Paul Bailey is a graduate from Saginaw Valley State University. He is a high school teacher in Michigan, and he credits most of his ideas for horror writing from this very job. His hobbies include reading and writing, as well as outdoor acitivities.

Harold Jeffery came home from work tired and beaten. The sun had worked him over hard all day, as he had worked on a driveway for a rich lady in town by the name of Melanie Harrows. Her driveway was long and taking more days of preparation than he had anticipated. He had lost a worker earlier in the week and now he only had Don Stead working for him, and Don Stead was all right, young and a good worker. Stead knew his stuff about concrete. The man who had quit, Darrel Brugger, had been an excellent finisher, at least when he showed up.

Harold would get home longing a few beers and a baseball game on TV, just like he planned on watching the Tigers lose to the Twins this evening. He went to the fridge and stood bent over with the door open cooling his face. He grabbed and cracked open a beer, took a deep guzzle, and wiped the can across his face. He felt as if he could’ve stood there for hours like that, drinking beer and wiping his face. No more hassles until tomorrow, just beer and a baseball game.

Then the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and pressed it against his ear, the earpiece was instantly hot and slimy with sweat. “Hello.”

“Hey Dad. Jeez, you sound tired. It’s been real hot this week. You’re drinking lots of liquids right? I know how your work wears on you with this humidity.”

He smiled at her voice. “Beth, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was probably the next guy wondering when I’m doing the patch job in his basement.” He held the beer up to his eyes and laughed. “Yes, I’m doing fine with the liquids.”

“Water, right?”

“Right. Water. Hey, how’s that summer class coming along?”

“Fine,” she answered.

There was an uneasy pause, and Harold worried if something wasn’t dreadfully wrong for his daughter. “What is it, Beth? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing really. Mom and I just had a fight over the phone. That’s all. I was supposed to go see her this weekend, but I think I’m going to come stay with you instead, if it’s all right?” This made him think of Lilly. Jesus, why had things gone bad five years ago, after twenty some years of happiness and two daughters?

“Sure Beth, I’d love to see you.”

“I know, Dad. I miss you. I’ll probably get home tomorrow afternoon sometime.”

“Great! I’ll come home early from work. Maybe, I can treat you to dinner before you go out.”

“That sounds wonderful, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Oh, hey, how is Honey doing? You haven’t forgotten him have you?”

Suddenly the heat was far away, everything was. Harold’s heart quickened as he realized it had slipped his mind to feed and water the horse (it eats children) this week. He leaned over to look out the window. The field was empty. Honey was probably lying down in the woods out of the sun. The horse (eats children right up) was smart. At least Harold hoped it was.

“Uh, yeah, he’s doing great,” he said. “Healthy as a horse.” He took a deep drink of beer hoping to drown the thought.

“Good. I can’t wait to see you. I love you Dad. Water, right?”

“I love you too, and right. Water.” He placed the phone down on the table and went to the window again. He couldn’t see the horse (nibbles on toes and fingers) anywhere. It had to be in the shade. Dear Jesus don’t let the horse (is always hungry, always) be dead. Harold went out to check, letting the screen door slam behind him.

It was still too hot for comfort, in the upper eighties, but at least a small breeze had kicked up. He hoped and prayed that everything was fine with the horse (gobbles little girls and boys up like M&Ms).

He unlatched the electric fence and lumbered out into the open field. The tall grass was dying and brittle. It crinkled beneath his boots. Everything had a dry and dead smell: the grass, the dirt, the whole land. Off to the right a rusted-out truck in obvious need of a new muffler passed by on the road, and even it sounded dry.

The stall’s red metal gate was swung open just as Harold had left it a few days ago. Usually the stall buzzed with activity from insects. This evening, however, nothing was out. The trough was empty. A green hose hung over the edge pointing downward, but Harold hadn’t remembered to draw water from it in only God knew how long. The brown, weathered wood wasn’t the slightest bit damp, even in its deepest run of cracks. Harold had hoped to find at least a small pool of water, even if it was stagnant and filmed over with filth. Instead, it was empty and dry.

“Shit,” Harold muttered, and swung the metal gate causing the hinges to squeal like a dying pig.

The field the horse (loves the taste of children, especially their eyeballs) usually frolicked upon rose, dipped, and then rose again just before losing itself to the woods. There was hope in Harold’s mind that the slight depression in the land would be holding some water. This hope was futile, because it was summer and any rain was sucked down. If there wasn’t any water there, Harold prayed the shade of the woods had been enough to save some water.

He took the slope easy, crushing grass with each step. He heard it before seeing it. A thousand different buzzes filling the air, coalescing together to make one dry and dead sound. Harold closed his eyes tight and could feel the cracks of his face deepen and become real. He knew the worst possibility was a fact, and then he smelled it. The smell pushed up his nostrils and seemed to layer over his brain like a fire blanket, stifling his thoughts. The smell was dry; the smell was death.

Harold pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket to cover his nose and mouth. For a moment, he attempted breathing only from his mouth, but that made it worse, like someone was forcing him to eat dead hair. He gagged and coughed. When he was almost close enough to see the horse (is probably out there waiting right now) the threat of his boots alarmed the flies. A slue of them rose out of the dead grass and scattered in madness. Then they swarmed together again and buzzed back down.

The horses’ backside was facing Harold, and all four legs stuck out stiff, the bloated stomach causing the top two to jut in the air on an unnatural angle. The coat of brown hair had all ready lost most of its shine, like an uncared for baseball card. The only shine emitting was from the wings on the backs of the flies. Harold didn’t need to do a complete examination of the horse (maybe it even cracks open little girls’ heads with its teeth and slurps at their brains), but he did lean over to look at the eye that was turned up. The eye was lifeless and almost solid black. An unidentifiable bug crawled over it.

Harold didn’t know exactly what he was going to tell Beth. It had been her horse from day one. Up until the day she had left for college she had cared for it like a mother raising a child. It was Beth who in high school had volunteered to bring some younger students over to see the horse (savors each child like a great, last meal). “This is my horse, and I really do love him,” she had exclaimed that day. Harold remembered how the children had gathered around the horse, some of them in terror and others wide-eyed in amusement as they raised their hands to let the horse (will eat you until there is nothing left) nuzzle against their palms.

No, Harold didn’t know exactly what he would tell Beth, but he knew he couldn’t allow her to see the horse (will make you nonexistent) dead, and she was coming home tomorrow. It would break her heart and destroy his. He had to bury the horse (will keep you in its belly forever). Harold glanced the carcass over and did a quick estimation and concluded on a half-hour. Yes, it would take a man half an hour to dig a hole, place a dead horse in it, and resurface it. A half-hour if a man had a backhoe at his disposal. Harold’s backhoe was out of service. The estimation stretched to two, maybe three hours. So what? Why couldn’t a fifty-one year old man, who was tired and beat from working in the sun all day, and wanted to drink beer and watch a baseball game dig a hole deep enough to bury a horse?

And so, as the circumstances demanded, this question persuaded him to head back to his shed and grab a pair of jersey gloves and his pointed spade from behind the broken down backhoe. Harold filled a cooler with nine beers, contemplated, and tossed in the last remaining two just in case and went back out to the dead horse (wants your souls).

When he walked up on it the second time he thought something was different, but couldn’t place what it was. Was one of the legs bent just a little bit? Maybe. Or maybe the head was tilted a smidge. Or the eye had blinked once and moistened up, or the nostrils had flared, or the stomach was less bloated. Stupid, Harold thought. Maybe you’re going senile like the children in town whisper. There are just fewer flies. He tried hard to convince himself, but continued to feel something odd had taken place while he was away.

“Jesus.” He drank and emptied a beer. He tossed the can aside and struck the shovel into the ground. The ground seemed to strike back, vibrating up the shaft and through his gloves. The smallest muscles in his hands ached. “Jesus Keerist.” The second blow was more successful. He pressed the head of the spade down with all his weight on one foot and wedged up a healthy amount of ground to make a promising outlook. Still, something had been different about the horse on his second arrival. In another hour or two it would be too dark to tell if a dead horse was starting to wake and move and grow hungry. This tickled the very edges of Harold’s thoughts (because sometimes Harold, we child eating horses need a more filling dinner).

An hour and fifteen minutes after the first shovel full of earth had been thrown, Harold was standing in a hole long and wide enough for the horse (rides in like thunder), but not nearly deep enough. He measured the depth of the roughly squared hole against his body. It was only knee deep. It probably had to be at least waist deep. The sun was almost gone and soon the last fraction of it would slip behind the horizon leaving only a draping orange reflection against the clouds in the distance. Harold wasn’t sure when the clouds had formed or had begun to move in, but they had. He propped one leg up on the spade and folded his arms, resting one forearm on the nub end of the shovel. The smell of the carcass was still strong and swimming in his nasals. He had hoped to get used to it, but this wasn’t happening. Sweat ran a course around his eyes and down his cheeks. The jersey glove on his right hand had worn through and he turned this hand over to examine it. Little frays of brown material scrabbled up. He hadn’t noticed the throbbing in his palm there until now, as if by magic the red swell began to pulse. A cooling sigh of breeze rustled the grass, but somehow eluded him. Was it a cooling sigh from the breeze, or was it a powerful pant coming from something much more alive than the weather, possibly from the mouth of a horse? The onset of darkness had made the horse’s death more total, more complete. Yet, Harold couldn’t shake the feeling it had moved when he’d gone back to the garage earlier. This conscious thought sparked a remembrance of the story he told his girls when they were younger and would set up camp in the field to stay up all night scaring each other. The story was told as a well-natured tease, something to enhance their fears during the night.

It comes with the night, riding the wind. It is the horse that eats children. It doesn’t come until the eyes are shut, and that’s when you’ll hear it galloping up on you, and by then it’s too late, awfully too late. It’ll rip that pup tent up with its teeth, growling like a mad dog. And when you see its long face, oh may something from heaven save you, because it has teeth, real mean teeth, teeth that are sharp and drooling. Blood flows from its nostrils like a faucet. The eyes though, the eyes are the most horrible part, as they are with any monster. They are hungry eyes. Eyes full of the moon and they see everything and nothing at the same time. Its growl comes from those eyes. You’ll see it, you’ll actually see its growl, and then you’ll hear it in your head, and then it will start to eat you both at once. You won’t be able to scream, because the horse that eats children has a paralyzing bite. When it’s done eating, it will ride off on the wind again, and everybody will forget that you ever were.

A low growl brought him back from the story to reality.

The growl seeped into his every orifice, permeating every single pore and pushed out everything that was natural. His body began to empty fluids. Sweat poured out, and piss erupted, warming his crotch. It was suddenly hard to balance on the shovel and he let it go.

Two deer stood at the edge of the woods. They had been there for sometime, watching the man warily, unaccustomed to his presence in these late hours. A truck was grumbling by on the side road. Harold was unaware of these things, because for the time being they meant nothing. Not in the darkness when he was alone with an animal that might or might not be dead. The only thing of importance was that low, disturbing growl. He didn’t want to die like this, eaten by a horse he was trying so hard to bury, but a very dense feeling was telling him this was it, this was how it ends. The thought made whimper. He looked at the ground not daring to turn towards the horse. It would be standing over him, blood and drool running together from its muzzle, and unforgiving eyes wrapping around him, growling around him.

He felt as if he was being distanced from the world, reality slipping away. The corners of his sight began to fuzz up as dark clouds began to revolve around his vision. I’m going to faint, he thought. Then I’m going to die, because the horse that eats children is right behind me and it’s hungry; there are no children here tonight.

Just before he lost complete consciousness a part of him realized the growl wasn’t coming from the dead horse. It was coming from the truck passing by on the road, the one that needed a new muffler. As quietly as possible, Harold let his body collapse to the ground. His head crushed one of the five empty beer cans there.

He woke up in a state of sleepwalking. The shovel was in his hands again digging at a slow but steady pace. His mind was apparently very fixed on getting the job done, because the mound of dirt he had been throwing to had grown considerably, and the hole he was standing in was a little more than waist deep. He looked over at the horse and was sure it had moved. Maybe it had gotten up and trotted around for some dead exercise. Maybe it had even come down and sniffed his body and decided it didn’t like the way the old man smelled. One thing was for sure, the damn thing had moved. For now, though, it played possum, letting the bugs eat away.

“Forget you horse,” Harold said into the night. “Forget you, because soon you’ll be buried and forgotten underneath all this dirt.” He waved his hand toward the high mound of upturned earth.

“Who you talking to, Harry?” The voice came from the darkness behind him, but it didn’t startle Harold at all. It really didn’t mean anything to him, only burying the horse did. Still, Harold turned and squinted, because a light was shining on him.

“Who’s that? Who’s there?” Harold asked and added grimly, “Get that light out of my eyes.” The beam stayed steady.

“It’s Bolin.”

“Sheriff Bolin, I presume.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Why don’t you come out of that hole? I need to talk to you for a minute. Spare the shovel for now.”

Harold weighed his options, which weren’t many. He could see the gun holster wrapped around the sheriff’s waist, and one hand stayed close to the gun. Harold let the shovel drop and hoisted out of the hole. When he got to his feet he said, “I thought I told you to get that light out of my eyes.”

“Sorry,” the light dropped from his face and swung over the hole. Beer cans were scattered all over. There was a click and the light was gone.

“You’re on business. I don’t suppose you came out here this late in the night to talk tit for tat with me. Or did you?”

“Well,” Sheriff Bolin took a last drag from a cigarette and flicked it into the hole. It’s orange glowing tip turned over and over and winked out when it hit the bottom. Bolin blew smoke out his nose and said, “Yes and no.”

Harold wanted to use his fist and mash the guy’s nose in. He hated not knowing what this was about. “So what’s your business?”

Bolin took his time shaking out another cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it. “Well, I have a situation. Let me ask you something before I explain. Are you drunk? If you are, maybe we should go inside and let you take a shower and sober up before we have this talk. I don’t want any man not thinking properly and getting the idea I’m accusing of anything.”

Harold could see the hand had moved back close to the gun after lighting the cigarette. “I’ve been drinking as you’re aware, but I’m decent. I’d rather get this over with so I can get back to work.”

“Mmmhhmmm, fine then, that’s fine with me.” The glow of the cigarette twitched in Bolin’s mouth when he spoke. “I’ll get right to the point then. A couple girls from town came up missing earlier today. Well, I guess it would be yesterday by now. It’s past one in the morning now. Are you aware of that?”

“Nope.” Harold wasn’t at all surprised to hear two girls were missing. It wasn’t hard to believe when one took into consideration there was a horse that rode in on the wind and disappeared with it.

“The Pearl girls. I’m not aware if you know them, but they’re seven and nine years old, real nice girls. Their parents are losing their minds right now. Anyway, they were last seen riding their bikes up town being followed by a blue Pinto.”

Harold’s heart began to pound in his chest.

“I did some checking and Darrel Brugger, a man who has been working for you drives a car that fits the description. Then, I get this call while I’m at home trying to sleep from Vic Vernon, just down the road here.” Bolin pointed in the direction of Vic’s home. “He’s all bent out of shape saying you’ve been out here in your field digging like a madman. He says it looked like you were digging graves or something. What do you have to say about that?”

Harold took off his jersey gloves and threw them to the ground. Both hands were throbbing. “Darrel Brugger did work for me. He hasn’t shown his face in a few days now. And yeah, you can tell Vic Vernon he was right. I am digging a grave, but not for two girls if that’s what you’re getting at. Turn that light on and shine it over there.” Bolin let the unfinished cigarette drop from his mouth then stomped it out, and tried to look hard into Harold’s eyes. There was a hesitation; the mag-lite clicked on.

There was a moment of gripping fear in Harold, not like the fear of earlier, not so deathly paralyzing, but slow fear. The fear of having a nasty trick pulled on you. He was sure the horse would be gone. That it got up and slipped away into the sky and in its place would be two dead girls with slit throats, or hammered in faces, or something horrible like that. Instead, the horse was still there and still dead. When the light swooped over it the flies jumped into the air.

“Oh jeez, this has been one bad mix up,” Sheriff Bolin said, “one bad mix up for sure.” He strolled around the soon to be grave and crouched down in front of the bloated stomach. “This things been dead awhile. No wonder it smells of rot so bad.” Bolin reached a hand out and rubbed the fat stomach.

Another fearful thought scorched Harold’s thoughts. He’s gonna cut the belly open, and were both in for a big surprise. If he cuts that belly open it won’t be guts that spill out, but two very dead girls, and then I’ll have some explaining to do. Because that’s the horse that eats children, and it has two in its belly, and it’s smiling right now, because it knows I’ll be blamed and it will go on eating kids like taffy.

“Well,” Bolin stood up and tried to laugh but couldn’t. “I’m really sorry about this Harry. Really, I am.” He ambled over to where Harold was standing and shined the light on his face one last time. “You should call it a night though. You look pretty rough, and it looks like you cut your forehead somehow. Go clean up and get some rest. I think the rest of the job can wait until tomorrow.”

“No, Sheriff. If it’s all the same to you I’m gonna finish it as soon as I can. You see it’s my girl’s horse. You know Beth.” Bolin nodded. “She’s coming home tomorrow and I just don’t want her to see it.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell another man how or when to do his work. I guess I’ll be on my way before I puke. Again, Harold, I’m really sorry about all this. I’ll leave you to your work, but remember, if that Darrel guy does show up you call me. I got a funny feeling he hightailed out of town though.”

When Bolin turned and walked away, Harold wanted to run up on him and hit him with the shovel, over and over, until the body quit twitching. He suppressed this urge and concluded it was just the beer and work starting to get to him.

Harold took his last beer and guzzled it all at once. He jumped back into the hole and felt drunk. Very drunk indeed. He started to dig some more and that fuzzy tick at the corners of his eyes came back. He felt a hot breath on the back of his neck and anticipated a slob of drool to touch down there. The breath was heavy and hungry, and was accompanied by a growl he could almost see. Harold Jeffery whirled around madly meaning to swing the shovel into the face of the horse that ate children. The moon in the sky went black and his body collapsed again.

Beth pulled into the driveway and parked behind her dad’s truck. It was nearly five-thirty in the afternoon and she silently cursed herself for not leaving the campus sooner. She got out of the air-conditioned car and the afternoon heat walloped her, causing her brow to drip almost immediately.

She looked around and nothing moved. The willow tree branches in the front yard hung low as if reaching for the ground. Beth had expected Dad to bound out the side door when she arrived. But no. Nothing. Stillness. She went inside.

“Dad! Dad! I’m home!” Nothing from the house stirred. She opened the door to the basement, anticipating to find him down there working and listening to the game on the radio. The steps leading down were lost in darkness.

Thinking he might be sleeping, she inspected each room of the house. The kitchen was last and she took a moment to peer into the fridge. No Beer. That, at least, was a good thing.

It was a fly buzzing that caught her attention and drew her to the window. Momentarily she watched the fly as it batted against the window time and time again. It went from one corner to the next, searching, searching. She shooed at it and gazed outside towards the field out back. In the middle of the field she could make out a large brown lump. It didn’t register what it might be, but what she thought of was Honey, and the fact that Honey was nowhere to be seen. It was hard to tell even the shape of lump at this distance, but really what else could it be? Beth jumped away from the window, threw open the door, and sprinted out. She ran to the field calling the horse’s name, hoping he would move. Screaming, her eyes locked on the brown lump as she bounded towards it.

Relief came as the lump became clearer the closer she got. It was only dirt. Dirt piled on top of dirt on top of more dirt. Beth slowed to a gasping jog. What was all the dirt for anyway?

Then the smell came, and she was aware of the oppressive heat again. She saw the horse and understood. Honey was dead.

“Oh, God no.” She stepped close to the horse and experienced real grief for the first time. Honey was her horse. Her horse from when she was a little girl, and there was no doubt he was dead. Her horse! In her shock, Beth did not notice the dry and flaky crimson color coated into the horses muzzle.

The dirt is from his grave! This dirt is going to cover him back up! My horse is dead! The midsection of the horse slowly expanded, and Beth could even hear it, air being sucked in. She stepped back unbelieving and waited. The horse (eats children, Bethy, children like you) didn't move. There was no exhale. But I saw it. I saw it breath in. I heard it! I know I did! I saw the horse (gobbles little children up like M&M's, and it's always hungry) move.

She stumbled back, and her foot found no purchase. She teetered on the edge of the grave. Waiving her arms in a panic she gained her balance. She looked down into the hole she'd almost fallen into. Her dad stared back at her, eyes wide in shock, mouth open in a never-ending silent scream. He cradled two small, misshapen forms. The shapes dripped with mucus as if they had been swallowed and regurgitated.

It was her father’s belly, or lack of, that made her head begin to spin. His stomach was on display, ripped open for easy view inside, and there was nothing in there. A morbid thought struck her. It was something she’d read once in a biology book.

After the kill, predators in the wild consume the guts first.