Seven Deadly Tales of Terror by Bryan Smith Page B

blood was blood and still meant something. His father would help him, he was sure of it.
    Luke climbed the porch steps and rapped hard on the front door. Minutes passed and no one answered, but he knew someone was awake in there because he could hear the faint strains of a scratchy C&W record playing on the turntable. “I’m Walking The Floor Over You” by Ernest Tubb. It was one of his pop’s favorites. He played it whenever he was in a particularly maudlin mood, which didn’t bode well for any interaction they might have here. The song ended and another Tubb tune—“Drivin’ Nails In My Coffin”—began moments later. Maybe he was passed out drunk in there and really couldn’t hear him knocking. Much more likely, however, was the possibility that he was opting to ignore the late night caller at his door.
    Luke couldn’t blame the man. He hated the ornery old bastard, but this reaction was nothing but plain common sense. An unexpected knock on your door at this hour could only mean bad news or trouble of some kind. Still, Luke was in a hell of a bind and had no choice but to continue pressing the issue.
    So he banged harder on the door and pitched his voice above the sound of the music. “Pop! It’s me, Luke! I need your help!”
    A few more moments passed and Luke was on the verge of giving up when he detected the sound of booted feet approaching from the other side of the door, making the hardwood floor inside the foyer creak. The door came open and Josh Benson stood framed in the doorway, a scowl twisting a face flushed a bright shade of red. “Son? What in blue blazes brings you out here at this hour?”
    “I’m in trouble.”
    The old man’s scowl faded and he stared at his son with an unreadable expression for maybe a full minute. His breath reeked of cheap beer. Probably Old Style, his favorite going back at least to the 50’s. Finally, he shook his head and stepped away from the door. “Come on in, then.”
    Luke followed him into the house, shutting the door behind him. The living room was directly adjacent to the little foyer. Stepping into it again triggered that impression of traveling back in time. He hadn’t been in this room for going on a decade, but it still looked much as he remembered. The furniture—all of it stuff his late mother had purchased new in the early 60’s—was all the same, albeit more weathered-looking now. The same framed family photos still hung from the walls. Younger versions of Luke appeared in several of them. He was even smiling in a few of them. Seeing the mostly black and white images now was weird, like looking at pictures of strangers. No, on further reflection, it was weirder than that. The life depicted in those pictures was completely alien to him now. They were like glimpses of life on another planet. A late night movie was playing with the sound turned down on a big Zenith television opposite the dusty sofa, some old gangster thing with Peter Lorre and Humphrey Bogart. The TV was one of the boxy old-fashioned kind with legs on the bottom.
    Josh walked over to the stereo system and lifted the needle off the record, silencing Ernest Tubb with a nasty scratch of vinyl. “Sit down, son. I’ll get us both a beer.”
    Luke stood there while his father walked out of the room. He was too wound up to sit down so instead he crossed the room to examine more framed photos that lined the shelves of a bookcase. He gnawed on his bottom lip and frowned at more pictures of smiling aliens.
    “Here, son.”
    Luke gasped at the sound of his father’s voice. He hadn’t known the old drunk could tread so silently. He turned away from the pictures and nodded as he accepted the can of Old Style. “Thanks.”
    Josh opened his beer and knocked back a big gulp, grimacing as he choked it down. “So tell me about this so-called trouble you’re in.”
    Luke popped the tab on his own can and had a tiny sip. The beer wasn’t unappreciated, but he needed to stay sober until he