A Returning Voice - Horror Fiction - I thought it was completed but I came up with more!

A Returning Voice

July 18 2025

For the Roseneath Writers Circle Monthly assignment

Photo by: Sandy Millar (@sandym10) | Unsplash Photo Community

As darkness settled over Mesher farm Bert had just finished his chores. He cleaned up best he could in the barn. Vicki had objected to him cleaning up in the house so he washed himself down the best he could in the barn before going to the house for a shower. As he reached the back door Vicki stepped outside.

“Have you seen Carrie?” she asked.

“Not since lunch,” Bert replied. “She’s not in the house?”

“No. She said she was going for a walk down to the stream but that was hours ago. I expected her to be back by now.”

“Don’t worry….” started Bert. 

“I’m not worried,” snapped Vicki.

Bert gave her a look as he reached out and hugged her. Vicki quickly evaded his touch as she started towards the path through the woods.

“Wait,” he called out. “Let me get my flashlight.”

When he returned Vicki stood frozen in the farmyard. As Bert approached her he could see that she was holding something. 

“What is it?” he asked.

Vicki held up a shoe. “It’s hers,” she said.

Bert called out. “Carrie! Carrie!” as they walked towards the path with nerves pushing their muscles. As they stepped into the woods Bert’s light caught another object. 

“What is it?” asked Vicki, quietly with trepidation.

“The other shoe.” replied Ben as he stooped to pick it up. It looked like it had just fallen off her foot. He swung his light around wildly and then kept moving forward on the path.

A number of steps later Bert’s light caught another object in its swath. As he got closer Vicki pushed quickly past him and plucked the ribbon from the branch. 

“I’m scared,” stated Vicki in an agitated voice. 

“Carrie,” called Ben in a louder voice. “Carrie.” This continued on for the rest of the path. Their voices boomed out Carrie’s name with increasing urgency. Suddenly Bert stopped at the opening of the path near the river. He swung his flashlight around wildly until he spotted something sitting on the tree stump. 

“Carrie!” he called out running forward.

“What is it?” questioned a running Vicki. 

“”Carrie!” he called out as he picked up the doll that was sitting on the stump. “It looks like she’s been here,” he said. “Carrie,” he called out again as he swung his light along the banks of the creek. Vicki pulled Carrie’s doll from his arms and cradled it with increasing sobs.

“She’s gone,” cried Vicki. 

“Now hush,” replied Bert. “Let’s head back to the house. I will make some phone calls and get a search party going.

While Bert made his phone calls Vicki carried the doll up to Carrie’s room and placed it on her bed. “It will be here for her when she returns,” thought Vicki.

A little while later cars were pulling into the farmyard. With each car, pairs of people were sent out in many directions from the clearing by the stream. By morning all had returned, exhausted with no further signs of Carrie. 

Tired beyond exhaustion Bert and Vicki laid down in the rising morning sun to catch a few hours of sleep before resuming their search.

Just as Vicki’s eyes began to close she heard a voice calling from the silence. 

“Mama. Mama.” Vicki’s eyes flew open and she raced from the bedroom. 

“Mama. Mama” Vicki raced down the hall. She stood in Carrie’s doorway hoping beyond belief that her daughter would be in her bed. She dissolved into tears as she observed the empty room. She walked over and picked up the doll before curling up on the bed.  She hugged the doll deeply as she drifted off to sleep.

“Mama, that is too tight,” said Carrie. 

Quickly Vicki opened her eyes and screamed.

As Vicki picked herself up off the floor she stared at the doll intently. 

“What’s wrong Mama,” asked Carrie.

Vicki stood there mouth agape. “What trickery is this?” she whispered. 

“Mama, it’s me. Carrie. You don’t know me?” asked Carrie.

“I know your voice. But you are a doll.” whispered Vicki.

“Mama,” began Carrie.

“Bert!” yelled Carrie at the top of her lungs. “Bert!”

Bert came thundering down the hall in his underwear, grabbing the door frame and sliding into the room. “What’s the emergency?” he asked.

Vicki pointed to the bed where the doll sat. “The doll,” she sputtered. “The doll is talking.”

“Really? What do you mean” Bert asked before he stopped talking and listened carefully. 

“How did your voice get inside the doll Carrie?” asked Vicki. The doll sat quietly on the bed. Vicki walked over and picked it up and squeezed the doll. No words were heard.

“When I fell asleep I was hugging the doll. It told me I was hugging it too tight.” She sat the doll down and turned to her husband. “I know what I heard.”

Bert walked over to Vicki and put his arm around her. “I’m sure you thought you did. It is natural that your daughter is missing and all we find is a doll that she once played with. You miss her. I do too.” As they walked through the doorway he turned the light out and closed the door. “Once you get some sleep everything will be ok.”

The next morning Vicki popped her head into the bedroom. She picked up the doll and set it on the bed up against the pillows. 

“I sure miss you,” she said quietly.

“But I am here mama,” replied Carrie.

Vicki stared intently as she backed out the room. She walked down the stairs and went outside. Bert was in the barn and would be for a while so she headed down the path to the river. 

Bert came into the house for lunch. He noticed that Vicki was not in the kitchen and that lunch was not ready. “That’s unusual," he thought.  Bert checked the rest of the house but Vicki was not there. He stepped outside the door and surveyed their vegetable garden.

“I wonder,” he said quietly. He started walking across the field towards the path to the river. He walked carefully along the path until he came to the clearing. He looked towards the stump where Carrie’s doll had sat. His head lowered and he shook it as he walked over to the stump. 

“Vicki,” he said as he picked up the Vicki doll. He carefully carried the doll back to the house and climbed the stairs. 

“Bert. What’s happened to me,” asked Vicki as Bert reached the top step. He walked towards Carrie’s room, opened the door and walked in. 

“Mama!” exclaimed Carrie’s voice. “Now we can be together forever!” 

Bert walked over and set Vicki beside Carrie on the bed. “Bert Mesher. What have you done to me?”

There was some thumping from the closet. Bert eyed it carefully before walking over and opening the door. He reached in and picked up the doll that sat on the shelf. Carefully he carried it over to the bed and sat it beside the other dolls.

“Hiya Colin,” said Carrie to her brother. “We are now one big happy family again!”

Vicki’s voice rose to a shriek. “Bert Mesher…..” but Bert was closing the door behind him, shutting out the noise from the sound proof room. 

“Alone at last.” he thought to himself looking forward to the quiet days that awaited him. “I think I will get some lunch.”

Face Plant - Humour Fiction

 

Face Plant

For the Roseneath Writers Circle Monthly Assignment: Humour

July 24 2025

Photo by: Irina Iacob (@kalineri) | Unsplash Photo Community

“Welllllll now, that’s interesting,” said Jerry quietly as he observed Cam do a faceplant on the lawn. 

Cam looked up with a mouthful of grass.

“Hungry?” asked Jerry.

“No,” replied Cam. “Hurting, wondering and chasing,” he said as quickly jumped up and started chasing Jerry around the yard. When he caught Jerry they both started laughing. 

“It would be even funnier,” said Cam, “if it had happened to anyone else except me.” 

“True enough. Although if you hadn’t come up with the piece of grass in your mouth, much like a goat, it wouldn't have been as funny,” Jerry observed. 

In Need Of A Repair - Historical Fiction

 

In Need Of A Repair

July 25 2025

Photo by: Roo bhta (@the_1ast_man) | Unsplash Photo Community

“Mr. Hillerich?” a voice called from the door. Mr. Hillerich looked up from his papers and answered.

“Yes Simpson?”

“There is a man at the front desk. He wants to know if we will repair his bat.”

J. F. Hillerich owned the company. His specialty was providing baseball bats to some of the largest stars in baseball. Mr. Hillerich frowned. “We don’t usually repair bats,” he said. “I’ll be right out.” He rose from his desk and walked out into the front of the store. A reasonably tall man stood there with a bag in his hand. “Is this it?” he asked.

The man removed a bat from the bag and handed it J. F. who looked it over carefully. It was a well used bat J. F. could see. It appeared to be 36 inches long and was quite a bit heavier than normal bats. It appeared to be covered in tobacco juice. He smiled at this. He could also see that it had ball marks, cleat scratches, and a small handle crack. J.F. set it on the counter where it wobbled and fell over due to a sleight bend in it. Word had been reported that the bat was like this and now he could see it was true.

“Joe,” he said looking at the man.

“Ayuh sir,” replied Joe.

“When do you need it back?”

Joe looked at J.F. “As soon as possible. It’s my main bat. I have had it, What year is it?” he inquired. Joe’s focus was so much on the game that he often forgot anything that wasn’t baseball related.

“1911,” replied young Simpson.

Joe calculated slowly. “I have had it for 8 years as my main bat. I have had a lot of hits with her and would like to be able to use her again. Can’t see just throwing her away. She means so much to me. So as to answer your question, as soon as possible.”

J. F. looked at the crack and replied. “It will take a few days, Joe.”

Joe looked crestfallen. “What’s the issue Joe?” asked J. F..

“Ain’t been without Black Betsy since I first got her. But she needs to be fixed,” he stated bravely as he reached out to pat the bat.

“We’ll take good care of her, Joe.”

“Okay.” Joe turned and walked forlornly out the door.

J. F. gathered up Black Betsy and placed her in the cotton bag Joe had brought her in.

Simpson spoke up. “Mr. Hillerich, he has had that bat a long time,” as he glanced at the marks all over the barrel.

“Indeed,” spoke J.F. with a tone of reverence. “Son, this bat was hand made.” Simpson’s eyes widened in surprise. “It is made from hickory, which is a different choice for a bat.

“They are usually made from ash,” said Simpson proudly.

J. F. looked at his employee with an understanding. “You don’t know who that was, do you son?”

“No sir. I surely don’t.”

J.F. smiled. “That was Joe Jackson.”

“Shoeless Joe!” exclaimed Simpson. “Wow.”

“He has other bats but this bat is something else. I have heard that he sleeps with it. I have also heard that he takes his bats home in the winter because they don’t like the cold.”

J. F. Hillerich smiled. Bats were his business. This bat had a history. He would do his best to make sure Shoeless Joe could use it again. He picked up the bag and walked back into the workshop. It was time to get to work.

One Fine Morning - Horror Fiction

 

One Fine Morning

July 19 2025

For the Roseneath Writers Circle Monthly Assignment: Horror

Photo by: Curated Lifestyle (@curatedlifestyle) | Unsplash Photo Community

Sarah felt the warm sun on her face as she roused from her deep sleep. Still slightly groggy she sat up in the bed and opened her eyes.

“Where am I?" she asked as she looked around the room. Everywhere she looked there was nothing that was recognizable. The room was garishly painted. The furniture was whatever was below second hand. The carpet looked like it was out of some 70’s time warp.  She spied a nightgown that was sitting on the chair, an ugly pink colour, that immediately made her gag. She looked around but the robe was all there was to put on, for her trip to the bathroom. 

“Where is the bathroom?” she wondered. 

As she stood up she was able to see her face in a mirror. “That is not my face!” she exclaimed. She quickly sat back down on the bed ignoring her full bladder. 

“What is going on?” she pondered. “Where am I? Who am I? I’m definitely not me.This has to be some sort of joke.” 

She stood up with a start. “Where is Tom? He will be heading off for work soon. Maybe he can explain this.”

Suddenly she heard familiar steps on the stairs, at least she thought it was the stairs. She had no way of knowing anything except she recognized the footsteps. Sarah rushed to the door and flung it open to come face to face with her husband. 

“Tom!” she exclaimed as she reached out and hugged him. “I've never been so happy to see you as I am right now. Look at me. I don’t know who I am. I don't know where I am. I have no idea what is happening.” 

“Sarah,” said Tom as he pushed her away from him. “You never could stay dead.” With those fateful words he raised his arm showing a gleaming blade. Quickly he brought the blade down plunging it into Sarah’s back as she turned to flee.

Sarah stretched and yawned. 

“A peaceful night’s sleep is always the best medicine,” Sarah exclaimed. She reached over to her husband’s side of the bed but felt cold sheets. 

“Odd,” she thought as she started to open her sleep crusted eyes. “Tom should be sleeping here. He must have got up earl…..” she stopped cold, her mind afire. 

Her eyes flung open to discover a richly painted bedroom. She looked down at the nude body not recognizing the shapes that she was seeing. There was a dressing table over by the wall. She hurried over, dark with   fear. As she picked up the mirror she held it far away from her face. Sarah had to force herself to look into the mirror. With the first peak she said to herself,

“I am gorgeous!” she exclaimed with bafflement. She shifted the mirror to examine the body she was inhabiting. She found herself admiring every inch she could see in the mirror. “This body has been looked after,” she stated with some satisfaction. Satisfied but perplexed with the appearance of her new body Sarah reflected on the last time she found herself in another body. 

“Tom,” she said. Just then the doorknob turned. There stood Tom. All six ft of him with a mischievous anger look in his eye.

“What do we have here?” he inquired. 

Sarah took a step back, picking up the robe that hung on the back of the chair and covered herself with it. “Tom, it’s not what you think.”

“What’s not what I think Sarah? I have been searching for you. And here you are.”

He stepped forward as Sarah stepped back. She grabbed the mirror from the table.

“Oh what are you going to do with that?” he asked with a mocking voice. “Bore me to death with my reflection?” 

“What’s wrong with your voice?” Sarah questioned. 

Tom smiled and took another step forward backing Sarah into a corner. “Why won’t you stay dead?” he asked in an inquiring tone. Tom smiled as he raised the gleaming knife. “Maybe this time,” he said angrily and quickly brought the knife down, plugging it into her body. Sarah screamed as she crumpled to the floor. 

Tom looked down, satisfied as he wiped the knife on her skin. 

Sarah opened her eyes knowing what to expect. As she gazed around the room she saw that she was in a new home that wasn't hers. The bedroom was small with few decorations but what there was demonstrated a warmth of character that few other houses had demonstrated. From the simple bed adorned with a homemade quilt to the repainted furniture and simple but effective wallpaper, the bedroom felt like a place she could live in.

“Well, let’s see what I look like today,” she said as she walked over to the mirror. “Hmm. Grey hair. A warm round face. Adorable,” she said to herself. She picked up each piece of the grooming kit that was laid out perfectly on the ancient dressing table.

“Silver,” she mused. “It has to be one of the most precious items this body owns.” she thought quietly as she laid the silver items back down on the table.

Sarah looked towards the bedroom door. If the past was any indicator her husband's footsteps should be approaching. She listened carefully as she steeled herself for this encounter wondering why she kept going through the same scenarios. 

“What have I done to upset him so much he is trying to kill me?” she wondered. “And why am I in a different body and house each time? 

The door crashed open and there he stood, looking at her with bloodlust in his eyes.

“I’ve finally figured out why I can’t kill you,” came a voice not quite like Tom’s.

“Oh?” Sarah inquired.

“I have been using the wrong knife,” he said with a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “A regular knife won’t kill someone like us.”

“Someone like us?” Sarah asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“We are shapeshifters,” was the reply that came as Tom began to fade and a new person appeared.

“You!” Sarah gasped. “I married you?”

“No, you daft woman. Your precious Tom is at your house.“

“I saw you kill that man in the alley by Johnson’s Superstore.”

“Now she is seeing the light,” he replied as he pulled a shiny knife out of its sheath on his hip, holding it carefully by the leather hilt. 

“A shapeshifter? I am a shapeshifter?”

“Bingo,” came the reply.

“How did I not know this before?” she asked, suddenly putting together all that had happened. “You have been trying to kill me ever since that day in the alley?”

“I couldn't risk being found out. A mere mortal should not have been that hard to kill and now I know,” he said as he stepped forward. 

Sarah reached down and picked up the silver tweezers. 

Tom laughed. “Not much of a weapon Sarah. I expected a worthy opponent but here we are. My silver knife should finish this up,” he said as he took a step and raised his arm.  

Sarah stepped forward abruptly catching Tom off guard. While he faltered she plunged the tweezers in the shapeshifter's raised arm. Immediately his body reacted to the silver implement, twisting and turning, shrivelling until nothing was left as the tweezers clattered to the floor. 

“Not this time,” she said triumphantly. Sarah walked over and picked up the tweezers. “Who knew they had another use?” she said smiling.

“Good morning Tom,”Sarah called over her shoulder as he entered the kitchen.”

Tom walked up behind Sarah and gave her a huge hug. “How’s my girl this morning?” he asked.

“Absolutely perfect,” she replied, picking up the silver knife by its leather handle. Tom released his hug and walked over to the table and sat down.

“Breakfast will be ready shortly,” she sang quietly. “I made your lunch this morning,” she said as she placed his plate in front of him. 

“Aw. You didn't have to do that.”

 “Something came over me,” she said, amidst a huge yawn. She shut off the stove and took Tom’s breakfast over to the table. “I suddenly feel tired. I think I will go back to bed. Have a great day at work,” she said as she kissed him. 

“I love you,”  he mumbled through his breakfast. Sarah had missed the comfort of his words. She climbed the stairs focusing on her need for sleep. Her body had been through much. She plopped herself down on her bed and was out fairly quickly.

Sarah slowly woke from her nap. She stretched and loved the feel that waking up brought to her body. 

“It is so wonderful,” she said as she felt the sunbeams on her face. 

Opening her eyes she noticed something was amiss. Her eyes widened as she took in the room and groaned. Purple and black were so not her colours.

The Last Summer of Freedom—Revised Version

 

 

THE LAST SUMMER OF FREEDOM

Ken Bartlett sat on the front porch with his wife, Jean, the two of them enjoying their morning tea as they watched deer emerge from the woods. Ken had begun reading aloud an article about the rebuilding of Regent Park, when the phone rang, interrupting the moment. Jean went inside to answer, and Ken was left alone with his thoughts.

Memories of Regent Park were never far from his mind. For all the criticism it received, Ken remembered it fondly. That place had shaped him. Reading the article had stirred a particular memory from the summer he turned fifteen.

The summer between grades nine and ten was Kenny Bartlett’s last taste of freedom—no job, no responsibilities, just long days with nothing to do and nowhere to be. He was too young for a part-time job, yet by next summer he’d be done school and expected to work full time.

At the crack of dawn on the first morning of that last summer of freedom, frantic knocking at the apartment door shook Kenny from a deep sleep. He listened as his father dragged himself out of bed, cursed as he passed Kenny’s room and unlatched the door. For a moment, Kenny worried something had happened to one of his grandparents who lived in the apartment next door. The voices were muffled, but there was no mistaking the broken English of Mr. Gamboni, the building caretaker who lived two doors down. He was speaking fast and seemed upset, causing Kenny to suspect—“that Eye-talian” as his father referred to him—had found the fireworks his brothers had hidden behind the utility shed. The conversation at the door lasted only a few minutes, and then Kenny heard his father muttering as he headed back to his bedroom.

July Writing Exercise

 These are the results of the writing exercise held at the July meeting.  Each writer received a book  chosen  at random from the library.  They were to turn to Page 40 and read the 3rd paragraph on that page. That was to be  the inspiration for a 20 minute writing sprint. 

Barbara's writing 

I had arrived in Dublin, travelling alone for the first time. Vacationing with others never appealed to me. I had made a resolution to see something of the world before I die and the freedom of doing my own thing suited me.

The first day was spent in the hotel room reviewing maps and points of interest, determining how I would get from point A to point B. It was a good day and I had everything planned to start my sightseeing tour on day two. But day two began with a downpour. A once in a hundred year storm, so they reported on the news. Best to stay indoors, so I spent the day resting up for day three. The weather cleared the next day, but it became dreadfully muggy, too hot to travel very far, so I remained in my air-conditioned room planning for day four.

The next day I really wasn’t feeling very well. Jet lag I presumed.
Day five, I slept in, finally waking in time for lunch. In a local restaurant a pleasant young man approached me and bought me a drink. He made me nervous. I drained my glass and hurried back to the hotel.

Nancy's writing 

The hardest part for Annie was explaining it to her young son. He had never experienced death. Wrong... he experienced death about twice a month. Every time he went to the pet store beside the grocery store, he bought a new gold fish. It was their shopping routine. Each time he got a new fish, the pattern was the same. He'd watch it swim for a couple days, watch it float for a couple days and then flush it down the toilet. Soon he'd have a new gold fish on grocery day.

But how was Annie going to explain that grandfathers were different than gold fish? Jacob was only four years old. Jacob had a pretty good idea of life and was always asking relevant questions. He was pretty matter of fact. Like the day she told him the doctor was sick and grandpa's appointment had been cancelled. He had thought about it and then asked his mom, "Who will make the doctor better if the doctor is sick?"

Now his grandfather was terminally ill and in the hospital and it was up to Annie to help him understand death and leaving and grief. She had feelings of her own--anxiety, sadness, regrets and grief but she wanted to help Jacob through the process.

She sat down with Jacob and gave him some paper and crayons. "What are your favourite things about grandpa?"  she asked.

"I love going fishing with him. I love going out in the boat. I love reading books with him and eating ice cream," he said.

"Well, let's make a little book about these things. I will write the words and you can draw the pictures!"

Jacob worked away all morning and Annie wrote down the memories of Jacob and Grandpa fishing from the dock. The sunfish he drew was just a little bigger than his last gold fish. Then he drew a picture of himself with grandpa out in the boat on a sunny day. They both had orange life jackets on. On the last page he drew a big ice cream cone with two scoops of ice cream--one for him and one for grandpa.

That afternoon Annie took Jacob into the hospital to visit grandpa. He showed his grandpa his book and grandpa smiled. "I think I'll take this with me," he said.

Adrian's writing

I don't consider myself to be evil. Certainly, I've done some lightly wicked things. But evil? I don't think  so.

Although,  come  to think of it, there's one fellow who considers me evil and he must have  a reason. But I've never intentionally done anything to hurt him. So, question is, can you be evil  by omission?

Let's suppose, say, as is the case here, that I was overheard to say something malicious and disparaging about someone and they were hurt by it, would they be in their rights to  say "by God, he's an evil  man. Saying all that nasty stuff about me." Or am I innocent and, in fact, can only be  considered to be ill-mannered.  Further, what if that person, hearing my out-of-context slight,  threw himself off a bridge? Could my general lack of consideration brand me as evil?

Certainly, a third party hearing that a man jumped off a bridge because I said something, might find me to be evil. If he passed that on to others , I would quickly find myself to be at the centre of the evil universe. Possibly up there with Hitler or Pol Pot. 

Is it intent or pure action that puts  us in the evil ranks, even  if  out  of ignorance say.

I suspect, much  like murder (which  is definitely evil) there has to be motive.  I never particularly cared for the fellow I'm referring to but the thought of causing him grief never occurred to me. But there we are. He hates me with a passion and has labelled me evil.

Can you be labelled evil by a non-objective source?And to what degree is it so?

I'm sure Hitler didn't consider himself evil and, if you didn't know about all the atrocities and met him at a cocktail party, would you merely say "Well, that's an interesting fellow. Except he's eaten all the sausages!" I'm sure Hitler didn't exude evil on a daily basis. Well... jury's out. Except that Hitler, of course, was definitely evil. 

Bill's writing 

Shep wandered along the mountainside sniffing everything in sight. Yesterday he had flushed a partridge and had great fun chasing it down. Eventually it fluttered to a tree branch out of his reach but boy was it enjoyable. He had the scent of a rabbit earlier but lost it when the rabbit scent crossed those of coyotes. While intrigued, Shep could sense that there were more than 1 coyote on the rabbits trail. 

Shep perked his ears at a distant sound. His ears shifted focus trying to locate the sound. When he heard nothing he put his head down and sniffed along the path. The faint scent of skunk was interesting. He was considering pursuing it when he heard a distant sound again. This time it appeared to be a bit closer. He lifted his head and walked a bit more staring to hear the sound once more. His nose started to pick up the scent of humans. His nose perked up some more as he found the scent of food. He picked up his pace and made it to the edge of the mountain ridge where the scent ended. 

Shep traveled back and forth when the scent of food became stronger. He edged over to the lip of the ridge carefully. Following his nose he looked down and spotted a man a few feet below him dangling from a tree.

“Hey boy,” called out the man. “Am I ever glad to see you.” Shep turned his head to listen to the man. “Is there someone with you? Hello,” called the man. "I need help!”

Shep backed up a bit.

“No! Wait! Don’t go,” called the man. “If it wasn’t for my wife and kids I would have been long gone” he said out loud. “I have to get back to them.”

Shep poked his head over the edge of the ridge again. “You’re still here? Good boy.”

Shep wagged his tail. 

“Listen boy. I need help. Can you go and get someone to help me?”

Shep barked and took off on the run. At last he had a job to do. It had been so long since someone needed him to do something. His short retired life had been simply following his nose. He raced down the mountainside and leapt at the door of the man who lived there. His barks were loud and insistent.

The door opened revealing a barrel of a man. “Shep? What is it boy?” he asked. 

Shep began pulling on his shirt sleeve. “Well I’ll be,” said the man. “Some skills never get lost. Just a minute. I need my boots.” After tying his boots he picked up his emergency back pack and followed Shep to the edge of the ridge. When Shep laid down looking over the ridge the man called out, “Is anybody out there?“

“Hello?” called the man in the tree. “I’m down here. Please help me.”

At this time Shep wandered over to the cool shade of a tree and plopped himself down. 

Karl looked over the ledge to see what the situation was. While Dan was holding on to the tree it was also true that Dan was ensnared in the tree branches. 

“It’s going to take a while,” said Karl calmly. “It looks like you are tangled up well enough that you should be safe. Stay hugging the tree as a precaution.”

“Well, well, well,” called out a rough voice. “What do we have here?”

“Get me out of here. I want to go home,” was heard from over the cliff edge.

A second voice piped up. “I see that he is still hanging around.”

The first guy. “We thought we could hear his voice so we came back.”

Karl spoke. “Who are you?“

Shep's ears perked up. He recognized his owner's tone. He waited quietly for the command.

The first guy responded. “It doesn't matter who we are. Who are you?” The two men split and began walking as if to circle the dog owner. 

“I need your help to get him up from there,” said Karl. 

“The only thing we are helping you with is to help you over the edge of the mountainside,” they laughed. 

Shep’s owner quietly gave the signal. Shep moved quietly behind the man closest to him. A low growl stopped the man in his tracks.

“He’s just a mutt,” said the first man. “Deal with him.”

The second signal was given. Shep growled louder, slowly advancing on the man. All stopped and watched. Shep’s growls grew even louder as he got closer. This was causing some concern as reflected on the man’s face. 

“Hey mister. Call off your dog.”

“No.” Karl replied with a small smile, his arms folded across his chest..

As Shep crept within leaping distance the man started to shuffle sideways away from Shep. Shep quietly lunged forward but stopped. Both men scrambled quickly, turning and running off down the hill. Shep walked forward a few feet and sat down. 

His owner pulled out his sat phone and dialed a number. “We need help up here. A man is over the side of the cliff holding on to a tree. There are also a couple of tough looking characters on their way down.” he listened. “See you shortly.”

He walked over to the edge of the cliff. “You ok down there?”

“I am cold and tired. I need to go home. I want to see my wife and kids.” 

“How’d you get down there?”

“Those two guys tossed me over the ledge.”

“How come?

“I don’t really know. I don’t know them.”

“There was no reason?”

“I am walking along. They asked me for directions. The next thing I know I am swinging here.” 

A little while later the man was back on top of the side of the mountain. He was giving thanks. “That is some special dog you have there,” he said as he patted Shep’s head.

“Shep is a retired search and rescue dog. You were lucky he came around. It would have made for a long, cold night.”

“Thanks Shep,” he said. “I will never forget this.