The antique fox (standard:horror, 2127 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Aug 02 2007	Views/Reads: 3418/2285	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Maybe he should not have bought the unique gift for his father's birthday...

He wanted to buy a gift that would be completely unexpected. The type of
object that could never be guessed. His father was the type of person 
who had it all. The type of person who it was difficult to buy for. It 
wouldn't matter if he bought him something ordinary and perhaps 
traditional, like socks, or a bottle of whisky, but he was always doing 
that, so his father was probably expecting something along those lines. 
Not this time, though. As Thomas Walters stood at the window of an old 
antiques shop, he saw exactly what his father was going to receive for 
his birthday. Amongst what were supposedly antiques, like cheap vases 
and cameras, a stuffed fox stared at nothing with its glassy eyes, made 
to look as though it had stopped to listen. Its ears were pointing 
upwards and it was facing to one side as though it had heard the call 
of hunters, or some other threatening noise that brought its senses to 
full alert. That was his father's gift, he thought. He was quite sure 
he would like it, but hoped he wouldn't expect one of the traditional 
presents as well. It could well be a case of: ‘Yes, very nice, now can 
I have my real present?'.  Quite simply, he was getting the fox, as it 
was his birthday the following day, and he didn't particularly relish 
the idea of continuing shopping around, not when his present was in the 
window of the antiques shop. It was the type of shop that nobody ever 
seemed to venture into, yet, remain open for years. All of the 15 years 
he had been living in this town, he had never gone inside, until today. 
It was also one of those rare shops where a little bell would ring upon 
opening. Inside wasn't much different from the window, but there didn't 
seem to be many actual ‘antiques' in the true sense of the word. There 
was furniture that was probably fashionable in the sixties, ornaments 
that could probably be picked up in some bargain store or market. There 
were a few electrical items, such as radios and toys, but nothing that 
could be any older than the 1920s. Seated at the back, behind a cheap 
looking desk, a man in a pristine white suit sat scrutinizing a 
paperback with an eyeglass that looked embedded into his skin. It 
didn't seem as though he was aware of the customer. “Er, hello”, said 
Thomas. The man looked up, put down his book, took out his eyeglass and 
stood up. “Sorry,” he said, “I do apologise”. “For what?” asked Thomas 
with a slight smile. “I'm interested in the fox you have in the 
window”. The man thought for a moment, as though trying to remember it, 
or he was deciding how much to charge. “The fox, yes, I know the one 
you mean. It's five pounds for that. Sorry to charge so much, but I 
don't normally obtain items like that”. “That's ok,” said Thomas, “It's 
actually quite reasonable”. The man smiled, as though it was his fourth 
or fifth ever sale. 

Unsurprisingly, a few people glanced in his direction as he walked home,
the fox heavy under his arm as he walked up a winding slope to his 
detached house where he lived with his wife and two children. That 
night, he had been ordered to keep it in the shed, away from the 
children, because it had scared them when they had seen it. Thomas 
attempted to wrap it, not putting it into the actual shape, but 
loosely, its content ill-defined. As he wrapped it, its dead, glassy 
eyes occasionally stared at him, and when it did, he knew how the 
children felt. When he had finished, he closed and locked the shed 
quickly, keen to be back in the warmth of the house. 

Thomas slept restlessly. He dreamed that he had given his father the
fox, who wasn't happy with it. He had put it in his garage until he 
decided what to do with it. The fox then suddenly leapt down from the 
bench, ran through the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs and 
into the bedroom where his father lay asleep. It leapt onto the bed, 
and clamped its jaws around his throat. That was where the dream ended, 
but Thomas did not wake. Instead, the dream repeated itself again, and 
again, and again. 

Thomas looked more than a little dishevelled in the morning. More than
usual, but after a good, filling breakfast, he was driving the two 
miles to the next part of town to where his father lived in his 
semi-detached. As usual, he was in his garage, doing something to his 
Chevrolet avalanche. He never drove it, just constantly maintained it, 
because it was more of a hobby than a chore. Thomas pulled up in the 
driveway and saw his father up ahead, in his blue overalls, wiping 
grease from his hands, the vehicle's bonnet wide open . Thomas was soon 
approaching with his father's gift under one arm. 

He stayed for approximately an hour before heading back home, but he
knew that his father was displeased with his present. He was expecting 
him to say: ‘That's just what I've always wanted' in a sarcastic tone, 


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