Lousiana Biker Magazine Louisiana Biker Magazine Sep2016 | Page 28

Perhaps Heaven: Aftermath
Story by John David Saxxon

Introduction by Mama S

For those of you following along at
home, this is the fourth installment of John
David Saxxon’s second book Perhaps Heaven:
Aftermath. Book one is available for purchase
on his Facebook page or when you run into him!
Book Two will be available Spring of 2017.
-Mama S
After the boy had been in the loft long enough to
feel safe he pulled the twine from a hay bale, then
broke it apart and threw the loose hay from the
loft to the cows below. In the far distance the boy
believed he could hear the rumble of thunder and
feel the ageing structure shutter slightly from the
intensity of an approaching storm. There was a
breeze that started with an odd whistle through
the rafters. It quickly grew to a powerful wind that
seemed to batter the barn from all sides. The wind
had a haunting, almost evil howl like he had never
heard. The old barn squeaked and moaned in its
torment.
The boy climbed over the hay bales and hid in the
corner. The inside of the barn grew dark from the
storm. The wind blew through the open doorway
with a furious wail. The double doors slammed
close and open again as though they were going to
be torn from their hinges. The wind felt like it was
going to push the roof off from the inside. Then
the wind was all around him pushing and pulling at
him in the same motion. In the wind he thought he
heard voices and screams. He closed his eyes and
covered his head with his arms until the torment of
the storm finally past.

He sat traumatized and sobbing in the
aftermath. When the terror subsided to a trembling
fear he climbed down the ladder from the loft
and stood in the eerie silence for a long time. The
cows seemed spooked and stood in a tight cluster
against the wall. The boy held his breath and slowly
glanced around the barn looking for any trace of
what had just happened, hoping there was none,
that it was somehow only his imagination. He saw
nothing out of order and then exhaled in relief.

He walked to the cows and patted one on
the rump, saying, “Did you hear that? What do you
guys think that was?”

The cows, of course, didn’t answer. They
never did. He didn’t expect them to, but he was
scared and just needed someone to talk to. The
herd remained tense and pressed themselves, like
an entangled phalanx, even closer to the barn wall.
They appeared terrified by a presents that the boy
couldn’t see.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” the boy
asked the cattle.

“Jimmy,” a voice spoken low and intimate
called him by name.

The boy was frightened and didn’t want to
turn toward the mysterious voice, but he forced
himself to look over his shoulder, cutting his eyes
only enough for perception. The only thing behind
him was a goat, the ram of the herd. The goat stood
at a slight angel to him and had its head turned
a little to set its eyes on Jimmy. The ram’s horns
dominated the creatures head in a way Jimmy didn’t
recall. Its main rustled to a breeze that Jimmy
couldn’t feel. Its eyes held a light that contrasted
the creature’s typical dead stare. The animal must
have been as unnerved by the strange wind as he
had been and sought out the safe haven of the barn.
The voice must have just been the last of the wind
passing through cracks in the slats of the barn wall.
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Jimmy could sense the cows collectively shift
away from the ram. The plank boards in the side
of the barn creaked as the herd packed their weight
against the wall. He looked to them and read the
confused fear in their eyes.

“What’s wrong, it’s just the ol’ billy goat?”
Jimmy asked trying it control a shaky voice.

He was about to tell the goat to go on and
get, that he was scaring the cows. “Jimmy,” he heard
his name called again, this time the voice possessed
a curious spellbinding tone.

He turned in slow hesitation toward the
voice. He froze for a moment, then stepped
backward in a stunned dazed until he bumped into
the ladder to the loft. The ram’s dead eyes took on
a human radiance. A creepy feeling breeze stirred
form the ground upward. Strains of main floated
in the air like tresses of a woman’s hair. It seemed
to lift the creatures as it pushed off its front hooves
and stood on its hind legs staring down at Jimmy.

The ram’s voice was as hypnotic as its eyes
when he spoke in a timbre, androgynous but
compelling and overpowering to the psyche of the
seven year old boy. “Your father is a bad man. He
must die. Do you understand me, Jimmy?”

The boy’s hands were shaking in fear, but he
nodded a trancelike, yes.

“Sneak back into the house. Don’t let
anyone see or hear you. There’s a knife in the
kitchen drawer. Go to your father’s room, come up
behind him and stab the knife into his back with
all your strength. Then wash off the blood and
tell your mother there’s something in the barn she
needs to see.”
©John David Saxxon/Saint Barnett 2016

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