Hunting Mother Day 11


He sentenced me to death.

I heard him long before I saw him.

We entered an abandoned town, the buildings made of smooth stone and the road lined with woven carpets. Cain trotted along beside me, ears and tail up, nose twitching as he sought out the crier.

As we walked, the crier stopped and then started up a moment again.

In a clear, strong voice, the unseen man called up my first crime, the murder of my mother. He continued to the raids against the Abenaki and the Wampanoag tribes.

With the recitation of each killing and act of violence, he pronounced my death. He had yet to reach my fourteenth birthday when I finally found him.

He stood upon a carpet against a smooth wall, a scroll of some sort in his hand. When he saw me, he faltered and went silent.

I took my pipe out of my pocket, packed some tobacco and lit it. Once the embers were fairly glowing, I let the smoke slip out from around the pipe’s stem and curl up and away from me.

“Seem’s you’ve a long list there,” I stated.

The man swallowed, and his head bobbed once. His fingers twitched on the edges of the scroll, and then his eyes darted to my guns.

He knew what they were.

“You’ve been ordered to be put to death.”

Cain sat down beside me, tail thumping in the dry dirt with a lazy rhythm.

“I’ve heard. What price has she put on my head?”

“There is no price,” the man scoffed his disgust at such a suggestion apparent on his face and in his voice.

“Then what’s the reward? Surely there’s something to compensate for risking your life.”

“There is no risk. The righteous shall triumph over the wicked.”


He nodded.

“Still, what’s my mother promising.”

“Salvation.” His eyes glinted with fanaticism.

 “I might be just that.”

The man dropped the scroll and reached for the inside of his tunic.

By the time the scroll struck the carpet, both Colts were drawn. Their thunderous blasts rolled along the road and vanished into the town.

Blood sprayed across the wall behind the man, and he collapsed, a pair of holes in his chest and gaping exit wounds in his back.

I went forward and took the scroll.

It would make for interesting reading.

#horrorstories #mother

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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