CREEPY
By James Darko
Wednesday,
March 23rd, 2011. Two A.M.
The sounds of
barking dogs and sirens emanating in the distance added to the cacophony on the
streets of Burkittsville. Kurt Watson awoke to the sirens, mistaking them for
the buzz of his alarm clock.
Without
disturbing Heather, he rolled out from the bed and threw his robe on, cinching
the belt around his waist. He put his slippers on and shuffled downstairs to
fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.
Police and
ambulance sirens blended together as a convoy of vehicles went speeding down
Shade Street. Kurt saw the reflection of the flashing lights in the kitchen
windows and the sound of the sirens cut off at the end of the block.
The Watsons
were new to the neighborhood and kept to themselves most of the time. Maryland
in general was a new experience for the Watson family, and they had yet to make
many friends.
They barely knew the neighbors; they
just greeted them when they first arrived and saw them in passing afterwards.
Kurt could hardly recall any of their names. But now the commotion had piqued
his interest.
It was morbid curiosity that carried
him to the front door and down to the end of block, where the red and blue
lights still flashed.
The officers cleared a path for the
paramedics and held the onlookers at bay. Like Kurt, his fellow neighbors had
heard the ruckus and couldn’t wait until morning to learn what the fuss was
about.
“What’s going on?” Kurt asked one of
the spectators whose name escaped him at the moment.
“I’m not sure,” the spectator said.
“This is Elizabeth Hernandez’s place. I hope everything’s ok. She’s got a
little boy, Alexandro. And she’s got a teenage daughter, Margarita.”
“Margarita?” Kurt repeated. Clearly he
would’ve remembered the name had he been properly introduced to the girl.
The paramedics emerged from the house,
wheeling a stretcher. The body had a sheet draped over it, and even though Kurt
couldn’t see the child, he could see fresh blood soaking through the sheet.
Several police officers followed the
paramedics, dragging a hysterical Elizabeth in handcuffs. Her nightgown was
stained with blood that appeared black in the moonlight.
As the ambulance and patrol cars dispersed,
so did the crowd as they ambled back their homes, muttering to their loved ones
in speculation. Kurt retired to his bedroom again, only to discover that Drew
had awakened at some point during his absence and crawled into bed with his
mother.
Kurt sighed as he slid back into bed
and rested beside Drew, who acted as a barrier between Kurt and Heather.
Kurt and Heather Watson hadn’t been
intimate in three months. Every night, Drew would awake from some horrible
nightmare and sneak into their room. Sometimes they didn’t even have a chance
to drift off to sleep before he was begging them to let him spend the night in
their room.
Drew was eight years old and would be
nine in two months. Kurt was getting fed up, as he felt his son was too old for
this sort of behavior. But Heather was the one who always caved and let him
spend the night in their bed.
Kurt tried to fall back to sleep, but
his attempts were futile. The mystery of the Hernandez incident would keep him
awake until sunrise.
__________
It was in the
papers that morning, a last minute edition. Elizabeth Hernandez had murdered
her child, Alexandro, in cold blood. She had yet to confess to the crime, so
the paper was using the words “alleged” or “allegedly” in almost every
sentence. But the verdict was practically in already. They were going to
crucify this woman, guilty or not.
Kurt wondered
what could drive a person to do such a thing. He also wondered what would
become of Elizabeth’s daughter, Margarita. That name, it was burned into his
brain now. He couldn’t forget it if he tried.
Heather made
eggs and toast for breakfast, which Drew smelled all the way from upstairs, and
soon came down to join them at the table. Despite Kurt’s pleas, Heather refused
to make bacon. She insisted the eggs had enough cholesterol in them.
“She used
margarine instead of butter again,” Drew whispered to his father. “Yuck.”
“I heard
that, young man,” Heather said. “I’m just looking out for your health. You want
to be a handsome, healthy young man, or do you want to look like Ralph
Pellegrino?”
“Nobody will
ever be as fat as Ralph Pellegrino,” Drew said in regards to one his
classmates. “I could eat all the bacon in the world and not look like that.”
“But you
won’t,” his mother assured him. “Not as long as I’m around.”
“So, champ,”
Kurt said to his son. “You decided to sleep in our bed again last night. Now I
thought we talked about this? They’re just nightmares, pal. They can’t hurt
you. And you’re getting too old to be sleeping with your mommy and daddy, don’t
you agree?”
“Dad, they’re
not just nightmares,” Drew said so vehemently his mother shivered slightly at
his words. “I saw something in the corner of my room one night. I swear.”
“Sure you
did,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes.
“Why won’t
you guys believe me?” Drew said, almost sulking.
“If I
believed in ghosts or goblins or fairies, maybe I’d be inclined to trust you,”
Kurt said. “But your mom and I are grownups. We’re smart enough to know it’s
all just in your head. It’s what happens when we let you stay up late and watch
horror movies every Halloween, which you won’t be doing again this year, by the
way.”
“Oh, come on,
dad!” Drew exclaimed.
“Sorry,
champ,” Kurt said. “But I’m a man of my word. If I say no horror movies, it
means no horror movies. But I’ll tell you what, if you can sleep in your own
bedroom for the next six months and prove to me you can handle it, maybe I’ll
change my mind.”
“Deal,” Drew
said. “Besides, I didn’t have any bad dreams last night. I just woke up because
of all the noise outside and got scared. What was going on last night?”
“Nothing major,”
Kurt said, flipping the newspaper over so Drew wouldn’t see the headlines. He
didn’t want to traumatize the boy with details of what happened to young
Alexandro. It was bad enough that Drew might hear about what happened from his
classmates at school. But Kurt thought maybe it was better if he heard it from
them.
Kurt never mastered the ability of
breaking bad news to people. But today’s kids were different. They seemed to
understand each other and bond in ways Kurt could never understand. Maybe if he
heard it from his friends instead of his father, the awful news would be easier
to digest.
The Watson’s were still new to the
neighborhood, and Kurt wasn’t a man who took any chances. So after breakfast,
he walked Drew to the bus stop to ensure his son got on board safely.
As Drew’s school bus rolled down the
street, Kurt encountered the same spectator who had told him of the Hernandez
family the night before. He was a tall, abnormally skinny man, wearing aviator
sunglasses. His yellow, nicotine stained teeth were something Kurt had not
noticed the night before. But his poor hygiene was more than visible in the
daylight.
“What are you doing out here?” Kurt
asked.
“Just making sure my daughter got on
the bus,” the man said. “After last night, you can’t be too careful.” The man
walked over to properly introduce himself, extending his hand for Kurt to
shake. “Hector Cardona.”
“Kurt Watson,” he said, accepting the
man’s grimy hand. The handshake lasted all of three seconds, but to Kurt, it
felt like an eternity. “Did you hear any news about last night?”
“Just what I read in the paper,” Hector
said. “Elizabeth Hernandez is in custody. They suspect her of murdering
Alexandro. I’m not sure if her daughter made any statements to the police. They
didn’t mention anything in the paper.”
“What’s the story with the father?”
Kurt inquired. “I mean, is the guy out of the picture? Were they divorced?”
“Deceased,” Hector said. “I think it
was a brain aneurism, but if you’re a reporter, don’t quote me on that. She’s
been raising those kids by herself for years now. At least she was.”
“I’m not a reporter,” Kurt said. “I’m a
proofreader. I work for Coffin Rock Publishing. I’m just curious about what
happened last night.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“Something like this doesn’t happen every
day.”
“You’d be wrong about that,” Hector
said. “Thirty-five minutes from here is a town called Woodsboro. About three or
four months ago, this woman, Joan Fowler, was taken into custody under
suspicion of murder. The victim was her son, Wayne.”
“You don’t say,” Kurt said, taken aback
by this startling new revelation.
“I should probably get to work,” Hector
said without inflection. “The grass isn’t going to cut itself.”
“Yeah,” Kurt mumbled, trying to pull
himself back into the world. “I should probably get busy too. I’ve got a lot of
new material to read today. Good talking to you, Hector.”
__________
Dusty had
taken to hanging out in front of Drew’s bedroom door. Every day he’d park
himself in the hall outside of Drew’s bedroom and lay on his belly for hours.
If Heather
tried to step over him and cross the threshold into her son’s bedroom, Dusty
would look up, show his teeth, and growl until she stepped away.
Dusty was a
golden retriever that Kurt had bought from a professional breeder. Heather
wanted to go to the animal shelter, but Kurt didn’t want, in his words, “A
second-hand dog.” He wanted a dog he could train and raise as his own.
Kurt had
raised him and trained him, but apparently not well enough, Heather thought.
She mentioned Dusty’s behavior to Kurt in passing and he decided to approach
Dusty in the hall one day, producing similar results.
As soon as he
kneeled down to run his hand over Dusty’s glossy coat, he showed his teeth and
growled. In fact, anytime that Kurt or Heather stepped into the hall, Dusty
would bark or growl.
Dusty wasn’t
old enough to be suffering from any form of memory loss. He still had plenty of
good years left in him. But this newfound attitude was both perplexing and
unsettling to say the least.
Their son
loved Dusty, and Dusty loved Drew. But Dusty had always remained loyal to Kurt.
It didn’t make sense to Kurt that Dusty would be so overprotective of Drew’s
room or his belongings.
“Maybe the
dog’s just going through something we can’t understand,” Kurt said. “I’ll take
him to the vet if this keeps up.”
“I want you
to take him to a vet tomorrow,” Heather pleaded. “He’s really scaring me.”
“Heather, the
move really set us back a lot. A trip to the vet is expensive and we can’t
afford to waste money, especially when we don’t know if anything is wrong with
the dog.”
“Something is
wrong,” Heather said. “Call it women’s intuition. Call it whatever you’d like.
But I can sense it.”
“Maybe the
dog senses it too,” Kurt suggested. “Maybe that’s why he’s acting so strange.
You know how Drew is always saying he saw something in his room one night?
Maybe Dusty is just trying to protect us by keeping us away.” His statements
oozed with sarcasm.
“Now you’re
just being ridiculous,” Heather said.
“I’ll tell
you what you need,” Kurt said. “You need something to keep you busy. Why don’t
you start writing again? You’re a reporter and there was a murder in our
neighborhood. That’s a story just waiting for someone like you to tackle it.”
“I’m an
unemployed reporter since you decided to drag us all the way to Maryland,”
Heather groaned.
“I’m sorry,
Heather. But it was a great opportunity. My editing job in Kansas was going
nowhere and Coffin Rock Publishing offered me good money to be their main
proofreader. I couldn’t turn it down. And you can always find another job with
another paper. Just because we’re in Maryland, doesn’t mean there isn’t news to
report. I even have an exclusive for you.”
“What are you
talking about?”
“I’ve been
chatting with one of the neighbors,” Kurt told her. “Hector Cardona. He knew
the Hernandez family. That’s not all though. Hector told me there was a similar
murder that occurred in Woodsboro just a few months ago. The victim’s name was
Wayne Fowler. His mother, Joan Fowler, was arrested for his murder. So there’s
something to go on.”
“Woodsboro is
a thirty minute ride from here,” Heather said, considering the drive.
“Oh, by the
way, the lady down the block had another kid,” Kurt added. “A teenage daughter
named Margarita. The papers never said what happened to her. And I never saw
her come out of the house last night when the cops removed Ms. Hernandez and
her son’s body.”
__________
Friday, May
27th, 2011. 3:05 P.M.
Heather was
waiting at the bus stop when Drew got dropped off. The previous night had been
the first time in about two months that Drew made an effort to sleep in his own
room.
Kurt was
convinced he’d never make it through the night, but when they checked up on him
in the morning, he was still sleeping comfortably.
“I’ll be
damned,” Kurt had said. “Maybe he’s finally over that little spell.”
When Heather
walked Drew back inside and helped him with his books and knapsack, she felt
compelled to ask about the sudden change. But instead she decided to start off
by praising him, hoping to initiate conversation naturally without having to
question her son’s actions.
“Your father
and I are very proud of you for last night,” Heather told him. “We knew you
could do it.”
“Thanks,
mom,” Drew replied. “It’s no big deal. I feel much safer sleeping in my room
now that the ghost has moved on.”
“Uh huh,”
Heather said, seeing that Drew hadn’t quite conquered his overactive
imagination. “And where did it go?”
“It’s in your
room now,” Drew said. “I saw it the other night, standing over daddy while he
was sleeping.”
Heather
couldn’t tell if Drew was trying to have a laugh at her expense or if his
imagination had truly gotten the better of him. So she bit.
“Really?”
Heather said, trying to play along. “So this ghost, what exactly does he look
like, Drew?”
“Oh, he
doesn’t have a face,” her son replied casually. “But he’s really tall. And he
wears a red suit. Red as the color of blood or ketchup. Even his shoes are red,
mommy.”
Drew
certainly did have quite the imagination, Heather thought. “Ok,” she said.
“Enough goofing around. Time to do your homework. You should be finished by the
time dinner’s ready.”
Kurt was
working in his office when Heather passed by. She stood in the doorway, not
uttering a word until Kurt looked up from his desk.
“Everything
all right?” Kurt asked.
“Yes, it’s
just…never mind.”
Heather
decided it best if she kept what Drew had just shared to herself. If she so
much as hinted that she believed a word her son had told her, Kurt would laugh
her out of his office.
She walked
down the hall, towards the master bedroom where Dusty was splayed out in front
of the door. As she approached, the dog raised its head, showed its teeth, and
growled at a low pitch.
“This is
starting to get weird,” Heather muttered.
__________
Saturday, May
28th, 2011. 10:33 A.M.
Drew was
happily watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room while Heather sat
at the kitchen table, making phone call after phone call. With Elizabeth
Hernandez’s trial a month away, Heather had taken Kurt’s suggestion and decided
to write the article that beckoned her talents.
Two murders in a three month period
with the victims mothers being accused in both cases. Something about that
didn’t sit right with Heather. So she decided to dig a little deeper.
But the citizens
of Woodsboro weren’t very receptive to her inquiries. And all attempts to
locate Margarita Hernandez were fruitless.
So Heather
decided to improvise. She still had her press badge from her time at the Kansas
City Press. And a quick search of the internet helped reveal what prison Joan
Fowler currently resided in.
She phoned
the prison and tried to arrange a face-to-face interview with Ms. Fowler.
Instead, they granted her interview by telephone if Heather agreed to foot the
bill for the call.
Seeing as it
was her only option, Heather accepted. She figured a phone interview might even
be better. Arrangements for a face-to-face interview could take weeks.
She waited on
hold for fifteen minutes while they collected Joan Fowler and brought her to the
phone.
“For the last
time, I didn’t kill my boy,” Joan said adamantly. “I’ve got nothing else to say
to you people.”
“I believe
you,” Heather said.
“Oh, thank
God,” Joan sighed. “I knew one day some honest soul would come to tell my side
of the story.”
“That’s not
entirely why I’m contacting you,” Heather said. “There’s been another murder. A
young boy named Alexandro Hernandez. He lived on my block with his mother and
sister. His mother is currently awaiting trial.”
“The murder,
did it occur at night?” Joan asked.
“Yes,”
Heather confirmed. “Around two in the morning. My husband saw them take
Elizabeth Hernandez away in handcuffs. She was crying hysterically. And her
daughter hasn’t been seen since.”
“Have you
spoken to the mother?” Joan asked.
“Not yet,”
Heather said. “I’m still waiting for the police to get back to me.”
“You might
never get the chance,” Joan said. “They won’t believe a word of her story.
They’ll say she’s crazy like me. Hell, even my own lawyer didn’t believe me. He
said my story would work for the insanity defense though.”
“And what
exactly is your story, Ms. Fowler?”
“Wayne’s
father died of a sudden heart attack at age thirty-two. I raised Wayne on my
own from age four to age eleven. And I think I did a pretty damn good job considering
I did it all on my own. But when Wayne turned ten, I noticed changes in his
behavior. He started sleeping on the couch or in the guest bedroom instead of
his own room. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep at all. He’d just stay up all night
watching cartoons. His grades started to slip and he got booted from art class
after they saw what he had drawn for his assignment.
The principal
wanted me to have Wayne examined by a professional. They sensed something wasn’t
right with him, and so did I. But they were looking for the easiest
explanation. A psychological impairment. I knew there was something bigger
going on. So I asked Wayne after school one day.”
“And what did
he say?” Heather asked.
“He told me
about The Reaper,” Joan said. “That’s what he called it. Claimed it was a ghost
or a spirit of some kind that haunted his room every night. So I asked him what
the thing looked like. And that’s when he told me it didn’t have a face. I
mean, I couldn’t even believe my ears; a faceless ghost. It was preposterous.
But the more changes I spotted in his behavior, the more I started to believe.
Then the
night came when I heard the screams. I rushed to Wayne’s room, but it was
already too late. The Reaper had finally claimed him. There was blood
everywhere, and when I tried to slow the bleeding of his wounds, it got all
over my clothes. That’s why the cops suspected me. They had my prints, they had
me covered in blood, they had no evidence to indicate a break-in. They found no
other prints at the scene. And they never found a murder weapon, either.
They never
believed a word I said. But I saw it with my own two eyes. He was maybe seven
feet tall, wearing a red suit. And he was hovering over my son’s bed. And his
face…it was just…gone.”
“Ms. Fowler,
what if I told you my son has seen this same entity you’ve described?”
“I would tell
you to run. Abandon your home and all your possessions and never look back,
Mrs. Watson.”
__________
Five P.M.
Heather’s
worst fears came to life when she told her husband of her conversation with Joan
Fowler and he laughed in her face. A faceless ghost in a red suit. It was all a
big joke to Kurt.
He refused to
establish the connection between the murders and their son’s erratic behavior.
Kurt didn’t even flinch when she told him that Drew claimed The Reaper was
hovering over him in his sleep one night.
“I dig the
name though,” Kurt said. “The Reaper. Sounds like a comic book character. You
know, I think you may be onto something big here.”
Heather,
unscathed by his cynical jabs, went back to work. She called every source,
every former colleague, and every editor she could think of until someone was
able to point her in the direction of Margarita Hernandez.
That someone
was Darren Douglas, an ex-flame and her former boss at the Kansas City Press.
Darren was a
pompous prick who viewed himself as the definition of perfection. If he was the
definition of perfection, nobody would ever aspire to be perfect, Heather
thought.
Darren agreed
to share the information he had on Margarita for free, if Heather was willing
to discuss it over lunch. Heather agreed, but made it clear she wasn’t leaving
Maryland.
“I’ll be
there tomorrow,” Darren told her. “Meet you around three o’clock."
__________
Sunday, May
29th, 2011.
Heather
didn’t sleep that night. Joan’s words haunted her and she had visions every
time she shut her eyes. She could see the faceless demon in the red suit, and
it wasn’t a pretty visualization.
She spent the
night restless, debating its origin, its existence. She wondered if she should seek professional help for her son. She was wondering
if she needed a little professional help of her own.
Darren
Douglas met her in a small café outside of Burkittsville at three in the
afternoon. She showed up wearing sunglasses to conceal her sleep deprived eyes.
As Heather
assumed, Darren had ulterior motives for wanting to meet for lunch. But she
overlooked his arrogance and his lame pickup lines. She saw it as the price to
be paid for the information he was supplying. And for the information he had,
she could deal with his cockiness and his brash attempts at hitting on a
married woman.
But in the
end, Heather intended to remain faithful to the man she loved. That still
didn’t stop Douglas from pining over her. But it did give her a distinct advantage.
Darren
Douglas was like putty in her hands. All she had to do was give a subtle wink
and he’d grant any request she had. And what she requested right then and there
was information on Margarita Hernandez’s whereabouts.
“She’s in a
looney bin,” Darren informed her. “About fifteen miles from here. She went
bonkers after she saw her brother get it.”
“Wait,
Margarita witnessed the murder?” Heather asked.
“Yes, but she
ain’t talking,” Darren said.
“We’ll see
about that,” Heather said.
__________
South Oaks
Mental Facility was fifteen miles west from the café. She drove there straight
from lunch. She hadn’t even bothered to eat. Operating on the no food and no
sleep, she was determined to get to the bottom of this.
She made it past the gates without
showing her press badge. She smartened up this time and claimed to be a distant
relative of Margarita’s.
Her black
hair, dark complexion, and the fact that she was fluent in Spanish helped her
pull it off. They asked for ID as Heather anticipated. She had also prepared
for this with Darren’s help, as he had used his connections to secure a fake ID
for her.
For the next
hour, her name was Maria Sanchez. It was a New Jersey license and the picture
hardly looked anything like her, but it did the trick.
Margarita was
confined to a padded cell with restraints. They allowed Heather to go in by
herself and told her to shout if she needed assistance. With Margarita wrapped
up tightly in a straightjacket, she didn’t see what harm the girl could do. But
the doctor’s seemed certain she was capable of anything.
“You’re not
my aunt,” Margarita said, sitting at the edge of her bed, her head tilting as
if she was examining Heather like one would view a rare work of art in a
museum.
“I’m a
reporter,” Heather said. “My real name is Heather Watson. And I’m here to tell
your story.”
“If I told
you, you’d think I’m crazy. Believe me, ma’am, there’s a reason I’m in here. I
don’t even know what really happened. I know what I saw. I just don’t know if I
can believe it.”
“What did you
see?”
“I can’t,”
Margarita shook her head rapidly. “I can’t relive it.”
“Please,”
Heather begged. “My son’s life may be at stake here. There was a similar
incident that occurred months ago. A boy named Wayne Fowler was allegedly
murdered by his mother, Joan. I spoke to Joan. She described things that my son
is seeing. I need to know if your brother saw them too.”
What kind of
things?” Margarita asked. “Like a man with no face and a crimson red suit?”
“Yes,”
Heather mumbled. “That would be the thing I’m referring to.”
“I saw it
myself the night Alexandro died,” Margarita confessed. “It was standing over
his bed. It…it didn’t even have a weapon. It used its hands. My mother tried to
save my brother’s life. And now she’s on trial for her own. But I can’t tell my
story to the courts. They’ll never believe me or her.”
“What can I
do?” Heather asked. “What can I do to protect my son?”
“Fight,”
Margarita told her. “Fight with everything you have. Don’t let it take him.”
__________
“You saw
Darren Douglas today,” Kurt said as Heather walked through the front door
around six-thirty.
“How did you
know?”
“He left a
message on the answering machine while you were gone.”
“I can
explain.”
“Don’t worry,
he explained all about your lunch in the message he left. And I can’t believe
you went to see Margarita Hernandez. That poor girl has been through enough
already. You’re cracking up, Heather. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I pushed this
idea on you. But it’s gone far enough.”
“I’m trying
to help our son,” Heather insisted.
“No, you’re
trying to prove a bunch of wild theories that don’t exist. And our son happens
to be an innocent victim in all of this. Heather, I’ve gone through this with
you before. You get so wrapped up in these stories you lose touch with reality.
I can’t go through it again. I packed my things. I think some space will do us
some good.”
“So that’s
it? Just pack up and run away when things get too tough for Kurt Watson to
handle? Fine. You know what? I’m better off without you. But Drew is staying
with me.”
“If you say
so,” Kurt said. “But my son won’t be staying with you forever. Not if I have
anything to say about it.” Kurt stormed out of the living room to gather his
things, and in minutes he was gone.
Drew was
playing videogames in his room and hadn’t overheard their argument. So she
figured it best if she didn’t tell him anything. If he asked, she’d simply say
his dad had business to attend to. Maybe he had some loose ends to tie up back
in Kansas.
Kurt was a
sensible man. Heather knew he’d return eventually. It was just a question of
when. In the meantime, she had to keep a watchful eye over Drew on her own. She
wasn’t going to let the boy out of her sight.
__________
“Mommy, are
you mad at daddy?” Drew asked innocently as Heather tucked him in at nine
o’clock on the dot.
“Not at all,”
his mom assured him. Daddy’s mad at me, Heather thought. But he’s bound to get
over it. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in my room tonight?”
“No, I feel
fine here,” Drew told her.
“All right,
well I’ll be just down the hall if you need me. Don’t be afraid to call me if
you need anything. Goodnight Drew.”
“Goodnight
mommy,” he said, rolling onto his side and curling up with his blanket.
She left his
door wide open and stood out in the hallway, checked her wristwatch. It was
just after nine o’clock when she heard a knock at the door.
She wasn’t
expecting anybody at this hour and she didn’t want to leave Drew’s side, but it
could be Kurt. He had the keys to the house, but she thought maybe he had
misplaced him. Or it could be the police, there to ask some follow-up questions
on the Hernandez incident. The cops had questioned them a day after the murder
to see what the Watson’s knew of the Hernandez family, but they didn’t have
much to share.
She ascended
the beige carpeted staircase and walked to the front door. She opened it just a
crack to peek outside. On their front porch stood a tall man with aviator
sunglasses. From the porch lights, she could see the man’s teeth were stained
with nicotine. And his white cotton shirt was stained red with blood.
“Please,”
Hector said, his lip quivering, hands trembling. “You must get out. It got my
daughter. It’s going to get your son too. I would’ve told your husband, but I
knew he’d never believe me. But you, you believe. I can see it in your eyes.
Please, get out while you still can!”
“Calm down,
sir,” Heather said, slowly pushing the door shut. “I’m going to call the police
for you. Everything is going to be ok. I promise. Just wait right where you
are.”
“No!” Hector
screamed. “No police!”
He tried to
force his way inside, but Heather managed to slam the door on his hand, and
when he recoiled in pain, she got the door closed and snapped the lock shut.
“Mommy!” Drew
cried from upstairs. “Mommy, help me! Help!” Dusty had scampered across the
hall and started barking ferociously. His barks turned to yelps, then dissolved
to silence after Heather heard a thump on the ceiling.
She flew up
the stairs and found Dusty sprawled out in the hall, outside of Drew’s bedroom.
The dog didn’t appear to be breathing.
Heather felt
sick, but she moved past the dog as her son’s life hanged in the balance. As
she reached the doorway, her stunned, unblinking eyes gazed up at a tall,
slender man in a crimson red suit hovering over Drew’s bed. Atop his lean
shoulders was a faceless, anamorphic flesh-head.
__________
Heather sat
in the back of a police cruiser beside Hector Cardona while the cops spoke to
several of the neighbors, all of whom had called the police to voice their
concerns over the screams they had heard.
Heather tried
to pull her wrists apart, but the cuffs wouldn’t allow them to stretch more
than a few inches.
The cops had
confiscated Hector’s aviator sunglasses and Heather could now understand why he
sported them. His left eye had been gouged out some time ago and the damage to
the socket was irreversible.
“I’m so
sorry,” Hector muttered. “I should’ve warned your husband. I should’ve warned
you.”
“You knew
about this thing all along?”
“A dark
memory from my childhood. I was lucky. I survived its attack. I can’t say the
same for my little girl. They’ll never believe us, you know?”
“I know,”
Heather murmured. She knew the cops, the judge, and the jury could never
believe such a tale. She even doubted that Kurt would side with her on this
one.
But that wasn’t
going to stop her from telling the tale.
The tale of
The Reaper.
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