Creepy Short Stories

Hunting With My Father

Hunting With My Father

"Relax, son. Close one eye and keep focused on your target." My father spoke calmly from behind me. I tried to do as he said, letting my muscles relax. One eye closed, ending the double vision I had from having the rifle's sight so close to my gaze.
"That's good." He continued. "Now, when you're ready, hold your breath. Don't hold it for too long or you're gonna start shaking. Just enough. Then, slowly squeeze the trigger down. Like you're milking a cow."

I had to chuckle at that.

"Dad, I've never milked a cow before." I spoke as I glanced up to him. He furrowed a brow and adjusted the baseball cap on his head.

"Well, that's how my dad described it to me. You know what I mean."

I smiled a bit and shook my head. It wasn't the first time my dad described how to shoot to me. Or the second. Or even the third. He tended to repeat himself sometimes. I didn't mind though. I looked back to the target through the sight and concentrated. I still took everything he said in. I relaxed, letting muscles loosen enough. I shut one eye, focusing on that bull's-eye down at the end of the barrel. My breath held in my throat and, slowly, I squeezed the trigger down.

The rifle jumped in my hands, jerking heavily as it bounced back. My head jerked backward a bit, uneasy of the weapon as it leapt up. I was still a bit nervous since the last time I went to the range and the scope smacked me in my eye, bruising and cutting the brow.

I couldn't see from where we stood at the shooting range station, but I felt good about the shot. My dad leaned in to the spotting scope we had set up and looked through it. A small nod and I saw a smile curl up on his lips.
"Not bad. Take a look."

I rose up and shift to look through the scope myself. It took a bit of a moment to focus through it before I could see the small, black hole in the target down at the other end of the range. It wasn't a bull's-eye being just a bit high and to the left of the center.
My dad nodded and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"If that was a deer, it'd be a clean hit." I smiled at his words and turned back to him.

"You think I actually have a shot at hitting something this weekend?" He shrugged his shoulders and then let out a breath.

"It's possible." He said. "We'll sure as hell try. Now, see if you can actually hit the bull's-eye this time."

I chuckled and shook my head. And back to the station I went. I lift the rifle up and focused again. Maybe, with a bit of luck, we might come back with something on this hunting trip. That'd be a change.

* * *

I haven't shot since that day at the rifle range. I wasn't too worried though. Apparently, I was a pretty decent shot. No bull's-eyes, but hey, close enough really. And I was getting used to the .300 short-mag Browning rifles my dad got for us to use. They packed a hell of a kick but with the padded stocks and a firm grips, you could keep them under control.

My dad had been planning this trip for a while and got the two Brownings specifically for it. The plan was that my dad, my Uncle John, and I John would head up to this out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere place where my dad used to deer hunt with his father and do the same for the weekend. To be honest, I wasn't really big on the whole outdoors thing. It meant being too hot in the day, too cold at night, bugs everywhere, and a constant overwhelming feeling of needing a shower. However, I wanted to do it for my dad.

My father, Fred, wasn't doing all that hot. Recently, he had cancer and a severe case of vasculitis. It really knocked him down a few notches. A couple of years ago, I remembered a strong and fearless man who could make someone back down with a hard stare. Now, he was immensely different. A lot a skinnier and he had the look of a man who had stared real death in the face. It rattled him. And made me realize that I may not have as much time as I thought with this man. Probably what my uncle was thinking as well.