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Mr Enderby's Squirrel (standard:horror, 760 words)
Author: moyaAdded: Jul 13 2002Views/Reads: 4124/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A lurid tale of persecution, murder and revolting little furry animals
 



Upon reflection, thought Mr Enderby, it had been a mistake to annoy that
squirrel.  Mind you, he couldn't abide the things.  Fluffy tails were 
no reason to get sentimental.  Tree rats, that's all they were.  Nasty 
American interlopers driving out Our British Squirrels.  The park was 
knee deep in them.  It was all the fault of people like that woman at 
number 38, leaving food out and encouraging them.  He'd had Words with 
her, but there was no telling some people. 

It was pure chance that he'd had a boiled sweet in his hand when he
spotted them  He'd been walking his Yorkshire terrier, Munchkin, in the 
park as usual.  There they were, in a tree right by the path, behaving 
like animals.  Shameless.  What if there had been ladies present? 

Throwing the sweet had been an instinctive reaction.  He hadn't even
taken aim, so it had been chance again that he'd scored a direct hit on 
the working rump.  Still, it had been funny, the way the squirrel had 
fallen out of its tree, while its mate clung bemused to the branch.  Mr 
Enderby had laughed all the way home. 

The joke began to wear thin however when next day, and every day
thereafter, the squirrel was waiting.  It would follow him around the 
park, leaping from tree to tree, chattering invective.  Sometimes it 
through twigs and acorns at him.  Poor Munchkin's nerves were quite 
shattered.  People started to notice.  Someone tipped off the local 
paper, and then the tabloids got hold of the story.  It was even on 
Midlands Today.  All very embarrassing. 

Of course the media soon lost interest and left him alone, but the
squirrel did not.  Every time he put his head out of doors it was 
there.  It terrorised the birds who used to flock to his bird table.  
It scratched up his seedlings and bit the heads off all his dahlias.  
It had already made a laughingstock of him. 

At last Mr Enderby could stand it no longer.  He borrowed an air rifle
and the next time the squirrel bounced out from behind his garden shed, 
screaming abuse, he shot it.  Right between the eyes.  Problem solved. 

The woman from number 38 shouted “Murderer!” every time she saw him, but
Mr Enderby didn't care.  At last he could take Munchkin round the park 
in peace.  He had the tail made into a key ring and every time they 
passed a squirrel he would take it out and wave it gently.  Childish, 
he knew, but satisfying. 

At the far end of the park, where the grass sloped down towards the
railway line, there was a deep wooded hollow.  It was a private, almost 
secret place.  Mr Enderby had never entered it, assuming it to full of 
empty beer cans, used condoms and other detritus of modern youth.  One 
dank misty November morning  he was crossing the grass when a squirrel 
popped up in front of him and made for the trees. 

It was the first he had seen on his walk.  He had thought, vaguely, that
they must be hibernating.  Munchkin, who had got over her squirrel 
phobia, immediately gave chase. 

“Munchkin!”  cried Mr Enderby.  “Here!” 

But to no avail.  The squirrel disappeared into the hollow, closely
followed by Munchkin.  A moment later cam a single high-pitched scream. 


Mr Enderby dashed after them only to stop dead, appalled at the sight
which met his eyes.  Munchkin lay on the ground, a pathetic bloodied 
scrap of fur.  Crouching over her body was an enormous squirrel. 

It looked horribly familiar - no, it couldn't be.  That was impossible. 
Mr Enderby touched his key ring for reassurance.  Then glancing round 
he realised that the hollow was full of squirrels.  Every tree and bush 
was crowded, the ground between alive with grey shapes.  Hundreds of 
pairs of black beady eyes bored into him.  And they all looked exactly 
like - 

Slowly the terrible truth dawned on Mr Enderby.  As well as highly
sexed, his had been a very prolific squirrel. 

He staggered and cried out as something small but heavy landed on the
back of his neck.  The next moment they were all over him, swarming up 
his legs, dropping from the branches onto his head and shoulders.  He 
flailed his arms ineffectually, blinded by the blood running into his 
eyes, his cries lost in the mist.  Then he stumbled over a root and 
fell, disappearing under a heaving mound of small furry animals. 

Eventually, they dispersed. 

Yes, it had been a very bad idea, annoying that squirrel.


   


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