Ordering with this link is for items being mailed in the USA.
If you are ordering issues to be mailed to the U.K., go to the Down in the Dirt main page for U.K. shipping.
get this writing in the collection book echo Download (color eBook): $4.95 paperback (5.5" x 8.5") w/ b&w interior pages: $18.95
Whispers in the Woods
John Ragusa
After spending most of his time at home, Irving Bengle decided to camp out in the woods.
His secretary Nan asked him what he planned to do there.
“It’s none of your business,” he said.
The girl was in tears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bengle; I wasn’t prying.”
“Are you finished with those files?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you can get out. I’ll see you next week.”
Bengle had been cold and callous since his childhood. He had no regard for anyone. He was mean to other kids. He made fun of them a lot. His mother never corrected him. “He’ll grow out of it,” she’d always say.
Was it any wonder he came out the way he did?
Success only made him worse. If he didn’t think he was superior before, he certainly did now.
He didn’t have any friends, because people couldn’t stand to be around him. They disliked his personality. He never had anything nice to say to anyone. He didn’t care if he hurt someone’s feelings, either.
Bengle thought that the world owed him something. He believed that other people existed only to serve him.
He was a very lonely man. He would have been happier if he could get along with others, but he just wasn’t able to.
He intended to enjoy the solitude of his camping trip. He bought a tent for the outing. It would be quiet and peaceful, with nobody to bother him.
Bengle drove out to the woods. The weather was sunny and bright; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He chose a clearing next to some trees. He parked his car, pitched his tent, and built a fire. He was all set.
After eating lunch, he loaded his rifle. He had plenty of ammunition. He was going to kill as many rabbits and ducks as he possibly could.
Armed with his rifle, Bengle went into the woods. Soon he spotted a rabbit hopping on the ground. He took careful aim and opened fire with unrestrained glee. His prey was killed instantly. He laughed; he was enjoying the trip already.
He heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw another hunter.
“Hi there,” the man said.
“Hello,” Bengle said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“I thought I was alone.”
“I’ve been here since this morning. Would you care for some coffee? I got a fresh pot on.”
Bengle shrugged. “Let’s go.”
It wasn’t a long walk to the man’s tent. They sat down with their cups of coffee.
“How do you find the hunting here?” the man asked.
“It’s pretty good,” Bengle replied. “There’s plenty of wildlife around.”
“Do you camp out often?”
“This is my first time.”
“I’m Don Jasse.”
“And I’m Irving Bengle.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Irving.”
Bengle nodded. “Sure.”
“I saw you hunt down that rabbit. You shoot very well.”
“I guess it’s beginner’s luck.”
“Are rabbits all you go after?”
“No, I also hunt ducks. There’s a marsh behind the woods.”
“You got a pirogue?”
“I shoot from the shore.”
“It’s real cold today.”
“Yes, it’s been a harsh winter.”
“It’s good to have this campfire to warm us up.”
“It sure is.”
“I plan to do some fishing later on. I hope the big ones are biting.”
“I understand there’s many trout up here.”
“I’ll have a lot of good food to eat when I get back home. There’s so many animals to hunt in these woods.”
“I’ll cook up some rabbit stew tonight. That makes a great meal.”
“What do you do for a living, Irving?”
“That’s a nosy question,” Bengle said rudely.
“Never mind me. I’m always dipping into other people’s affairs.”
“It’s a bad thing to do.”
“So I’ve been told. Would you like more coffee?”
“No. What you gave me already was pretty weak.”
“I think that’s because you put too much cream in it.”
“That’s the trouble with men like you,” Bengle said. “You think too much.”
“You’re an ornery bastard, you know that?”
“This baby will give you what you deserve.” Bengle aimed his rifle at Jasse and pulled the trigger. It blew a hole in his face, killing him immediately.
It didn’t bother Bengle that he had murdered someone. He didn’t have a conscience.
After dumping Jasse’s body in the marsh, Bengle went back to his tent. By the time he reached it, night had arrived and he was tired. He got inside his tent, rolled out a blanket, and went to sleep.
He woke up a little while later and realized he was thirsty. He left the tent and fetched his canteen. As he drank, he heard Jasse’s voice whispering, “Bengle, you’re going to die.”
It was probably his imagination. Dead men can’t whisper.
Then he saw a stirring in some bushes. Cautiously, he picked up his rifle. “Who is it?”
There was no answer, just more stirring.
Bengle put his finger on the trigger.
A deer emerged from the bushes.
He let out a sigh. It was nothing to be afraid of, just a dumb old animal.
He walked back to his tent and lay down again. Then he heard a thumping noise and stuck his head out the tent. In horror, he saw a huge tree fall upon him.
Before he died, he could have sworn he also saw a man, armed with a hatchet, as he walked off into the woods.
He had a big, bloody hole in his face.
