Submitted for the September 2025 prompt: Terrestrial Settings

“We have received your signal. We have triangulated the coordinates and will arrive before daylight.”

 

The head was angular and unpleasant, the mouth thin and sharp. It seemed extremely menacing in the hues of grey and black emanating from the old television set in Gramps’ remote lake house.

 

Must be some bad B-movie, was my initial thought as I tried to redial the broadcast back in. I remembered playing with the UHF receiver as a kid and the fun of stumbling across something in the ether. I don’t know why I'd even bothered to turn the set on. I guess it had something to do with being completely off-grid and isolated, my only power source an ancient generator that Gramps was always proud of.

 

“Best damn generator on the planet.” I could hear him talking to it sweetly as he primed the motor and gently pulled the starter rope to move the shaft a little before pulling it hard. It'd usually cranked on the first tug, and he'd always smiled and given it a pat.

 

It had been a difficult month, and I'd needed a break. My wife had sent me off with a kiss and a cooler, then made me promise to be home by Monday afternoon. Steven needed a ride to the ball field. Four hours later, I had canoed across the lake, fired up the generator, and flipped on the TV just for fun.

 

And then I received the message. At least it seemed like a message, but I couldn’t be sure. Once the picture turned to static, I could never get the signal back. I shrugged and sat on the porch with a beer and a sandwich. The sky was clear and moonless, and the stars were bright. It felt nice to breathe.

Then I saw it. A star moved across the eastern horizon and disappeared behind the tree line. I stared at the point where it had been and then saw it rise and move back into the sky. It wasn’t an airplane or a helicopter. It wasn’t a drone. It wasn’t a meteor. I know what those look like and how they behave.

 

No, this was a point of light that dropped down then darted back into the night sky and was gone. The image on the screen filled my mind, and I decided to take the message seriously.

 

I stepped into the ten-by-ten cabin that Gramps had built himself a half century ago and pulled the shotgun from beneath the mattress on his bed. I checked the chamber. It was empty.

 

“Alright, Gramps, where are the shells?” I looked in the drawer by the makeshift sink, on the shelves of old books and broken fishing gear, in the rusted tackle box, and in the worn cardboard box of bolts, nails and nondescript bits of machinery. They were nowhere to be found. I wasn’t panicking, but I had a gnawing sense of impending doom. I checked the old coffee can behind the pile of yellowing newspapers on the counter. Nothing.

 

“Dammit, Gramps, where are they?” I stood in the flickering light of the overhead lamp that was hanging by a wire from the ceiling. Then, as if the sly old man had reached out and shaken me, I remembered his hidey hole. That’s what he called it.

 

It was just a loose board on the wall behind the bed. But if you pushed down on one end, it lifted the other side, and you could find the stuff he hid from Granny. Cigarettes, matches, a Playboy magazine from 1968, an empty half-pint of Heaven Hill bourbon, and a box of 12-gauge shotgun shells. I put the unopened pack of Lucky Strikes in my pocket, grabbed the matches and shells, and stepped towards the door as the generator coughed, sputtered, and shut off, leaving me in total darkness.

 

I stood on the porch while my eyes adjusted to the starlight and then made my way to the dock. I loaded the gun, then sat down with my feet dangling a few inches from the water. I opened the cigarettes and popped one out like Gramps did, by slapping the pack against my other hand. The flare of the match reflected briefly off the water, where it landed with a satisfying sizzle.

 

Now here I am, holding a stale cigarette, watching the thin ribbon of smoke floating towards the heavens, and waiting. All I wanted was a little break from the hustle of my life. What I got was the threat of visitors from the outer limits. I saw the moving star again; this time it came closer before it sped off into the sky. I hope I'm wrong. I hope morning arrives and I feel foolish for sitting here all through the night holding a shotgun with increasingly sweaty hands.

I’d like to do a little fishing, fiddle with the generator, and take a long look at Miss July 1968.

 

There goes the star, brighter this time, and I hear a commotion on the other side of the lake. It could just be the carp rolling on the surface. But it might be something else.

 

Guess I’ll find out around daybreak.