|Mr Enderby's Squirrel (standard:horror, 760 words)|
|Author: moya||Added: Jul 13 2002||Views/Reads: 4083/0||Story 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. Tweet
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