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. Responsibilities Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

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Downtown for lunch, oh the freedom.

“What are you doing?” Bryce asked Len.

Len looked back; he’d already stepped out onto the street. It was barren of life but for the three boys and the crossing guard at the corner, sun in the sky. Bryce and Cory stood on the sidewalk looking at their friend, toes pointed toward the crosswalk.

“What? Oh come on,” said Len, his buddies both stared with uncomfortable eyes, “You guys thirteen or three? We’re old enough to cross the walk without stupid old Mr. Paul.”

“It’s the rules,” said Bryce.

“Oh come on,” reiterated Len, he looked to Cory, “Come on, Cory, you’re not a baby anymore.”

“Dude, if my dad found out…” said Cory looking at his shoes, his father was a detective, one of two in town. His father would give him an earful if someone ratted that he’d jaywalked. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, his father was big on the law.

“Plus, it’s the rules,” said Bryce. “It’s more mature to follow the rules, what are you, thirteen or three.”

“Fine, sissies, do what you like. I’ll wait on the other side for you,” said Len. He crossed the road. Bryce and Cory walked to the corner.

Mr. Paul was a strange old biker dude, always wore leathers, had a long white beard and wore hug black sunglasses, tattooed arms like old whiskey barrels. He rarely spoke, mostly grunted or grumbled. Theories swirled, but the popular belief around the schoolyard was that Mr. Paul killed someone with his Harley, but the court couldn’t prove intent, so the judge gave him permanent community service at the crosswalk. It seemed plausible.

Bryce smiled and nodded to the man. Bryce was such a suck up, apples for teachers, candy canes for everyone at Christmas, banging chalk brushes, you name the ass, he probably kissed it.

“Friend a real tough guy, huh?” Mr. Paul asked, surprised the hell out of boys to hear his voice clear and loud.

Bryce and Cory looked back, Len walked back and forth across the road to prove his point. Old enough to cross the road without a sitter or some white paint outlining more rules.

“That kid’ll get his,” said Mr. Paul and lifted his handheld stop sign so Bryce and Cory could cross in safety.

What Len did made Cory feel like a wimp, he was thirteen, didn’t need a crossing guard. Still, he didn’t want to offend Mr. Paul, just in case he did the job for some other reason than manslaughter.

The boys went downtown, crossed at the lights, Len made a point of jogging across when the hand was lit to stop. Bryce and Cory waited, joined their friend on the other side at Billie’s Diner. They hardly spoke, uncomfortable in that soft red booth.

—

The next day, Len wasn’t in class, but that happened often enough not to worry.

“Hey, hey, you guys going to Billie’s for lunch again?” Simon ran up, same grade, different homeroom.

“Yeah, beats the heck out of a bag lunch,” said Cory, still feeling pretty good, only a handful of kids got to leave school grounds at lunch; had to score a note from the parents, most parents thought the packed lunch was fine. Cory had to do extra yard work to earn the right.

“Can I come?” Simon asked, he asked his mom for permission, she gave it to him, gave him all kinds of money too. Word was, he had a fifty dollar a week allowance.

Cory looked to Bryce, “All right,” said Bryce.

The trio left the grounds and made for the corner. Mr. Paul waited, a bus struggled through the intersection and the boys coughed in the plume of black exhaust. Mr. Paul faced forward, unaffected by the smoggy cloud.

“My mom says she went to high school with you. Her name’s Joyce Hannerhan, Kane back then, you’re from Tammany right, went to Winston Churchill, right?” said Simon.

Mr. Paul usually would’ve proffered his sign by then, but the story interested him. He remembered Joyce Kane, a real tart, liked to showcase her sumptuous attributes, feigned innocence, “She remembers me?” he asked, his voice not as gruff as a day earlier.

“Yeah, she said you pissed your pants one day, drunk at a school dance,” said Simon. “Your mom had to come and she made you ride home in the back of the truck so you wouldn’t stink up her car.”

Mr. Paul recalled the other side of Joyce Kane, saw it all over the smart-mouthed boy, “Move it you little peckerhead,” said Mr. Paul, sign above his head, recalling the incident, his mother didn’t make him ride in the back of a truck, they didn’t even have a truck.

“That was disrespectful,” said Bryce once they’d gone beyond earshot of the crossing guard.

“Not cool,” added Cory, who’d once gotten away unharmed with an in-school accident a couple years earlier. Luckily, they were on their way back from gym class and he just had to slip out of his shorts and undies and into his jeans. Even his mother didn’t mention the pudding stained underwear; he was ready to swear up and down it was just a pudding stain if anyone asked, even his parents.

“Whatever, don’t be such babies,” said Simon.

Cory borrowed a sentiment from Bryce, “It’s more mature to be respectful, what are you, thirteen or three?”

Bryce smiled at his friend. They ate lunch quietly; Simon decided he wouldn’t go out with the boring goody-goodies the next day. He stuck out his tongue at Mr. Paul on the way back to school, Mr. Paul muttered under his breath.

—

The next morning, Cory woke to his father shaking him, “Hey buddy, wake up.”

Rubbing his eyes, lifting his knees, trying to hide the pitched tent under the blanket, “What Dad?”

“You haven’t seen Len around, have you?” the man sat on the edge of the bed, serious police-dad face on in full force.

Cory shook his head, “He missing?”

“Yeah, him and another boy, Simon Hannerhan, you know him?”

Cory nodded, the wheels in his head spun, “Mr. Paul…” he gazed off into space.

“The crossing guard?”

“Yeah, Len jaywalked back and forth, called us names for crossing at the corner and then Simon said…” Cory explained everything to his father, it felt good to unload onto a listening ear. His father was stern about the law, homework, chores and curfew, but he was pretty great all around. Fun, caring and responsible, one of the good ones.

“Zack!” a call came from the kitchen, “Telephone!” it was Cory’s mother.

Cory’s father ran for the phone. Cory got up and dressed; still had a semi and he didn’t want to show it off around the house. He stepped out into the kitchen; saw his father at the table frantically tying his boots.

“What is it?” asked Cory.

His father didn’t answer, couldn’t even look at his son, and left, giving his wife a hurt look and a gentle headshake on the way out. Something bad, Cory knew, probably something bad with Len and Simon. Parents never give their children credit, but they understand body language and unspoken messages.

Cory knew right there.

—

Zack drove four minutes across town, sirens screaming to the parking lot behind the water treatment plant. There were bodies, five of them in total, three were old, indistinguishable beyond sex and general age group (male adult, female adult, female child), but two were fresh and familiar.

The officer shook his head looking down at the body of Cory’s friends Len and Simon. Len sprawled eyes open, his face pale, a small octagon carved into his forehead, knife wound in his belly; Simon much the same next to Len, eyes closed, but lips sewn together with leather instead of the shape, similar knife wound in his belly.

All morning and through the afternoon, the detectives questioned Mr. Paul; they had nothing but hope and a wildly weak motive, “You think I’d kill kids for mouthing?” Mr. Paul asked rhetorically, “There’d be no kids left in this whole damn town. I don’t even know why I put up with this, I like being around kids, but it’s not the same at the crosswalk.

“I just can’t do the hospital thing anymore; children dying are just too hard to…” Mr. Paul registered the looks on the detective’s faces; they’d done zero detecting, just reached for an easy target. “You two are insane, I’m leaving,” Mr. Paul stood and the detectives had to watch him go.

The detectives made some calls, found out Mr. Paul up and left a children’s hospital one day without real reason. They were onto something, so they hoped, really hoped. Nobody wants a case with dead children to linger.

—

Cory and Bryce went downtown for lunch despite the lack of a crossing guard. They’d all but run out of money, scrounged enough to split a convenience store cheeseburger. Once they had finished, they headed back, Bryce rambled about the upcoming Batman reboot, Cory had nothing to add, his mind elsewhere. Cory knew, just knew, that Mr. Paul was a murderer.

It made him sick.

To Cory’s surprise, Mr. Paul was back at the corner in his typical biker gear, “Murderer,” he blurted.

“I didn’t do anything and I think I know the two little peckerheads that said I did,” he glared at Bryce and Cory, “You two better watch your fucking mouths; I don’t have to put up with this.”

“You shouldn’t swear,” said Bryce.

“Oh fuck you, you don’t get it, you think ‘cause you’re little kids that you can make up stories about people. Well I got news for both of you,” Mr. Paul dropped his sign and grabbed Cory and Bryce by the collars and stomped across the street, lifting two sets of kicking feet from the asphalt, “I’m not going to put up with it.”

Bryce and Cory both scurried away, “What was he talking about?” Bryce asked.

Cory swallowed his fear and grief, knew his dad wouldn’t want him talking about it, shrugged and they went to class. Math after lunch on Wednesdays.

—

“Isn’t that your boy?” Detective Murphy asked Zack from the cop cruiser; parked to keep an eye on a strange man.

Zack gripped the wheel, “Yeah. We’ll get him yet, Murph, we’ll get him,” he said his eyes locked on the crossing guard.

—

The call came in after Cory returned home from school; he took the long way to avoid Mr. Paul, his mother told him there was a stakeout of some sort. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He wanted to see Mr. Paul go down for what he did, did to him, did to Bryce, did to Simon and did to Len.

He fed his mother a fib and snuck out his window under the guise of sleepiness, biked to a quarter-block away from Mr. Paul’s house, unaware just a block from his lookout, his father sat doing the very same thing.

—

Dusk settled, threatening a dark night, both Cory and the detectives wondered about a suspicious character slinking around Mr. Paul’s yard. Neither moved. The figure went around back and then there was silence for almost three minutes; then there was a bang and a scream. The detectives peeled the cruiser into the open and parked on the grass, skidding great divots as they halted.

Cory watched his father slam on the locked door until it opened. A figure crawled out a basement window as the detectives entered.

“Holy shit!” Zack yelled from inside.

The figure stopped, silhouetted in the light, knife in hand, shaking his head disappointedly. Cory thought to himself, he would give me hell for saying holy shit, thought, I wonder what’s in there, thought, that’s not Mr. Paul on the lawn.

“Bryce?”

Bryce waved his empty, “Hey Cory, how’s it going?” He ran to a corner, looked both ways and walked slowly across the street at the undefined crosswalk.

Cory watched him, confused. The detectives stepped out of the house equally confused. Their murder suspect slashed and abused, dead, on the carpet. His stop sign handle jammed down his throat.

“Does you dad always swear like that? It’s not very mature, my parents used to swear too, they don’t now,” said Bryce.

“What are you…?” Cory’s words caught in his throat, his friend dripped blood.

“Cory? Don’t you fucking move!” yelled Zack from the porch.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix your dad, you’ll be the man of the house like me. Being thirteen demands certain responsibilities,” Bryce patted a bloody hand on Cory’s shoulder.

Bryce smiled at Cory, watched Zack run across the street, slowing once he understood, “Bryce? What are you doing? Did you…” the first slice into the gut shortened the line of questioning, the second, wild and partially blocked, stab entered Zack’s back.

Murphy fired two shots, both found Bryce’s chest, freckling Cory with hot blood.

—

It was six weeks before Cory’s father returned home, he’d never walk again, but he could use his arms. That was something.

Cory had gotten used to taking on more chores. Bryce was right, thirteen was an age of responsibility; it was only that morning that he saw his mother park in a handicap space so she could run into the bank.

He’d have to teach her a lesson about maturity; maturity was about acting your age, about respect and about responsibility. She’d learn though.

XX