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You wake to the rotting carcass of the deer you hit last week on your front lawn. It carries with it a divine sense of foreboding; a stench and unease that can bring with it only malice. You have angered something ancient, something malignant. Your neighbor, a crotchety old woman round with wit, wanders over while you inspect the felled animal in the sun's early warmth. Her cat, an old set of bones accurately dubbed Salem sticks to her heels like a shadow. It refuses to tread the earth on which the dead beast lay. It knows better. “Strange.” the old woman mumbles, more to herself than you. Far too captivated with the repulsive sight a foot away, ( broken, jagged bones; twisted limbs and cracked antlers. ) you remain silent.

A call is made, and within the hour animal services arrive to dispose of the body. You watch while the workers boots sink into the earth; dirt loose as though it had rained the night prior. Rather than water, viscous liquid bubbles up from beneath the grass. Too dark to be blood, but it smells all the same---like old pennies and nickels. Your nose wrinkles. You go about your day.

Days pass. The grass refuses to grow where the beast had fallen; its imprint lines healthy greenery. “An eyesore.” comments the neighbor. Her cat dares not to touch the cursed earth even now. You ignore it. Salem goes missing not too long after. The neighbor is distraught. She knocks on your door early one more, flyers clutched betwixt fat, oily fingers; eyes glassy, and helpless. “If you see him…” The promise of a phone call is made. You toss the flyer on the kitchen counter. You ignore it.

Salem shows a week later. His mangled corpse spread across your welcome matt. A display. A Warning. The same workers from before arrive to dispose of the poor thing. Snide comments are made all the while. They think you can’t hear them. They stick you with the blame. As does your neighbor. She doesn’t speak to you again. You ignore it.

The gardener does the best he can with the stubborn patch of earth in the middle of your yard. Each week he finds only dry, and wilted weeds. The suggestion is made to supplement with a beautiful batch of wild flowers, and a few bushes. You agree.

There are scratches at your front door in them middle of the night; you assume it can only be a stray animal looking for warmth, and food. A cat, perhaps, that has taken to pawing at the wood. You wake in the morning to find deep gashes against the middle of the door; far too high for a simple stray cat. Far too deep for even a dog. Your head c***s while you inspect them, the pads of your fingers running against the grooved, and split wood. Realization strikes you suddenly; a shiver takes hold ( one that curls your toes and contorts your spine.) They’re high enough for a deer---it’s antlers digging deep into your front door. You ignore it.

The scratching continues for weeks, though no other markings are made. They escalate one night; noisy and concerning, the sound travels the entirety of the house. A cacophony of madness that keeps you awake. Hands grip tight to your pillow, curling the edges about your ears with the hopes of drowning the god awful noise out while eyes squeeze shut. It stops abruptly, and you sigh in relief. Content to settle back in for the night, you roll on your side to fall into slumber. But another noise rouses you; footsteps. Uneven, and multiplied by the hardwood floors in your home. You jotl upright, skin slick with sweat; your heart hammers betwixt ribs and panic sets in. The footsteps grow louder; they slam against the  floors with a sort of clip-clop. Like an animal with---hooves. They stop at your bedroom door, and the silence that follows threatens to suffocate you. Heavy blankets are pulled to your chin, and you think to lay back down. (Perhaps it will leave you be if it thinks you are sleeping. ) You work tirelessly to ease your labored breath as those hooven steps begin again, this time from the other end of your room. They draw near. You clamp your eyes shut, and gasp. Something heavy lays itself on your chest. You struggle to draw breath; fingers curling into the mattress topper that adorns your bed. Lips part, gasping for air. They open and close rapidly while your body trembles, and spasms like a fish yanked from the water. Your eyes open finally as you draw your final breath, and you find only calm red hues staring back at you. The air smells of pennies, and nickels. Your nose wrinkles. Your eyes roll into the back of your head. The beast grins, tongue luling from the side of its mouth.

The neighbor finds you that morning; naked body tossed in the bushes that had managed to grow over that cursed earth. She is neither shocked, or disgusted by her find. She simply clicks her tongue, and sighs for she knows: the Gods do not like to be wronged.

Author's Note

Inspired party by a dream, and party by a prompt. I don't particularly care for the ending; any advice to make it more impact is appreciated.