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Bobby twisted the knob, bringing the yard below into sharp focus; he could have counted the blades of grass along the walkway bordering the pool, had he wanted.


Why not? he thought. I got nothing else to look at until Millicent comes out anyway.


He realized what his mother would have thought of him, lying here in his treehouse to spy on the neighbor’s yard. He already knew what she thought of the treehouse itself.


“Aren’t you a little old to be worrying about treehouses and stuff? You’re thirteen —  growing into a young man. What about girls, Bobby? I see girls showing an interest in you. I know they do. When are you going to show some interest back?”

Huh. Wonder what she’d think about my “interest”  if she could see me now?


He had interests. He had very definite interests. He did not, however, have any interest in the flabby, spotty-faced, pigeon-titted girls his mother kept pointing out to him. To be honest, he wasn’t sure just what “pigeon-titted” was, but he’d seen the phrase in a book and it sprang to mind whenever his mother started on about this girl or that. Girls that just did nothing for him.


Not like when he thought about Millicent.


Bobby shifted position as his thoughts strayed to Millicent, and what he wanted to do with her, to do to her, and his growing erection pressed uncomfortably into the boards of the treehouse floor.


And, of course, thanks again to his mother, he knew just how that was happening. She’d sat him down two years before and given him “the talk”: an unending and merciless description of how his body worked, how girl’s bodies work, and what he was supposed to do with those bodies when the time came.


The entire time she’d spoken he’d wished for the earth to open up and swallow him. Or her. Or both of them, it had been so uncomfortable.


She’d brought diagrams. He shuddered at the memory.


He was up to two hundred thirty-seven in is count when a bit of motion caught his attention. He refocused, pulled the view back a bit, and saw Millicent, strolling about the pool.


His breath caught as he took in her slow walk, the way her backside switched back and forth with every step. All thoughts of his mother and her insipid drawings of genitalia, and of her disgustingly intimate questions about the cleanliness of his scrotum were washed out of his head, forced almost violently away by the runaway influx of images.


Millicent, spread out for him, target of his every desire.


He shifted again, pressing himself into the flooring this time, his very hardness now making it a pleasurable experience —  so pleasurable he ground his hips a bit, chewing his lip as the feeling intensified. He squirmed against the floor until his breathing was ragged and sweat stood out along his brow, threatening to run into his eyes and blur the scene before him.


Before that could happen, knowing that no matter how he thrust and rubbed against the floor there was only one way for him to attain release, he pressed the scope firmly to his eye. Through the lenses, Millicent appeared to look straight at him, eyes wide as she squatted in the grass by the walkway. He placed the cross-hairs right between those eyes, let out a long, urgent breath, and pulled the trigger.


A neat third eye appeared in Millicent’s forehead as the back of her head exploded onto the grass. Blood and bone and brains mixed with chunks of black and white fur to spray across the yard in a great arc as the bullet buried itself in the ground more than six feet beyond the dog’s squatting, shitting corpse. Small paws drummed against the ground as Millicent’s body slowly got used to the idea that it was already dead.


Back in the treehouse Bobby stared through the rifle’s scope at the twitching little corpse, a low moan escaping as he waited for the sweet, rubbery spasm of orgasm. It had been like this every time: with the squirrels, the rabbit, then the neighbor’s cat. The slow build of pressure inside, pressure that centered on his most sensitive of areas, building until a sudden, shuddering release.


And it wasn’t a nasty, dirty, inside-a-woman kind of release, like in his mother’s disgusting pictures. Sure he had to wash the squirts of goo out of his shorts before Mother found them, but it had nothing to do with putting his thing inside a person. With getting her on him.


No, his orgasms were triggered by the bullet striking home, the blade finding flesh; by that one moment when, just for an instant, as the life fled the small, twisted bodies he left behind, he was God; for as God gave the great gift of Life, so He took it away.


So he watched the little black and white body come to rest on the well-trimmed lawn, saw the spray of blood and tissue glistening on the grass behind it, and he waited for his painfully hard cock to burst into the God feeling again.


And he waited.


Nothing.


He pressed against the floor, trying to push himself over the edge into orgasm, but it was no use. He was throbbing, pounding in time to the pulse beating in his ears, harder than ever before in his life… and nothing.


It wasn’t working.


Whatever it was that connected the blood and death of small things to his penis, that allowed him to transform this terrible pressure into the sweetest release, it was broken. Shattered. Destroyed.


The pain in his pecker was agonizing, filling his brain with images of blood and squealing, struggling little beasts.


Nothing.


A slamming door. A scream. Running feet.


Millicent’s mistress sprinted across the grass. Pretty. Blonde. Seventeen. She scooped up what was left of her dog, hugging the mess to her chest as she sobbed.


In the treehouse, Bobby’s member gave an extra painful throb as he stared through the scope.


Maybe Mother was right about getting involved with girls, he thought, settling the cross-hairs on the sweet spot below the girl’s left ear.


He breathed in.


Breathed out.


Squeezed the trigger.


~ ~ * * ~ ~

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The first book in the Seasons of the Dead quartet. Ghosts and spirits manifest for various reasons and in many different ways.


An invisible intruder.

 An invading memory.

 A soft voice in the snow. 


“The Dead of Winter” is a collection of three very different ghost stories. a novella and two novellettes, each taking place during one of the months of Winter.

The dead of winter: The coldest part of winter.

 ~The Oxford English Dictionary

Dead of Winter: A trio of ghostly tales to chill your blood on those cold winter nights. 

~Rob Smales