Distant Screams

“That’s my inheritance?” Erin asked, wrinkling her nose.

“It is, it is—and a fine one too.” Uncle Jeb said, overturning the filthy burlap sack that had been stained with huge dark blotches. Tools spilled out, clattering against the barn table: a pair of screw drivers, a drill, pliers, a hammer, a patchwork mask and two thick, mismatched gloves. “You’re inheriting the stuff of nightmares. If you do your job well enough you could be a legend in your own right, the kind that will give them stories for years to come.”

Running her fingers across the width of the power drill, a slow sounding saxophone began to play in her head. It started off hollow and distant, almost mournful. As each discordant note lead to another, the music grew louder until she could see her uncle’s lips moving but not hear his words. She understood the intent though: What can be used to put things together, can be used just as easily to take them apart.

With trembling fingers, Erin picked up the mask and pulled it down over her head.

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