LOUIS KUMMERER is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in CaféLit, Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bristol Noir, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words.
When I was in the second grade, a pterodactyl abducted my best friend Tommy Brandt off the school playground. Tommy and I were outside playing catch during recess when the prehistoric creature glided in from the clouds. We stood mesmerized as it circled above us, both of us too fascinated—or too dumb—to be scared.
Suddenly, the raptor let out a deafening screech. Turning sharply, it swooped down, locked its pointed beak onto Tommy’s shirt collar and, with several whomping flaps of its membranous wings, began lifting him into the air.
Tommy struggled to free himself, while desperately calling out to me, begging me to help. But I just stood there, frozen in horror, unable to move as the pterodactyl flew off with my best friend dangling from its jaws. The last I saw of Tommy was his tiny figure, writhing and screaming, his eyes fixed on me as he disappeared into the horizon.
The incident left me a psychotic wreck. For months afterwards, I was unable to focus on anything. Sometimes during the day, I’d inexplicably break down crying. I had difficulty sleeping at night, and when I did fall asleep, I often woke up screaming in terror.
My parents took me to a child psychologist, a woman in her fifties who insisted that I call her Dee. Dee said I had nothing to fear. She assured me that measures had already been taken to prevent a recurrence of the pterodactyl attack. She taught me several fear management techniques and advised me to keep a diary chronicling how often I was troubled by memories of the pterodactyl.
But it wasn’t memories of the pterodactyl that haunted me. It was the image of Tommy pleading with me to help him as the pterodactyl lifted him from the ground, the image of his accusatory eyes burning into me as I stood there and did nothing.
Over time, that image slowly faded. Tommy’s abduction became an unsettling artifact that I kept buried deep inside me, a memory I quickly forced back into darkness whenever it surfaced.
Ten years later, Tommy mysteriously returned.
His mother went out to retrieve the paper one morning and found a young man sitting naked on the front porch steps. Stunned, she stood silently for a moment, staring at him in disbelief. Then, realizing who he was, she let out a cry that rattled neighborhood windows.
“Tommy!” she exclaimed.
Tommy seemed to recognize her. But when she moved in to hug him, he sprang to his feet, spread his arms wide in a menacing posture and made a harsh, hissing sound that forced her to back away.
I went to visit Tommy soon after his return, partly out of curiosity and partly out of guilt. I quickly discovered that he was not the boy I had once known. He bristled visibly when I first walked into the room. He wouldn’t answer when I spoke to him. Instead, he circled me warily, jerking his head, baring his teeth, stretching his neck towards me and making a strange clicking sound. I left with the alarming realization that Tommy was no longer my friend.
At first, there was talk of rehabilitating Tommy. A team of professionals made a concerted effort to reintegrate him into normal society. They worked with him for over a year, trying to teach him to speak, to eat with a spoon, to drink out of a cup. But the best they were able to achieve was getting him to wear clothes again. Eventually, they gave up.
Sending Tommy back to school would have been pointless and he couldn’t possibly hold a job. So, he spent his days in the city park, squatting on a bench with his head hunched between his shoulders, peering suspiciously from side to side, his arms cocked at an odd angle, his hands hanging downward.
From childhood, my sister Natalie had been obsessed with helping animals in need—stray dogs, feral cats, birds that had flown into our plate-glass windows. She saw Tommy in the park for the first time and immediately claimed him as her personal project. Each day, she’d buy a package of raw chicken from the supermarket and carry it to the park. She’d stand a short distance in front of Tommy and toss out pieces from the package. He’d deftly snatch the meat out of the air with his teeth. Then he’d gnaw on the raw chicken with a savage gusto, making loud, crunching noises and spitting the bones onto the sidewalk.
My family assumed that, like so many of her projects, Natalie’s fixation with Tommy would soon pass. So we were utterly dismayed when she showed up one day with Tommy in tow and announced that they had just gotten married. The next day, Tommy moved into Natalie’s bedroom and began living with us.
Things became awkward for me with Tommy in the house. He mostly kept to himself, which was fine with me because, frankly, he scared me. When we did occasionally pass each other in the hallway, he would glower at me and make a low buzzing sound as he walked by.
Natalie and Tommy spent a lot of time alone in their room, so we weren’t surprised when, a month later, she informed us that she was pregnant. Tommy accompanied Natalie on her first appointment with the pediatrician. My parents thought that was an encouraging sign.
However, the next morning, Tommy inexplicably disappeared. He left the house at daybreak and headed for the park to spend his day there, as he often did. But this time he never came back.
Natalie gave birth to quintuplets and now all of them are living in the same house with us. In the morning, the quintuplets sit in their highchairs making deep guttural noises that they alone seem to understand. When I walk into the kitchen, they fall silent. Their beady eyes drill into me with an intense, voracious hunger.
Volume 15.1, Winter 25
Louis Kummerer
