Don’t think I ain’t figured it out. I know what’s going on. You can’t fool me. That’s why I stocked up the pantry and filled the fridge. Bologna and cheese and Wonderbread, case of Lone Star. Water flows outta the tap, cool and clear. Lights cut out, I got candles and matches, lanterns and kerosene. Miguel’s .12-gauge oiled and loaded, too, fresh boxes of shells in every room. Doors locked, curtains pulled, TV screen dancing blue in the half-light. I’m by God prepared, is what I am. You better believe it. I know what’s out there, lurking in the shadows. Got an inkling what’s he’s after, too. Plumb already robbed everyone I know, including Miguel, whether or not he’d admit it. But what’s mine is mine. That slippery sumbitch ain’t getting jack-squat from me. You know who I mean.
The Chupacabra.
Not everybody’s heard of the Chupacabra. Maybe you ain’t neither. Lucky you. Gimme a minute, I’ll tell you all about him, his hopes and dreams and devious, disgusting ways.
Miguel thinks I’ve gone off the deep end. He ain’t said as much in so many words, but them looks he’s been giving ain’t lost on me. I’m sure he still loves me. I mean, we been together all this time, ain’t we? Stood by each other, thick and thin, through the boozing times (me) and the whoring times (him) and the flat broke times (both of us). But there’s only so much you can count on where the Chupacabra’s concerned.
You take it all too serious, darlin, said Miguel.
What I understand, that fiend’s from down Mexico way.
Nothing but a myth.
As I recall, your people are from down yonder.
So what you think, sugar? I’m the Chupacabra?
Not yet, but I ain’t ruled it out none.
That’s when he give me that look. Like I was a little no-nothing kid, and this was all just play-pretend that’d gone too far.
It’s just a legend, honey.
My ass.
A dadblame story, plain and simple.
Maybe once upon a time that was true, but not no more, it ain’t.
You done lost it or what?
They caught them one over to Cuero!
Miguel just shook his head and give me a pitying expression. That’s when I knew for certain: the Chupacabra’d gotten to him. He turned on his busted boot heel and loped to the door. Paused at the threshold and give me that look again over his shoulder. Maybe he wanted to say sumpin else, but he had to get back to work, so he donned his hat and stepped out into the afternoon dust.
Everybody says the Chupacabra’s just some story dreamt up by country folk too ignorant and superstitious to stare reality in the face. But I’m here to tell you, that ain’t the case. Maybe in the early going I thought it was, just like everyone else. But how do you explain what happened to Betty and Ray’s Shih Tzu or Frank and Maria’s Weimaraner or Jen and Alberto’s German Shepherd? How’d they wind up bleeding out all over the putting green at the fancy new golf course? First off, it ain’t some new canine ailment that croaked them. Look at them fang marks. Some folks say wolves done it, but I lived here my whole entire life, and there ain’t never been no sign of wolves, Mexican or otherwise. Now coyotes is a theory. They been run off their home turf by all them rich folks moving into Las Colonias de Tejas Golf Village, so they might could be hungry. But I gotta tell you, that ain’t likely. There’s plenty of varmints scurrying about to keep them in meat. Plus, them pooches wasn’t even ate, just throat-slit and emptied of blood, each and every one. So what coulda done it? Don’t talk to me about no werewolves or vampire bats. The truth’s staring us square in the face, just don’t nobody want to look at it.
Let’s get sumpin straight right here and now. There’s been lots of killing. But the Chupacabra ain’t the killing. He’s what makes the killing possible.
Miguel don’t take kindly to the lockout, and I can’t say I blame him none. On my way back from the Piggly Wiggly, I stopped off at Martín’s and picked up a couple new deadbolts. Got them installed PDQ, front and back. He comes home after a long day’s work, sweat-stained and grimy, all he wants is a cold beer and a plate of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes. I get that. But this ain’t business-as-usual. Not no more, it ain’t. We’re done playing games. I gotta look out for number one.
Open this dadblame door, he hollers, fist a-thumping.
Be with you directly, I say, but I’m back in the bedroom oiling the .12-gauge, so he probably can’t hear me none.
Lois Marie? He slaps the door with the flat of his hand five or six times. You in there?
When I don’t come a-scurrying, his boots crunch around the burnt-up side yard, and next thing you know, the back knob’s jiggling and squeaking. But he ain’t gonna get no purchase there neither. I swapped out both those locks for exactly this reason. Miguel cusses me up and down, then hacks and spits. A pickup out on the highway backfires. In the near distance, some hound ain’t yet met his demise sets to howling.
The burnt-up grass in the backyard announces Miguel’s arrival. He ain’t real sneaky. He cups his hands around his eyes, forehead to the glass. I can just make him out through the bedroom curtains.
What’s goin on in yonder? he asks.
He ain’t going away no time soon, so I say, I’m just fine, Miguel.
You laid up in bed? Let me in, I’ll get you sumpin to eat.
You ain’t getting in, I say.
Hell, I ain’t.
Better get it through your thick skull.
It’s my dadblame house, he hollers, smacking the window with his palm and setting the glass panes to rattling. I’ll be dadblamed if I’m gonna sleep out here in the heat with the skeeters. You gonna make me kick down the door?
The sumbitch is all bark. Gravel growls beneath his boots as he stomps up the drive.
I sit back and breathe easy. Things ain’t so bad. I can still remember learning to swim in the Guadalupe River. I can still see my parents’ faces, God rest their souls. I can still taste them butterscotch candies my granny used to give me during the sermon to keep me quiet. Ain’t nothing lost at all. That Chupacabra ain’t touching me.
Then comes the crash. Glass shards go flying. I cover my eyes and chamber a shell. My daddy didn’t raise no dummy. Before I look, I already know it ain’t you-know-who. He’s sly and shifty, skulking in the shadows, lingering everywhere you ain’t looking. Sure enough, it’s just a hunk of brick. Miguel’s subtle as a sledgehammer. Glass tinkles and snaps as he clears off the window frame, preparing for his grand entrance.
I aim my double-barrels and say, You ain’t making this easy.
His eyes go wide. He drops the rag he’s using on the glass and stumbles half a step backwards. His hands float up around his shoulders. I’m tired and hungry, Lois Marie. I need to get cleaned up.
Be that as it may, I say.
Where you expect me to go?
Ain’t my problem, frankly. But you got friends. Get on the horn and call in a favor.
You ain’t in your right mind, Lois Marie.
So you say.
You’re pointing my own shotgun at me.
I sigh and shift my weight. You better take stock, Miguel. Who just pitched a brick through the bedroom window?
Just unlock the door, okay? You put away your gun, I’ll clean up the broken glass, we’ll get us some supper. How’s that sound, darlin?
You can spit around these parts and hit a gun nut, but I ain’t one of them. Still, the time for talking’s over, so I click off the safety and blow a hole through the ceiling, plaster cascading around me like snow in a snow globe. Does the trick, too. Ain’t never seen Miguel move so fast. Knifes to his pickup and peels outta the drive, gravel spray pinging against the siding. He ain’t even hit the road, and I already got cardboard duck-taped over the busted window. That’s good for the AC and skeeters but ain’t gonna do diddly where the Chupacabra’s concerned.
Them pooches was just the beginning. They was all good mutts, and we mourn their passing, but truth is, they wasn’t nothing but the gateway. We shoulda seen it coming, but didn’t nobody pay no attention.
First, it was the Hartley twins. Don’t get me wrong, they was dirtbags, so ain’t too many regret their demise. It’s the how of it don’t make no sense, not for two sorry sumbitches like them, even if it didn’t have nothing to do with no fang marks or bloodsucking. First blush, whole thing looked like a dadblame suicide, what with their Chevelle idling high and them garage doors battened down tight. Only they had the trunk loaded with meth, backseat filled with guns, duffel full of cash under the driver’s side. They was on their way somewhere, only they forgot where or when or that that V-8 was filling the shop with fumes. Soon there wasn’t nothing left to remember.
If memory serves, Earl was next. He ran the saloon in town, and he was Daddy’s friend, so I knowed him since I was just a little girl. Dumb sumbitch went deer hunting in the worst ice storm we seen in all my days. Up and disappeared without telling a soul where he was headed. Search party finally found him way out on Old Man Townsend’s lease, frozen stiff, sporting nothing but soiled tighty whiteys and a grimace. Blue lips, purple fingers, skin gone ashy gray. What’s he doing out yonder, half-naked in the middle of the dadblame winter? Didn’t even have no ammo for his rifle.
And that wasn’t nearly the worst of what come to pass. You ain’t heard about Marge’s three little girls, you been living under a rock. They was cute as a boot, I tell you what, only Marge was on the sauce in a heavy kinda way. Wasn’t her fault entirely, since it ran in the family, but the buck’s gotta stop somewhere. Even before she fell in love with Jack Daniels, Marge shouldn’t never had no kids. Woman can’t hardly look after her own self, so what’s she doing with three more mouths to feed?
Wasn’t nothing special about that Tuesday evening. Marge was down to the saloon in town, her usual routine. She might oughta just moved in. Couldn’t get no babysitter, but that didn’t stop her. She was too caught up in the velvety taste of that whiskey, the way them men give her wolf eyes and bought her drinks and, later, shoved their slimy tongues down her throat. Back home, her girls finished their homework, ate their supper, brushed their teeth. Had the doors locked and lights out before ten o’clock. Precious as the day is long.
What did they know about pilot lights? What did they know about gas filling the house? Older two went to sleep and flat never woke up. The youngest girl, Julie, musta got up in the night, confused as all hell. Wasn’t but five or six, bless her heart. They found her a couple-three miles away in Van Zandt’s pasture, barefoot and in her nightgown. None of the livestock would go near her. Sure enough, little Julie was fang-marked and blood-sucked.
No matter how sleazy or old or drunk, folks don’t just forget to open the garage door or put on pants or check that their little girls ain’t lying dead in a heap. They flat just don’t. So take it from me. That’s the Chupacabra at work.
All’s quiet for a spell. Out on the highway, a few semis blast through the evening light. The AC kicks on and cuts off. The ceiling fan whirs and clatters. Otherwise, what you call silence. I check and double-check the .12-gauge. I dig out Miguel’s .44 Magnum and a box of shells, then load it and set it on the side table. I make a pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and slide into my rocking chair. A barn owl hoots at the dusk. A lizard scampers across a window screen. A scorpion skitters along the kitchen baseboards.
All that peace and quiet can’t last. Miguel’s pickup rumbles into the drive, followed by another vehicle. Doors creak open, then slam shut. The mumble of voices and slap of boots on the front porch. The screen door stretches open, and a fist raps on the door.
Mrs. Martinez?
Ain’t no such animal, I say.
More muttering.
It’s Officer Bailey.
How you been, Chuck? I say.
Can’t complain, he says through the door. Your husband tells me we got us a little misunderstanding. Mind opening the door so we can all get us some clarity?
I set my coffee mug on the sideboard. Ain’t no confusion, Chuck. And ain’t nobody getting in. That’s what locks is for.
Be reasonable, Lois Marie. You can’t just throw Miguel out on the street. He ain’t even done nothing wrong. I can tell you for a fact his wild ways is long since past.
Crickets chirp. A semi thunders by out on the highway. A hound bays in the gathering gloom.
Y’all are buddies, I say. I can appreciate that.
Me and Sharon oughta have y’all over to the house for supper again one of these days.
Tell you what, Chuck. We all make it outta this in one piece, I’ll take you up on that. As I recall, your Sharon can whoop her up a mess of biscuits.
That she can, Lois Marie. He chuckles, but it sounds strained. But, I gotta tell you, I don’t think I care for what I’m hearing.
That’s tough titty, Chuck.
Miguel ain’t done nothing wrong, and I’m just trying to keep the peace.
You done missed the boat, I’m afraid.
Now you go and start making threats?
I take me a sip of coffee, but it’s gone cold. Ain’t threats, Chuck. It’s facts. Fact one: y’all are barking up the wrong tree. Fact two: I got a pair of firearms, .12-gauge and .44, locked and loaded. Fact three: it’s past time for y’all to be on your way.
They mumble to each other. Boots stomp off the porch. Engines fire. Then they ease away into the twinkling twilight.
Folks around these parts are given to gossiping ways, so after the killings began word of the Chupacabra got around pretty quick. Preacher’s wife seen sumpin evil stalking the grounds of the First Baptist Church, pissing in the azaleas. She said a quick prayer to Baby Jesus, and when she opened her eyes again, the demon wasn’t nowhere to be found. Shortly thereafter, the President of the Chamber of Commerce spotted a mangy critter chomping on the tires of his new Cadillac, only it vamoosed directly when he hollered and pitched rocks. Wasn’t long before some old vets spotted a blue-gray flash one night at the VFW, but when they chased it under the pool table, then back to the john, it vanished. Everybody said the same thing: whatever it was left behind a god-awful stench of rotten eggs, crude oil, and road kill.
Those was just a few of the early sightings. Don’t hardly nobody remember them no more. They ain’t even aware of the forgetting, truth be told. These days you can’t even bring it up, for the sidelong looks of suspicion and resentment. That’s just how he wants it, the slippery sumbitch. He’s sewing his evil spell, and they ain’t got the first clue. But he can’t fool me. I remember every last one of them rumors. He ain’t even started gnawing at the edges of my mind. That’s because I’m onto him. That sneaky sumbitch knows it, so he’s coming for me.
The Chupacabra comes for us all.
When night falls, I wait in my rocker in the darkness. Wind gusts over the limestone hills, leaving warm pockets of silence. Moonlight trickles through the window slats. Crickets chirp. A barn owl hoots. Miguel don’t pull up into the gravel drive, but it’s so quiet I hear the squeak of his brakes. He kills the engine up yonder across from Old Man Townsend’s place.
I shut off the lamp light and kill the TV, then take me a peek through the curtains. Sure enough, here comes Miguel, stalking through the darkness. He’s gotta be loaded, way he’s weaving and cussing under his breath. Probably spent the last however many hours up to the saloon in town, wetting his whistle, bellyaching to anybody within earshot. I can see by the security light he’s got a crowbar and an attitude. Sumpin tells me this ain’t gonna be pretty.
When Miguel starts hacking at the front door, I chamber a shell in the .12-gauge. Got the .44 in the waistband of my Wrangler’s. He grunts and wrenches on that door, and two-by-fours splinter. If I don’t watch out, he’ll bust that thing down lickety-split.
Cut that out, Miguel. You’re gonna tear the place to shreds.
Shut up, woman, he slurs. My house.
I spy on him through the peep hole. Sumbitch don’t look right. Sweaty and pale and green around the gills. Staggering so bad he can’t hardly stay upright. Dadblame, Miguel, I yell through the door. You drink the town dry?
Mind your business, he yells, swinging his crow bar. He misses whatever he’s aiming at and goes sprawling into the front porch railing, then over. It’s funny as all hell. After a good belly-laugh, I flip on the porch light and take a gander through the window. He’s crumpled over in the flower bed among the burnt-up zinnias. He ain’t moving. I’m worried he’s head-busted or neck-broke, so I throw back the deadbolt and holler his name. He don’t respond. Now I shimmy halfway out the door, safety off and finger on the trigger. Nothing. When I cross the porch and step to the railing, senses fired for any sign of the Chupacabra, I put my worries to bed. Miguel’s down there, snoring in the dirt. Though it’s gotta be eighty-five and sweaty as all get-out, I grab an afghan off the couch and pitch it over him. Least it might keep the skeeters from eating him alive.
Them rumors was just hogwash and horsefeathers for the longest time. Ain’t nobody believed a word it. But it didn’t stay that way. Not on your life, it didn’t. Not once I seen the sumbitch with my own eyes.
Musta been a couple-three months after all the hubbub started. It was freezing cold, I remember that, my breath pluming like smoke in the frigid afternoon. I was wandering Old Man Townsend’s acreage. I wasn’t sure it served much purpose, but he don’t get around like he used to, and he likes for somebody to lay eyes on his fence line every so often. Gives him peace of mind.
I spotted the shifty sumbitch that afternoon down by the stock tank. The Chupacabra. I was blowing into my cupped hands when I seen this flash of blue-gray through the barren live oaks. Just like that. I blinked, and it was gone. Wasn’t no crashing through the underbrush, just a light wind rustling the dead leaves, so I didn’t think nothing of it. Till I seen him up close and personal, that is.
I remember the whole thing clear as day. Truth is, I thought it was a coyote at first. Only what would a coyote be doing off on his own in the middle of the dadblame day? I froze for a minute, watching. I was downwind, so that thing, whatever it was, hadn’t picked up my scent yet. But he stank to high heaven. Like dead armadillo, rotting in the summer sun. Like a stagnant West Texas oil sump. Like rotten Easter eggs. It was foul as foul gets. I covered my nose and mouth with a gloved hand.
He stood there, lapping brackish water. My view was obstructed by tree trunks, and I wanted a better look, so I crept down the hill. The gusting wind musta muted the crunching leaves and snapping twigs under my boots. About thirty yards from the tank, I hid behind a mesquite tree. Far as I could tell, that thing wasn’t any the wiser.
It was blue-gray and hairless, like maybe it had the mange. Built like a midsize dog, with ears that flopped over and a long snout. He had him a long tongue, and between gusts of icy wind, I could hear him slurping at that brown water. Soon he left off drinking and turned his head in profile, tongue lolling, sniffing at the wind. His stained incisors shone clearly in the gray December light. He stuck his nose back into the water, and I crept down the hill another ten yards. But that sly sumbitch was lying in wait. Before I knew what was happening, he spun around, glaring at me with these deep blue eyes. His gaze bore into me, and I lost all track of time. Sumpin sounded like snickering. Who knows how long it went on? Then, just like that, the Chupacabra turned and trotted off into the trees.
I must nod off in my rocker, because I awake late in the night. The full moon pours through the window, gilding everything in a wet sheen. The wind’s died down to nothing. No traffic on the road. Even the crickets have gone quiet. I can just make out the rise and fall of Miguel’s snoring out in the front flowerbed. Least he ain’t dead.
My eyes won’t hardly focus. I sit there, cradling the .12-gauge, trying to blink myself to wakefulness. Like I’m underwater and everything happens in slow motion. It ain’t cold, but the wet air’s heavy and gives me the shivers. Strong pot of coffee would do the trick, snap me to my senses and give me a warm-up, but I don’t never get past the idea of it. Ain’t got a chance.
Because now here comes the sniffing. First, it’s at the back door, right at the bottom seal. Could be some stray mutt or a hungry coyote, but I know better. Ain’t no mistaking who it is. His tongue slaps the rough wood. His claws click against the deck. Then he pads around the side of the house. A trickle and splatter as he pisses all over my burnt-up petunias, then a rotten ammoniac stench, acrid and heavy, though all the windows are shut tight.
He taps across the front porch. More sniffing, plus sumpin that sounds like snickering. The room fills with sulfur-and-rot stink. My mind goes blurry around the edges. I clutch the shotgun but don’t move, and I may even be holding my breath. That busted bedroom window’s my Achilles heel, but he don’t notice or ain’t interested. The Chupacabra sniffs some more, then scratches at the door. He don’t know jack about me, where I’m from, what I suffered, who I mighta been. Still, I know what he’s after. Great aunt Milly’s pecan pie and the tire swing over the Guadalupe, my beagle puppy’s soft ears and the cherry scent of my daddy’s pipe tobacco, my proud honor roll certificates and my very first date. The whole shooting match. Well, I got news for that greedy sumbitch, out there pissing and scratching and howling at the Comanche moon. Nothing doing, bucko.
He sniffs some more, then clicks across the front porch. I still ain’t moved none, like I’m made of stone. Shell in the chamber, but what good is it? Sloppy snores drift in through the muggy night, regular as clockwork. Till they don’t. I don’t know what’s going on. Hear this muffled grunt, followed by a long, wet slurp. Possibly more snickering. Then I remember what’s-his-name, asleep outside in the dirt.
I spring from my rocker, throw open the door, and blast off a shot, all in one lurching motion. Don’t see hide nor hair of that sneaky sumbitch, though his funk clings to the wet air. I sidle down the porch, squinting into the black night, then blast off another shot for good measure. Ain’t likely to hit nothing, but maybe he’ll catch the gist. This ain’t no place for forgetting.
In the near distance, a long, haunting howl.
I swat at skeeters swarming my face. The stench settles, or else maybe I get used to it? I chamber a new shell, just in case. But in case of what? I take a quick glance around and notice the front door’s wide open. Letting the cool out, I say, then climb up and pull it shut. And that’s when I notice what’s-his-name, bathed in amber porch light. Half of him anyway. The other half’s lost in shadows, so I tromp back down to inspect a little closer. What’s he doing way out here in the middle of the night? Where’d he get one of my good afghans? The sorry sucker’s eyes are wide open and bulging, and while it could be the light, his face looks stretched and chalky. His neck’s slathered in what could only be blood. Feller don’t appear to be breathing neither.
I squint into the night, all fidgety, kinda dancing from one foot to the other. I’m breathing in little gulps. My hands tingle. Soon my gaze settles back on what’s-his-name. And that’s when I notice them. Just below his left ear: a pair of neat fang holes.
J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, The Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, The Threepenny Review, and other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MPhil in English from Oxford University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.