of tobacco juice down near my feet, grinned, and told me his cousin had only stayed long enough to collect on a debt.
When I asked him where Redd had gone to, the man spat again and slammed the door in my face.
It doesn’t take much to be courteous, and a discourteous person sets my teeth on edge.
I knocked again, and when the cousin started to open the door, I kicked it the rest of the way in.
The wood slammed into his face, broke his nose, and chipped some teeth. I watched as he staggered back, stumbled, fell, and reached for a shotgun propped against a hall table.
I kicked his hand away, snatched up the gun, and put a round of buckshot into his groin.
The wound took all the fight out of him. He was left squirming on the floor, leaving a trail of blood as he screamed and wept. I considered putting the second shot in his belly, but I held off.
Instead, I took the butt of the shotgun and broke his left ankle, and then his right, just to be sure he knew I wasn’t in an especially forgiving mood.
I asked him again where his cousin had gone to, and he shook his head.
I blew his right hand off with the second shot, and the man shrieked as he held up the mangled limb.
When I asked him a third time where his cousin was headed, he told me.
#horror #monsters #supernatural #death