MySpace Profile Help!THE RESURRECTIONWe thought they had all abandoned it; that old slaughterhouse, the windows boarded up, the chimney crumbling and the corrugated roof corroding. And that is what we had wished for so long, for those devils to just leave us alone, take their ghoulishness elsewhere. Things had gotten better, just like we knew they would. There was no longer that foreboding while walking in the woods, that those Sawyers were creeping around just past the beam of your flashlight, and sometimes laughing, leaving beer bottles in your path just to let you know they were still there, and sometimes hog bones, still fresh with gore from whatever they were cooking in that shack out there.
We didn’t talk about it much, because we were putting that chapter behind us, but some of the braver folks said that one of them died, and they scattered out of grief for their fallen brother like a pack of wolves, or perhaps that all of them died, or maybe, finally, killed each other, as they were known to have outbursts of murderous anger for apparently no reason.
Others still said that they remained out there, hiding and gathering their strength for something we didn’t even want to ponder. What more could they possibly do to us, with all the terror they had wrought already? And with that fear, our humble townspeople began to spot them again. First, a traveling sideshow, their savage, dog-like brother caged, eating the raw flesh of frolicking forest animals he could grab as they stumbled by his pen. Then, the sound of drums beating in the woods around the old slaughterhouse and Farmer Kyle Sawyer emptying buckets of gore into the incinerator, apron bloodied, smoldering cigar hanging from his stained, rotten teeth. The one they called the Judge seated in the shadows of the tavern, strumming a guitar, clad in enormous white cowboy hat and fringed buckskin suit, a necklace of what looked like ears hanging around his pale, hairless chest. The enigmatic, self-proclaimed, Count Sawyer strolling slowly through the cemetery, eyes blacked by charcoal under his dark top hat, wearing a shabby suit emblazoned with strings of small bones like those found in the hut of some Haitian voodoo priest, grinning with blacked-out teeth and nails. Lastly, the man called Master Seth Sawyer, passed out in the mud behind the liquor store, gripping a bottle to his chest in his slumber, a thin ribbon of vomit seeping out of his lips and a black and white picture of a woman from some forgotten era in stockings and stiletto heels crumpled in his fist.
Soon, we saw smoke curling up from the smoker at the slaughterhouse, the birds stopped singing so much in the woods, and people began talking again about being pursued through the denser parts of the forest by unseen entities and slow-moving ghouls, and pistol shots, and the sound of axes chopping lumber echoing off the valley walls, and moaning, and preternatural chanting that swelled and fell in some ancient, forgotten tongue, and we knew they had returned. They had returned. The Sawyer Family .2
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