Bloody Little Cowboy Boots
The time after everything changed
1/15/20244 min read


Bloody Little Cowboy Boots
The evil house where my sister was killed had a “U” shaped driveway. I know you’re thinking, “how can a house be evil?” I would ask you to consider how we speak about our dwellings. I have frequently heard people say things like, “I loved that house,” or “That was a great house,” or “That house was charming,” and “That house treated us well.” All these comments and more like them, remind us that we often harbor sentimental notions towards places we have lived. We also speak of our houses negatively hence the term “flophouse,” “fleabag,” and “fire trap.” So, it’s not farfetched to speak of a house as evil.
Not many things made me afraid when I was five. I was happy and the only things I disliked were mandatory naps and peas. I could even tolerate lima beans, but peas? I never thought about dying. For all I knew I was immortal. My world crashed and fell apart around me in blood and ashes that day the bus dropped me off in front of my house. Kindergarten was my absolute favorite year in school. My parents put me into school early because they needed me gone part of the day so they could get work done. Mrs. Aldene was my favorite teacher because she loved me unconditionally, not like Mrs. Patterson my First Grade teacher who smoked and put her lipstick on crooked. After Kindergarten everything went downhill. When I graduated from Kindergarten, I was promoted into the American school system which was government sponsored detention and daycare all in one. Anyway, the bus driver stopped in front of our evil house, and I got out.
Something was terribly wrong. There was a police car and an ambulance parked behind the garbage truck. The bus pulled away and I walked slowly down the driveway. Looking up at the old farmhouse I didn’t notice anything different, except the weird feeling it was watching me.
I walked past the police car and heard the police radio squawking with static and garbled voices. The medical people were loading a gurney into the ambulance with a small bundle secured to it. I continued past the garbage truck and noticed the mangled tricycle laying on its side near a rose bush. The barn cats were lapping at a puddle of blood, and I realized it was my sister they were loading into the ambulance.
I remember thinking the house had tried to kill me too. While riding the same trike now mangled, I tumbled down the basement stairs. I landed on my head and when I came too, I was bleeding out my mouth. I don’t remember any part of it except what my parents told me later. The fall somehow caused me to bite my tongue in half and my dad had to hold me down while the doctor stitched me up. I still have a scar. After that Scar Tongue became my pirate name.
“Are you Jimmie?” asked the policeman.
“Yes, what happened?”
“Well son, your sister was killed when she rode her tricycle out in front of the garbage truck as he was coming down the driveway. You see, the driveway is narrow, so the driver was focusing on his side mirrors making sure he didn’t hit the house. That’s when Jill rode out in front of the truck and was crushed under the tires. Your grandparents will be here soon, you will be staying with them tonight.”
There it was again, the house somehow managed to distract the driver. Strangely I wasn’t surprised because weird stuff happened at that house, like the time our dog joined a pack of dogs to ravage our sheep. My dad put the dog down because of it and I missed that dog. I felt bad for the sheep too since they were bleeding, and one had a large chunk of flesh torn open exposing the muscle underneath. Mutton was on the menu for a while after that. The creaky and drafty old house even tried to catch itself on fire when the chimney became a noisy blow torch. The gas stove blew up, pipes broke, and eerie sounds were ever-present at night. I wasn’t afraid because I didn’t know any better, so I slept just fine at night. Not my dad, he claims he saw an apparition of the Devil himself after my sister died. Not long after we packed up and moved to another town.
The evil house was on five acres of land with outbuildings, tractors, and farm implements. Walled on one side by an orang grove. One time a cranky old man in a VFW hat yelled at me and my friends because we had been playing hide and seek in his orchard.
“You kids stay off my property! Next time I’ll call the cops.”
Our days of playing in the orange grove were over. Now it only served as a “double dog dare,” requiring the recipient of the dare to run halfway to the middle of the orchard and make it back without the old man capturing you. Seriously, I don’t think he could run fast enough to catch an escaped tarantula, but we didn’t know that and it provided a great adrenaline rush.
It was out by the orchard where I spotted them. My mom and dad walking arm in arm openly weeping as they carried a tiny pair of bloody cowboy boots. My world changed that day. A five and a half year old Kindergartener learned life could end suddenly for reals. There’s no going back to the way things were after that.
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