Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Run, Boy Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

RUN, BOY

The three big men in tight grey baseball pants with blue stripes running up the exterior seam were too busy to notice the trio of boys lingering next to the batting cage, or the homeless man watching the boys from an out-of-the-way picnic table. The boys were arguing. The homeless man didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t stand to listen anymore.

His worlds collided in the small boy of the trio. He had dirty blonde hair and pink cheeks. His clothes, obvious thrift store finds. The bigger boys pushed him, told him he was uninvited to lunch, that his own damned mother said he could starve.

This boy with his innocent face and slender shoulders and waist beneath the well-worn clothes made the homeless man’s skin itch all over, as if he couldn’t stand to be dressed so near the boy. A perfect little boy.

The homeless man swallowed and adjusted the front of his pants. This boy was trouble, so he climbed to his feet and shuffled beneath the canopied shadows of maple trees lining a gravel lane until he came to the lip of the river. Birds sang and a gentle breeze swished the August-tanned leaves hanging from branches. The homeless man slipped off the red and grey Nike sneakers he’d woken up to find next to his face where he slept on the steps of U-Wash coin laundromat only a week earlier. His feet had been sticking out beneath the slim bedsheet he used in summers. He slept with his shoes on—edges frayed and packing tape sealing wear holes.

Sometimes life shined a little on him, but not often, not since he’d tried to be good, tried to fight the urges. Mostly, his days were hungry and drunk and needing more, needing that one itch scratched.

The homeless man rolled his pant legs up to his knees and dipped his feet into the lazy river. He wiggled his toes, hoping to feel the ticklish nibble from a minnow, his long yellow nails like chunks of tree bark rising from yellowed flesh. He shed his jacket then and withdrew a micky bottle of Smirnoff. When he could manage it, he’d panhandle enough for a more cost-effective size—the bigger the bottle, the better the savings—but usually he couldn’t do it.

He sipped and thought about the heroin and meth junkies he’d seen around more and more lately. At least it was only booze, at least he hadn’t fallen any further, fallen anywhere with slopes that much more slippery. But he could. Fighting himself as he did was bad for him because the forces of nature ruled the universe.

The image of the small boy came to mind and he closed his eyes, played with memories of himself as a small boy. He touched remembered faces of all the small boys he’d been inside in his long life. His tongue traced over his dry lips and he was thankful for the booze and the distance he’d put between himself and the boy, for he knew all that he’d done in the past was wrong, even if it was his makeup, his genetic predisposition. Oh, but what he wouldn’t give to lose his conscience and succumb to the urge—

The trees rustled behind him and a small voice said, “Oh, sorry.”

The homeless man turned slowly, already knowing. His voice worked with instinct rather than against it. “You can sit, if you like.”

The boy held a little black baseball glove against his thigh. He had on grey track pants, a Toronto Blue Jays t-shirt, a Montreal Canadiens cap tilted and riding just the back half of his head, and shoes so old and blistered with wear someone had spot-fixed them with super glue. The little boy was a smart ten feet from the homeless man, but then did a naïve thing and drew closer.

The homeless man groaned beneath his breath. He could almost feel the heat of their flesh pressed together and his conscience began shouting, Run, boy! Run, boy! Instead of speaking, he took a sip from the bottle.

The boy had his shoes off and his pants rolled to his knees. “I was ‘sposed to go with my brother and his friend, Lee. They said Mom said I couldn’t and I was ‘sposed to stay at the park and not eat nothing.”

“Brothers,” the homeless man said. “Guess you’re not from close to here?”

“No. I live all the way on Wexler. Know where that is?”

The homeless man nodded.

“It’s just me and my mom and my brother. You got a brother?”

“Sure, two, or three maybe, but they were mean and I don’t like to think about them,” the homeless man said and then took another sip. His clothes were itching him something awful and he ached to take them off. “So baseball, huh?”

The boy nodded and kicked his feet. “Yeah, it’s a two-day camp, but not overnight. If I knew I wasn’t going to get no food, I would’ve put Cheerios in a bag and Ritz Crackers. Or a sandwich.”

The homeless man groaned thinking about boys and cereal and of that easy satisfaction because good little boys will eat what’s given, what they’re told to eat.

The boy misunderstood the groan and said, “Guess you’re hungry lots of the time. I shouldn’t be whining. My mom says I’m always whining too danged much.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tonya Gibson, but me and my brother are Wagners ‘cause that’s our dad’s name. But they’re divorced and Dad lives in Florida now, so we only see him at Christmas.”

“That’s okay, sometimes dads aren’t so great either.”

“Yeah, Mom thinks that, but she don’t have hardly any money for anything and only reason we got to come to baseball camp was ‘cause there’s free spots for kids to join when they don’t got any money.”

The homeless man nodded slowly, imagining his hands reaching out, playing rough fingertips beneath the stretchy waistband of the jogging pants. He licked his lips again and took another sip from the bottle. He would fight himself as long as he could, fight the good fight, fight that never-ending fight.

“I always wanted to play hockey, too, but that’s way expensive.”

The homeless man inhaled a shuddered breath. “Want a sip,” he said and held out the bottle. This was a first step, a test against conscience. If the boy said no, well that was it and fine and he’d stay still until the boy left the riverbank. If he said no, everything would be all right in the world—

“Yeah, okay,” the boy said and took the bottle.

His pale pink lips wrapped around the plastic nozzle and the homeless man looked away. This was too much temptation, and it was his own damned fault. The river ran through half the town, but only there did it run next to the ball diamonds were boys played baseball.

He bit his bottom lip to keep his teeth from chattering as the kid barked a half-cough from the unwholesome vodka burn.

“That’s not so good, but not so bad,” the boy said and capped the bottle and sat it in the grass close to the homeless man’s leg.

The homeless man’s left hand began creeping, passing the returned bottle and inching closer to the boy’s side. A whistle blew and the boy pushed out of the river and onto his feet.

“Gotta go, bye, Mister.” He grabbed his shoes, socks, and glove and was gone.

The homeless man exhaled a pent breath. He retracted his hand and wrapped fingers around the stubby plastic bottle. He’d done it and deserved every ounce of clear congratulations housed in the recyclable container.

Eyes averted from the boys playing baseball, he made his way back to the corner a good hour away where he’d hid the best sign he’d ever made. It simply said MADE SOME MISTAKES and people seemed to understand that better than I’M HUNGRY or WAR VETERAN. They tossed change at him and he gathered what didn’t roll too far and too fast to catch. A lady came around just before sundown with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He thanked her, didn’t even ask about the ingredients. He ate and discovered tuna and egg salad—not at all what he had expected.

He collected three empty liquor bottles on his way to the store and added the deposit change from those—and his Smirnoff from earlier—to the tossed coins he’d collected that afternoon and evening. He departed with another small bottle of Smirnoff and 30¢ leftover.

Something had pissed on the bundle he hid behind the dumpster beside the laundromat; by the volume, he guessed that the something was a human male. He stretched the sheet and his thick slab of cardboard and sat on the cool steps next to them. An older woman pushed through the door from inside. The clean fabric scent was a momentary wonder and the homeless man inhaled deeply. The woman grunted a disgusted sound in the homeless man’s direction. She had a huge bundle of laundry and her detergent, softener, and dryer sheets rested on top. Her purse slipped sideways from her shoulder and her wallet and a pack of Peter Jackson cigarettes fell out.

“Ma’am,” the homeless man said, his voice coarse and threaded with mucous. He choked back the blockage and said louder, “Ma’am, you dropped your wallet.”

She was already to her car, leaning her laundry against a back seat side window to get at her keys. “I see it. Don’t touch it.” She loaded the car and hurried over to the wallet, eyes hard on the homeless man, a sneer on her mouth, as if this man’s existence offended, as if he’d become who he was just to spite her experiences doing laundry.

She didn’t grab her cigarettes and once she’d gone, the homeless man got up and collected them. Nine cigarettes and a green Bic brand lighter. He lit one and then broke the seal on his fresh bottle. By 10:15 PM, he’d smoked four cigarettes and drank down half the bottle, was stretched out beneath the pissy sheet, on top of the pissy cardboard mattress. He closed his eyes and dreamed of the boy, of touching him in the bad ways, the ways that had made him feel so guilty before.

He awoke under a high pale moon and promised himself he’d stay away from the ballpark until school resumed and the daylight hours would be free of perfect little boys.

—

The homeless man managed until nearly eleven o’clock before gathering the new change he’d amassed and hurrying onto a bus and riding nine blocks away from his good corner. Sunlight shined a promise onto the green green grass of the ball diamonds. The dugouts were busy with cleat prints and sneaker swipes.

From the shadows, the homeless man scanned dozens of little boys for that one perfect face, perfect little body. He licked his dry lips. He’d kept out of the half-bottle remaining in his jacket pocket, trying to fight his nature with a clear head, but it hadn’t worked—sober, sure, but defeated nonetheless.

Boys from five to fifteen. A few girls, too. The coaches were former athletes with hard-packed beer guts and big arms. Tattoos featuring their wives’ names or their mothers’ names. Rings from glory days when some local high school or college went all the way.

“He’s not here. Go away. You can,” he hissed.

A woman sneaking a smoke leaned around the corner of the closed concession stand and said, “You say something?”

The homeless man shook his head. Interaction was almost always bad. He was a wild dog and occasionally someone tossed him table scraps, but they didn’t care how he felt or what he needed to be happy. His words were nothing but irritating barks.

He straightened and walked like he had urgent business up the path, leading away from the ballpark. The gravel drew thicker the further he went and for a heartbeat, he almost believed he’d leave it alone. His legs pulled him into the thick trees running to the right of the path and he heard the river long before he saw it. He continued in a U and faced that spot from the day prior.

Before him, unnatural splashing played headliner over the gentle, rustling wind of background vocals. The homeless man’s breaths became short and his skin became itchy all over in anticipation. He skirted a tree and there was the boy, his pants torn and his knee bloody and full of pebbles from one of the infields. His face was all tear smears and smiles.

“I brought us lunch,” the boy said. He pulled a JanSport backpack from his side: faded orange and splotchy with mud stains. He retrieved two sandwiches. “I got bologna and mustard and I got peanut butter and jam.”

The homeless man ached deep. There’d been so many boys in the past and none had come to him in this way. So willing and pleasant. He licked those crusty lips and slipped off his shoes. There’d be no denying it now, guilt was for later.

He sat close enough to touch and dipped his feet in the river.

“You’re very kind.”

“So which one you want?”

“You pick.”

The boy looked at the sandwiches and moved his mouth to the right side of his face. “I had peanut butter on toast for breakfast ‘cause we ran out of milk. Duncan ate Cheerios with fruit punch.”

“Okay, I like peanut butter and jam,” the homeless man said, squirming.

“You okay, Mister?”

“Sometimes when you sleep outside you get fleas and have to take your pants off and rinse them out.”

The boy began nodding. “Oh yeah, our old cat got fleas, but Dad took her when he left. We gave her a special bath and she clawed Mom all to shreds. Had to use like ten Band-Aids.”

The homeless man had set the sandwich behind him. He then took off his jacket. “I better get these fleas out. They bite.”

“Sure, yeah.” The boy looked away.

The man stood and emptied his pockets before soaking his pants in the river. “How come you’re not playing? The others didn’t break for lunch yet.”

The boy looked down at his hurt knee, touched it gently. “The coaches are all jerks and they made us do sliding and when I was going, the coach said I wasn’t moving fast enough and pushed me right before I started sliding.”

“That’s not nice. You should rinse it out.” The homeless man took three deep breaths and grabbed his half-bottle from the night prior as he plunked back down. He thought, Run, boy! Dammit, run! He swigged a mouthful and then continued. “You don’t want to get threads in it, either. Rinse it and…” He trailed and took another deep breath, this one through his liquor plump nose. “Rinse it and leave your pants off until the cut dries.”

“What?”

“Do you want a sip?” the homeless man said quickly and looked anywhere but at the boy.

“Yeah, okay.”

The homeless man turned and pressed his hand to the bottom of the bottle, tipping a bigger than expected mouthful. The boy’s cheeks filled like a squirrel’s and then he swallowed. His face went red, then yellowy. He started to cry.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” The homeless man was shaking. He took off his shirt. “Fleas in there, too.” He dunked the old Petro Canada work shirt in the river, rung it out, and sat it next to the sopping pants.

The boy pushed up to his feet and then fell to his knees. The sandwich he’d eaten barrelled up his throat and out his mouth on a wash of vodka and the orange Gatorade from powdered mix the coaches had handed out. The tears became sobbing. His hands shook as he scrambled for his bag and his glove.

“No. No. Don’t go,” the homeless man whined.

“I don’t like you. I don’t like vodka neither!” The boy’s words came out on a high screech.

He got to his feet and took one step. The homeless man grabbed the boy’s jogging pants and tore them to his ankles. The boy tipped then, dropping everything while trying to cover himself. The homeless man pounced, flopped onto him, wrapping his hand over the boy’s mouth.

“Shh. Shh,” the homeless man panted as he yanked the boy’s thin t-shirt until it tore. “Shh. Shh.” He got his hands in the frayed waistband of the boy’s Fruit of the Looms. They slipped down wiggling, kicking legs.

The boy wailed against the dirty palm of the homeless man as hot weight fell on his back and burning breaths brushed his ear.

The itch became the world and the homeless man covered the naked boy with his own naked body and squeezed. He could feel it, that familiar magic. That molecular love. He was inside the boy, not all the way, he pushed further, harder. He grunted and the wailing stopped.

There.

There.

The homeless man ceased clutching and opened his eyes.

He’d done it again and everything was clear and perfect. The air fresher. His skin tighter. He ran his unblemished tongue over soft, moist lips. He opened his eyes and looked at the body of the homeless man he’d inhabited for decades, fighting himself, fighting his nature.

The trapped boy screamed and rolled off the boy body.

“You can’t go home. Never again. I’m so sorry, but sometimes life isn’t fair,” the thing inside the boy’s body said.

The homeless man’s face contorted and tears spilled over grimy cheeks as the trapped boy looked at his new-old fat and callused palms.

No time to watch the terror sink. The boy’s hands busied with dressing, and then handed over the bottle. “You’re alone now, and I’m sorry. Life isn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“What’s ha-ha-happening?”

“It’s not a good life and it’s forever. I’m sorry.” The thing in the boy grabbed the peanut butter and jam sandwich, the backpack, and the baseball glove. “I’m sorry it had to be you,” the thing said before it took the path to the ball diamonds, rejuvenated, invigorated, and not yet feeling guilty about another life stolen, leaving behind a boy trapped in a homeless man’s body, screaming for his mommy.

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