Stephen King - Six Scary Stories

‘Stop, mister! That’s my third favourite bear!’ Calvin shouted.

The man laughed again, it came in harsh, hacking fits and ended with him spitting at the floor again.

‘Where’s your favourite bear, kid? This him?’ The man slapped Fozzo, who tumbled to the floor. Calvin picked him up and brushed him off, placing him back on top of the seat he’d made.

‘Diablo’s my favourite, and he’d be mad he seen you do that.’

‘Well, Diablo can take a sizeable stroll off of a short pier, son. Now, where your daddy keep his good whiskey? I know you got some around here somewheres.’

‘Out back. You want me to show you?’ Calvin asked.

‘Why not, I could use a jar to help me settle into my new abode.’

Calvin picked up Tiglet’s glassy eye and placed it next to the bear on the table. He could fix that later; what the stranger had coming to him wouldn’t be fixed with no amount of needle and thread. The man got up off the chair and walked over to the door that led out back. Calvin opened it and, as manners dictated, let the man out ahead of him. It was middle of the morning, but as far as the sky was concerned it was night. Had been for quite a while now. There were no stars to see by, no moon to shine down either. Well, maybe they were up there somewhere, but Calvin hadn’t had acquaintance with them since Pops had gone.

‘I can’t see two inches in front of my face, boy. Where’s this whiskey?’ the man hollered.

‘Keep going forward, mister. He keeps a still in back – you’ll see it soon,’ Calvin answered, making sure to stay a few steps behind.

They kept going forward, Calvin standing off to the left: close enough so the man didn’t think he was up to mischief, far enough so that he didn’t have to worry about getting any blood on hisself. That was when they heard the rustling of a chain being pulled. It was a big chain, Calvin knew. Not the kind you’d use to chain up a Pomeranian. No, you could use this chain to tow a truck if needed.

‘The hell was that?’ whispered the man.

The tremor Calvin heard in the stranger’s voice would’ve made Tiglet happy, of that Calvin was certain.

‘You got a light? Turn that thing on.’

‘Sure thing, mister,’ Calvin said.

The dust in the air cut the light from the torch by quite a ways; but not so much that Calvin didn’t see the black bear rear up ahead of them. Pops had fed him up to near five hundred pounds; ’course, he’d lost some of that over the last year. Diablo’d had to make do with dog feed and whatever Calvin could find in the barn that served purpose.

‘That . . .’ The man screamed and fumbled unsuccessfully for his rifle. In truth, he’d probably had more to say but the bear took his jaw at the hinges with one swipe of his paw. Calvin was disappointed to find he’d not kept distance enough to spare his clothing. ‘Dang it!’ he said, moving back a few more feet.

Diablo moved quicker than he’d any right to, being chained out in the yard for such a time. The stranger tried to scramble away on his belly. Which would’ve been quite the feat, all things considered – but the bear was on him. Calvin thought he heard the man’s ribs snap as the bear sat astride the freshly bloodied trespasser. Diablo crooked his neck and dived forward to take a chunk from the stranger’s shoulder. Jeez, thought Calvin, I’d be bawling some now, that were me. ’Course, not having a mouth to holler out of cut any complaining by a considerable stretch. The man flopped and thrashed under the bear, like an adder on a hot griddle. Blood streamed readily from the gaping, red pit that used to be his face.

But still, he lived.

Calvin was pretty sure that continued to be the case when he turned around to walk back to the farmhouse. He always thought it best to leave Diablo in peace to eat his meals. He might not be as congenial as Fozzo or Tiglet but still that grumpy old cuss was certainly his favourite.

Now, Calvin thought, where did I leave those eggs?