About Alexander Dean

Chaos now reigns supreme in the House on Wildcreek.

We split into factions days ago after the Battle of Livinroom Remotay. We have formed into three tribes, which is concerning considering it is just the three of us. We divvied up the rations and toilet paper and went our separate ways.

The little one kept the cats, and the loud one got Mojo.

Princess Penelope Pennyworth the Third remains my stalwart companion.

The “little one” is losing all verbal faculties, responding only with grunts and glares. It hasn’t left the solace of its room—den—in days. Not even to go to the bathroom.

I fear that once this is all over, we will discover a Howard Hughes situation in there. And considering its physical attributes, that will be quite an impressive feat indeed.

The “loud one” scares me the most. It continues to seek physical perfection through daily cardio and other exercises.

I will never outrun it.

I must rely on my good looks.

I spend my time with my two groups of friends. There are J.D., Turk, Perry, Elliot, and Carla. Then Barney, Ted, Marshall, Robin, and Lily when the others aren’t around.

Penny is taking to training quite well. She is turning into eight pounds of pure terror. Soon, I will be able to send her on scavenging runs through the other camps.

I fear my supply of TP is getting lower—depleting much faster than the loud one’s and little one’s combined.

I feel as if there is a plot afoot.

I think I saw them conspiring with one another and may have heard the word “alliance” more than once.

I wonder what pet name they have given me.

The “Handsome One,” perhaps.

The “Awesome One”?

Perhaps some amalgamation of each. And why wouldn’t they? C’mon.

I must go. I think the loud one heard me using that moniker.

I must defend myself by offering either cookies or beer. Both of which I hate to lose, but those seem to be the only things that can appease the beas—

My wife.

If you don’t hear from me again, it was her.

Yesterday, I was a man on a mission.

We had journeyed to Bismarck to buy some necessities and a turkey for our Thanksgiving festivities, only to discover that Sam’s Club was out of those most succulent of birds.

Arya was immediately crestfallen, groaning in anguish with the full force of the drama gene we are sure she received from her Aunt Candy.

Isa got a worried look in her eye that I immediately understood.

The world was crashing down upon our holiday.

Thanksgiving was ruined.

We knew there were no more turkeys in Dickinson. Isa had already checked Walmart, and they had been cleaned out.

What were we going to do?

I considered suggesting that we simply serve a heaping plate of bacon, but the look in my wife’s eye meant any hint of sarcasm would be met with a wrath akin to the apocalypse.

I immediately spun on my heels, said nothing to Isa, and—with Arya in tow—headed out of the store.

Braving subfreezing temperatures and forty-mile-per-hour winds, I was going to fight through a blizzard to save Thanksgiving.

I was going to be a hero.

We would sit around the table on Thursday sharing the tale of my accomplishments and toasting my shopping prowess. The womenfolk would fawn. The men would hoist me upon their shoulders in celebration.

This was my moment.

I walked next door to the Bismarck Walmart with a determined hitch in my step and a wind-whipped, freezing six-year-old on my heels.

As I entered the frozen-poultry aisle, I was terrified of what I might find.

My mind raced through the alternatives.

Perhaps there was a small-town corner store that still had a turkey. Maybe I could drive to Minot, or even Fargo, for one.

I bet they have one at the Mall of America in Minneapolis.

Yes. I could do that.

We would be okay.

But, alas, I had worried for nothing. There were tons of birds there—which presented me with an entirely different problem.

What in the hell was I looking for?

There were at least five different freezers filled to the brim with turkeys, and they were all different.

Why are there so many different types of turkey?

There were little ones, big ones, and some with acronyms like GMO. I was dumbfounded, as was another gentleman wearing the same glazed expression I was sure had settled over my own face.

We locked eyes.

We both knew we were out of our element.

Then I saw the light—that great, illuminated beacon of understanding.

It was a sign that said Butterball, a term I was certain I had heard before, illuminated beneath the familiar Walmart price-guarantee thingy.

And it said no hormones, which I remembered being important to Beth.

I think.

I knew immediately that my wayward fowl was there.

I reached for the first one I saw: a hulking twenty-three-pounder.

I was proud.

Beaming.

I could hear Arya behind me cheering me on. This holiday was going to be epic.

The other lost soul must have noticed my satisfaction, because he came over to the Butterball section and began rooting through the freezer in search of his own perfect poultry.

But then I began to wonder.

What if I could go bigger?

I started sorting through the birds faster.

So did the other man.

What was he doing?

Was this a race?

I couldn’t let him have a bigger bird than mine.

I held fast to the one already in my hand—it was clearly the finest by far—but continued searching with the other, just in case.

Halfway through the freezer, I noticed my opponent eyeing my bird.

Glancing at it.

Hoping I would put it down.

He wanted my turkey.

He couldn’t find a better one.

I had it.

I had won.

As I searched past the final bird in the freezer, I knew the truth.

Mine was the best.

I had done it.

Thanksgiving was saved.

I hoisted the turkey over my head and began my victory march toward the cashier.

Arya was ecstatic, declaring that the turkey was half her size.

I could already hear the applause and huzzahs of my fellow diners.

I would be the talk of the feast.

I was a hero.

I did it.

I don’t know if I have ever been truly scared, but the other night I got pretty damn close.

I don’t believe in ghosts or demons or such, but for some reason old Native American ghost stories have always given me the heebie-jeebies—not to sound insensitive.

A few nights ago, though, I was truly terrified.

It had been a long day at work, and the sun had already fallen below the horizon. I was given a run to pick up a trailer a couple of hours north in the patch, on the reservation.

Maybe it is the Native blood in my veins, but when I am alone on the “res” at night, I get a tense, nervous feeling at the nape of my neck.

As I drove toward the site, I passed an old church with tombstones behind it. I don’t know whether you have seen them, but nowadays some graves have small solar-powered light-bottle thingies on them.

They hover over the markers in a wide array of colors, and, by Joe, it just looks creepy.

This did not help my growing sense of dread as I continued toward my destination.

I was listening to a book connected to my radio through Bluetooth, and it helped distract me from my wayward thoughts.

When I pulled onto the location, it was pitch-black. There was not a soul or a house for miles around. A faint glow from the flare cast shadows in every direction.

I pulled up to the trailer and prepared to hook up.

I took a couple of deep breaths, motivating myself to get the job done quickly. Then I put my phone in my pocket and stepped out of the truck.

I busied myself lowering the gooseneck and lost myself in the circular motion of the crank.

As far back as I can remember, I have always been uncomfortable outside in the dark.

I remember walking toward the house at night back home. The closer I got to the door, the creepier it felt.

In my mind’s eye, I could see something walking behind me, waiting to snatch me at the last possible moment—just before I reached safety.

I would always quicken my pace a little to evade my pursuer, never daring to look over my shoulder.

So there I was, alone in the dark on an oil pad on Native American land, dim shadows flickering in the firelight and a faint breeze moving through the night.

My hackles began to rise.

I cranked that trailer down as fast as my arms would allow.

As the trailer settled onto the fifth wheel, I climbed into the bed to hook up the chains and lock the collar.

That was when I heard it.

Something giggled.

It was the sound of laughter.

Some kid was having a grand old time.

I stood up straight, and my mind went numb.

Visions from the scary movies I had been unwittingly subjected to as a child came racing back. I could see the clown from It as clearly as day. Thoughts of Children of the Corn made my heart pound in my chest.

I was terrified.

I jumped out of the bed and booked it.

In a rush of adrenaline, I was suddenly racing for my life.

It was out to get me.

The Cucuy. Mothman. Bigfoot.

It was a conspiracy.

They were working in conjunction, secretly planning the various ways they would cook me and devour my remains.

I ran for my life.

I felt like a lost little child, and I wanted my mama.

After clearing a forty-yard dash in a time that would make Usain Bolt stare at me in reverence, I came up short.

I was alive.

I had escaped.

I looked around the pad, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

There was nothing there.

But I had heard it.

Some little bastard was giggling—and was more than likely rolling around in the weeds beside the location, completely satisfied that they had made a grown-ass man nearly dirty his Underoos.

I trudged back toward my truck, more than a little embarrassed, baffled by what had just befallen me, and thoroughly perplexed.

Was I going crazy?

Was I hearing things?

I was clueless.

As I drew closer to the pickup, I could hear the radio.

I hadn’t been listening to the radio.

Why was it on?

Then it hit me.

When I got out of the truck, I had taken my phone with me. It had disconnected from the Bluetooth while I was working, and by pure chance the radio had come on during a commercial featuring children giggling.

So now, through pure dumb luck, I have to replace my drawers.

My favorite pair, by the way.