This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
I hereby proclaim this book dedicated to my fuzzy little man-peach, Ryan. After I had $400 stolen from a publisher I had paid to edit my book, he came to bat with some expert trolling on Twitter. After a year of me signing them up for every furry porn mailing list and sending so many angry letters, he accomplished more than I had in about thirty minutes. I got my edits! He is and always has been a True friend, and he has always gone out of his way to support any stupid project I find myself wrapped up in. May his legend live forever in song and various forms of belly dancing. Thanks, buddy!
I would also like to send heaps of praise to one Angela Yates. You see, even after all that, there was still a lot wrong with the editing, and she spent countless hours making my broken work better than I, or that other terrible editor, ever could have. Hell, she even did it for free, and I can not thank her enough. Who does something that nice?
I am thinking she is probably playing some long con, and one day I will wake up in a bathtub full of ice, missing several vital organs. Until that day, however, I can not offer any thanks that would be enough. So, may God bless you and yours, and may he attack your enemies with unrelenting Hemroids.
CHAPTER 1—HITTING THE PIPE
It was time. They’d been living in the house for almost four months, but she’d not even bothered to check out the backyard yet. The harsh rain-soaked winter kept both she and her husband, Garrett, bundled up indoors.
She’d daydream while looking at the yard with a cup of coffee in the morning, but staring through cold, wet glass isn’t the best way to get a feel for a space. However, spring was here now and with it, the time for exploring.
With a glass of sweet tea and a pack of smokes, she stepped into the warm-pine scented air. The grass grew wild, and the wood privacy fence that pinned in the yard had grayed and blackened from the sun and the rain’s relentless pummeling. Rough as it was, it’d be a few more years before they needed to replace it. There were no gaping holes or missing boards, and it remained strong despite the furry mold spots and sun damage.
The yard itself was large for the subdivision, and it should be a quaint place, but the previous owners had let it fall to ruin. In the center sat a gray-brown, flagstone flower bed about two feet-high and twelve-feet wide. Dandelions, crabgrass, and thistles sprang from the bed like a green explosion frozen in time. It was like a jungle mountaintop jutting from the earth, and it seemed a place no civilized explorer had ever taken a step. Someone took great care to make the thing, but the apathy of nature was killing it like a slow, ever encroaching army.
Helen plopped down on the rough stone that hemmed the flowerbed and slid a cigarette out of her pack. She tucked it in the corner of her lip and put flame to it. There she puffed until the cherry ran down to the filter, and as it finished, she smashed the butt on the coarse stone leaving a powdery black smear on her fingers and the rock.
She had to get this fixed up.
She’d pull the weeds, shove in some perennials, and call it good.
Helen wasn’t a gardener, but the place couldn’t look like this when her mom showed up. She’d let Garrett hack at the grass with the mower, and she’d pick out some beautiful Black Knight Butterfly or Snapdragons. It might come together in no time.
Who was she kidding? The thing was a mess. She glared down at it wishing thoughts alone could force chaos into order, but her efforts were in vain. Among the vibrant green weeds on the left side of the bed, a rusted pipe protruded from the ground. It was an ugly thing with a conical rain guard on top.
A septic pipe maybe?
It stuck up from the ground about a foot, and the thing had probably been standing since the Truman administration. Although if it were an old septic pipe, someone had gone through a lot of trouble to decorate it.
Small, tarnished crosses ran up the length of the pipe at irregular intervals, and they’d been attached to the pipe by five or six different means. Some were tied on, some were welded, and some were even glued.
As she examined the pipe closer, she noticed the hole under the rain guard was sealed with lead or some other metal, and a cross had been pushed in while it was still molten.
She took hold of the decoration, or whatever it was, and wiggled it.
Was it a tacky piece of lawn art or what?
The rickety pipe rocked back and forth, but it might have been the metal bending at its base under the dirt. She put more force into her shoves, and with a rusted scream, the pipe crumpled over, almost sending her face first into the weeds.
She steadied herself then glanced back down. The pipe bent at an odd angle like a broken bone, but it still seemed rooted to the ground. It wasn’t a decoration. The thing was attached to something deeper in the earth.
The pipe sounded out again as she halfheartedly tried to straighten the metal, but the corroded steel would have none of it. It screeched one last time as the base ripped from the ground, and she sat there holding the thing.
Well, crap. Not much could be done now.
She glanced around the yard to see if any neighbors pointed and mocked her stupidity, but there was no one. However, her cheeks still flushed as she had to look foolish to God, spying satellites, or any aliens that might have witnessed her hapless antics.
Where the pipe once stood sat a gaping hole in the earth, and down that hole- blackness. Frozen air and a gamey stench rushed up at her like the breath of a dead man, and she couldn't help but cringe. Had to be a septic tank down there or something equally unpleasant.
She was done with this crap. She let the pipe roll from her hands, and it clacked on the flagstone a few times before it came to rest among the thistles. “Another mystery for the ages,” she said, snatching up her tea glass. The mosquitoes would soon be coming at her like raging zombies anyway, and she needed to leave before they made her look as if she was infected with smallpox.
***
Four days later
“I don’t like you working the night shift,” Helen said as she gulped the last of her pinot noir.
The earthy aftertaste lingered on her tongue. The third glass was taking hold, and the happy, warm feeling of the wine clashed with the nervous anticipation that had nested in her that afternoon. The remnants of her chicken dinner stared back up at her from the plate that rested on the table, and she shifted in her seat at the sight.
Sleep. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t get drowsy with dishes left to do.
They wouldn't put themselves away, and Garrett wouldn’t do it. He’d let the whole house fall to ruin around him if it meant he never needed to scrub anything.
“I don’t like it any more than you baby, but we got to eat,” Garrett said, adjusting his bright red tie. He pushed himself away from the table and stood up.
“I know, but I’d like to spend time with you.”
He smiled as he tossed on his jacket. “I’ll tell you what. I can probably get the weekend off, and we can do whatever you want.”
Helen set her glass on the table and wrung her napkin until it was a long, thin rope. Garrett glanced over at her. His lips tightened, and his brow lowered. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head towards the silver wall sconces her mother gave them as a wedding gift.
“Come on, what’s on your mind?” He ambled over to her and placed a massive hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“I don’t know.”
He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Sure, you do.”
“I don’t know I… I just get… I just get scared being here all alone sometimes.”
“Oh, what scares you?”
She stood up and caught his gaze. His eyes were big, brown, and kind as always. “It’s just dark and creepy here. I mean anyone could break in if they wanted to.” She buried her head in his chest until the brass buttons on his jacket hurt her cheek.
“No one will break in. We can’t be childish about this.” By ‘we’ he meant ‘you’. You can’t be childish, Helen.
But he’s not here alone from eight at night until six in the morning. In those hours, every creak was a rapist and every clunk an axe-murdering crazy. No, he saw the sunlit mornings, and he saw them with her. It’s different alone.
It’s different in the dark.
Who was she kidding? He wouldn’t be frightened even alone at night. If he heard something that bothered him, he’d just grab his pistol and march right through the house. She’d seen him do it more than once before he worked nights as a security officer for the Bowguard Complex, and it was always the same.
She’d hear a noise and shake him up. He’d snatch his gun, check to see if it was loaded, then he’d move into the darkness. A little time would pass, and he’d come back. He'd tell her ‘it’s a cat tipping over the trash’ or something. Then she’d drift back to sleep.
She couldn’t do that.
She couldn’t grab a gun and stroll off into the night like the hero cop he was… is. A bullet to the spine doesn’t make him not a hero—just not a cop.
“I’m not a child.” She pulled her head out of his chest as if it were blistering hot.
“I wouldn’t have married you if you were. That’s creepy, right?” He smiled big and bold. She balled her fist and smacked him on the shoulder to show she couldn't be trifled with. She could have hit him as hard as she’d wanted, and he’d still keep his smile.
“You’re a bad person.” She smirked as he sucked her back into his chest.
“What if we get you a security system?”
“You’re the one that told me the BTK killer installed security systems for a living, and that’s how he picked his targets.”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
She smiled wide and pinched his ass. “I can be that way sometimes.”
“So, do you think it’ll help?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it could hurt.”
“Okay then, you just gotta make it through one more night, and we’ll get one as soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, baby.” He bent and pressed his lips to hers, and there they dwelt for a long moment in a miniature paradise. His lips were dry and could have used a swipe of Chapstick, but that was always the case. “I gotta get going.”
“I know.”
He turned and left her with the dirty dishes, a drained glass of wine, and a big empty house.
***
Later that night
The only sound was the clinking and clacking of the porcelain plate as she scraped the congealed lump of alfredo off into the garbage. It splattered like a dead body tossed from a cliff as it hit the bottom of the trash can.
They’d lived in the house for nearly four months, but it wasn’t home yet. It was a beautiful place, and she had insisted on its purchase. But the green Folk Victorian still gave off strange vibes. It wasn’t until she’d moved in, though, that she’d discovered this quirk.
It was stupid, but it seemed too alien to be comforting. She squeezed lemon- scented dish soap into the dishwasher tray then slammed the door closed. After a few button presses, the old thing roared to life.
The digital clock on the microwave rolled over to seven thirty-two. Good, she’d have time to get a few pages penned before the wine took her down like a game warden firing a tranquilizer dart. She was something of a small-time author, but so far, all self-published.
She made a little money off this by penning thriller novellas and erotic short fiction. She used two different names for publishing. The first was Mark Cole, her thriller personality. According to his bio, he is an ex-cop from New York, and he knows all kinds of details about gruesome crime scenes and the dark underbelly of human nature.
Garrett was the one that knew stuff, and she tapped him without end for it. She’d ask him how guns worked, how police stations operated, and how prosecutors made a case.
She also didn't know much about New York, having lived all of her life in little Southern suburbs, but that’s what Google was for.
She loved her main character, Jack Snow. He was bad-ass in every way she wasn’t. He took shit from no one, and his quick wit crushed even the cleverest of criminals.
She picked Mark Cole as her pen name because it was masculine but not overbearing. She couldn’t see many men reading a detective story by a girl, so she made her pen name male. However, she'd miscalculated how many men read anything other than video game reviews these days.
She didn’t know it at the time, but 80% of all books are purchased by female readers, and most of those were erotic fantasy. That might be why her thriller career was suffering a slow, painful death, but hey, what can you do? At least her low-grade erotica career kept moving forward.
This realization gave birth to her other pen name, Victoria Lynch. Victoria published hordes of stories on Amazon and Barnes & Noble for a dollar apiece. She had forty-two up for sale, and they netted her about ten to eighteen dollars a day. It wasn’t much, but it was something she loved doing.
None of them were real books. She wasn’t so egotistical she believed that. But she had fun with it, and people liked them.
She popped the cork on the wine and drained the last of the bottle into her glass. The blood-red wine swirled in the glass as she meandered down the short hardwood hall into the living room. Once there she plopped onto the burgundy sofa, booted up her laptop, and clacked away at the keyboard. The world bobbled around as if her head was full of water.
Too much wine again.
She wouldn't get much done, but she needed to at least pretend she could. She hadn’t even finished a page today, and that could not stand.
Because trying to write while tipsy was a no-win proposition, she didn't do it much. Either she became too distracted and penned almost nothing, or she’d end up finding most of it to be incomprehensible garbage on the re-read. However, she’d still give herself an A for effort in the morning.
After thirty minutes, the steady click-clack of the keyboard whisked her off to an old Southern mansion where her lover, Matthew Callahan, stood. He’d just ripped his shirt off to reveal his chiseled abs and bulging biceps. It was the culmination of her eighteen-page epic, and her pulse quickened as she typed each tawdry word. She was absorbed within her own fantasy.
“I love you,” he said with lust and love burning in his eyes.
Scratch-scratch.
“I love you too, Callahan.” She rubbed her hands over his pecs then dared to slide them even further down.
“What will Thomas say?”
“He doesn’t need to know now bu—?”
He wrapped her in his love and muscled arms and roared, “A love like ours can’t be hidden forever.” She caressed his Olympian arms.
Scratch-scratch.
“Darling, he will surely put an end to you if he knows of our betrayal.”
“I would rather die having the world know my love for you than to hide it in the da—”
Scratch-scratch!
What the hell was that sound?
She couldn’t get any work done like this, so she set the laptop on the cushion beside her. Standing she glanced around the room listening for whatever mischievous thing was intent on stopping her from working, but no culprit in the living room existed.
Crap, what if it’s a rat?
The mother of all rats.
What if it was a bloated monstrosity dragging its fatly packed belly full of baby vermin across her nice clean floor? Oh, God, anything but a rat.
Scratch-scratch!
The sound came from the kitchen.
Her lovely… lovely kitchen that, without a doubt, had no rats. There were no mange-ridden scurrying creatures with ugly naked tails as thick as her thumb running over her countertops. They weren’t on the place where she sliced the crust off bread as she made sandwiches. Not there.
Scratch-scratch!
The sound came from the kitchen with a gut-wrenching certainty, and she’d have to face that. Her bare-feet crossed over the chilled hardwood and hit the even colder gray tile of the kitchen.
Scratch-scratch!
Too big to be a rat.
It was at the door.
The door that opened to the dark, wild growth that was the backyard. She eased closer and flicked on the porch light, and the Super Spiral Bulb awoke at the pace of a jobless drunk.
It took ages before it warmed up to full power and cast its light. With eyes unaccustomed to the night, there was only incomprehensible blackness beyond the little windowpane in the door.
She peered right and left.
Having her face almost pressed to the glass raised every tiny hair on her arms, and her teeth ground against themselves like two steel files. She was sure a maniac would smash the glass with a sledgehammer and crush her face. Or worse yet, she’d see a face.
Oh yes, a hideous, misshapen face with eyes as black as the depths of the Mariana trench, and one look at it would let you know this creature craved sex and death.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled.
She stood watching for about two minutes, but nothing happened. Even with her eyes now adjusted to the darkness, all she could make out were the spidery branches of the flower bed silhouetted in the silvery moonlight.
A bush in the flowerbed twitched, and it wasn’t the wind. Something moved it. It twitched again, and she bit her lower lip to stop her teeth from grinding.
Out of the bush hopped a big, fat, white-and-brown ragdoll cat. It strutted for a moment along the flagstone then plopped down and locked eyes with her. Its eyes shone like two evil little lamps as it flopped its tails back and forth with a lackadaisical attitude.
Wait a second, tails.
The freaking cat had two tails!
What type of crazy genetic abnormality was that?
She’d seen animals with more than one head on the internet, but it seemed odd nonetheless. Even stranger still was the way it seemed to study her. It was as if it were trying to decide if she was worth eating or not, and it kept its eyes trained right on hers. Its head movement mirrored hers as if it were toying with its food before it decided to sink its teeth in for the kill.
For no apparent reason, the cat sprang to its feet, sprinted as fast as it could, and hopped the fence in one smooth leap.
What the shit happened?
That was one of the oddest things she’d seen in a long time, and she sat there staring out the window—for what must have been five minutes—wondering if it would show itself again.
Bang-bang-bang came in rapid succession, and she reeled back from the window almost toppling to the floor.
“Fuck… Shit… Crap.” The cuss words were unnatural coming out of her mouth because they were something she never said. “Oh, God help me.” She mumbled the words putting her hand on her breast. Her heart thumped as if it were a two-stroke engine.
Bang... bang... bang. The rapping came again. She attempted to gather herself with a few deep breaths, and then she marched back to the living room.
Someone was at the door, but why in God’s name would they come at this hour? She walked forward and stuck her eye up to the peephole.
Outside, rounded by the fish-eye lens of the peephole, stood an old man and an even older woman. The woman was a plump specimen of American life, but the man stood gaunt and ashen.
He wore a grin big enough for the both of them, but the little old lady pursed her lips until they’d all but disappeared. Their clothing appeared expensive but mismatched. It looked like they’d just pulled out their attire from a big pile and wore whatever they’d snagged first.
They seemed as if they’d come out of a documentary of suburban life in the 50s. The chubby lady held a floral print casserole dish close to her chest as if it were her baby.
What in the heck were these people doing? It was frigging eight-thirty. From the other side of the door, their half-muted conversation started.
“She’s not here,” the lady said.
“Yes, she is,” the man said with certainty.
“It’s too late… I told you it’s too late.”
“They’re a young couple. They don’t even get moving until this time of night.” Whatever these strange alien creatures were, they weren’t a threat to anything except fashion. Helen unlatched the deadbolt and chain and swung the door open.
“Howdy-doo,” the old man said in a chipper voice. “We're the Wilson's from across the street, and we just thought we’d come over and say hello.”
“I hope it’s not too late?” The chubby lady's neck wobbled as she spoke.
“Not at all,” Helen said, trying not to sound fake. It was too late.
Way too late.
She’d had more than her share of wine, and there was nothing more annoying than being forced to interact with people while trying to hide that you’re a lush.
“I know it’s strange we didn’t come sooner, but we were out of town for a month visiting with relatives upstate. We’re usually more polite about something as special as a newcomer,” the lady said. Her words trailed off at the end as if she were just taking her best guess if they were, in fact, new to the neighborhood. She'd been here for four months, and while that wasn't a long time, it still seemed long enough to figure out someone new was living next to you. However, as old as they were, it could just be the dementia kicking in.
“It’s alright. In fact, you’re the first to come by.”
“Oh, my dear… The world’s just not what it used to be is it, Sam?” The chubby lady looked up to the still smiling old man.
“Not by a long shot, dear.”
The old lady tried to peek into the house, but she tried her best to not look as if that’s what she was doing. “Well dear, we just wanted to welcome you, and we brought you one of my special recipes. I sure hope you’re not allergic to deliciousness.” Helen couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Tell her what you call it.” Sam urged her with a gentle push. “Go on, tell her.”
The lady’s face brimmed with joy. “Kathy’s culinary caper. I call it that because it’s got capers.” She pushed the dish forward and into Helen’s arms. “I’m Kathy, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Kathy, my name’s Helen, and my husband is Garrett. He’s at work now.”
“Oh, that’s something. What’s he do?” Sam studied her face as he spoke the words.
“He’s a security guard.”
“Well, I feel safer already. We don’t want to impose so we’ll be off now, but it was nice meeting you.” He locked arms with Kathy and gave a short, spastic wave.
“What would you think about having some tea later on this week, dear?” The old woman’s face seemed hopeful as a child about to receive a birthday gift.
“Sounds wonderful.” The smile on Kathy’s face grew several feet wider.
“Well, nice meeting you,” Sam said, turning both himself and Kathy away from the door.
“Nice meeting you, too.”
Kathy glanced back as the two of them ambled down the front porch stairs. She closed the door behind them, happy to be done with socializing for the night.
