The author grants permission for these stories to be read or performed royalty-free for non commercial purposes or events. Stories may not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, “Rick Baldwin.” Stories may not be reprinted without permission of the author.
She scanned the contents of the refrigerator. Where were the eggs? How on Earth could she have forgotten yesterday to pick up the eggs from the grocery store?
I don’t think it will spoil my story one bit if I tell you up front that I’m dead. It isn’t the fact that I’m dead that makes my tale most interesting, but the how I ended up dead. This is that story.
For as long as I can remember, the name “Fergus MacDuff” has been a part of my consciousness. When I was a child, my parents used the name as a threat or motivation for correction. “If you don’t clean your plate, Fergus MacDuff will get you.” “Clean your room or Fergus MacDuff will find you in the night.” As kids, we imagined Fergus MacDuff lived under our beds, his long, dirty fingers grasping for our ankles every time we went to turn in for the night. Most of the time we would run to our beds and take a long dive onto the safety of the mattress, relieved we avoided another murderous grasping attempt by old Fergus MacDuff.
I come from a very rural part of East Tennessee. It ain’t exactly what you’d call the “sticks” ’cause there is a large city about 20 minutes away but you could still get lost on the winding country roads surrounding the house I grew up in and it would take someone familiar with the area to help you get out and back on your way to civilization.