UNDER THE MOON

 

 

UNDER THE MOON

By Randy Romero

 

 

It was only a matter of time before Lena said the the words Ray was dreading. “We’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Ray Stokes told his wife. “We’re on an adventure.”

“What are you, five years old?”

“I have the mind of one.”

She sighed, exasperated. “I told you not to get off the highway.”

Twenty minutes had passed since Ray lost the main road, opting for a more scenic route. It was his decision to abandon the highway for a road he never traveled before, a decision he now lived to regret. But he’d never admit defeat and give Lena the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It was one of her choice phrases.

If it was the scenic route Ray had desired, that’s exactly what he got. The road was virtually deserted, with the sporadic exception of a passing semi-truck traveling in the opposite direction. They were from Nassau County and Ray wasn’t used to how eerily quiet it was in certain areas of Suffolk. No traffic, no commotion, no pedestrians, no crazy drivers blowing through stop signs or red lights.

There were no lights or streetlamps lining the roads, but that didn’t matter on this particular evening. The full moon gave Ray all the light he needed.

He rolled his window and breathed in the fresh, untainted air; no pollutants. At home, their backyard was so close to the Expressway that Ray practically choked on exhaust fumes every time he went outside. His lungs had never breathed air so clean and healthy. His air sacs felt like they were on vacation.

“Roll up your window,” Lena said. Then she added, “Please.”

“Oh, come on, hon. Enjoy the fresh air. It’s better than inhaling people’s exhaust fumes on the highway.”

“It’s December and it’s freezing out.”

“Fine,” he sighed and rolled his window up. Lena cranked up the heat and fished through her purse for her Samsung.

“I should call Zachary and see how he’s doing,” Lena said.

“We never should have left him with Elliot.”

“He was the only person available on such short notice. And what’s wrong with Elliot?”

“I just don’t like the idea of a gay babysitter looking after our son. What if he…you know, touches Zach or something?”

“He’s gay, Ray. He’s not a pedophile.”

“If he likes men, he could like little boys, too.”

“By that logic, all straight men could easily like little girls.”

Ray thought about her argument for a moment, stymied, unable to retort. “All right, you got me there,” he admitted. “At least Elliot’s not transgender.”

“I believe they prefer to be called transsexuals now.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”

“You really need to join the twenty-first century, Ray. In this day and age, gender isn’t relevant. It isn’t even binary.”

She made a quick call to the house, checked in on Zach, and spoke briefly with Elliot. “They’re making a gingerbread house,” Lena said when she got off the phone.

Ray felt guilty about leaving Zach with a babysitter on Christmas Eve. But Ray always went to visit his dad on Christmas Eve. Shane Stokes’ condition was rapidly declining, and he didn’t want Zach to see his grandfather in his sickly, emaciated state.

“I hope he isn’t mad at us,” Ray said.

“Your father?”

“No, Zach.”

“We’re only going for a few hours. We’ll be home in time for Santa to put the presents under the tree.”

“You mean I’ll put the presents under the tree. I’m tired of that Santa guy getting all the credit.”

“We need to find a spot to eat. I’m famished.”

“Famished,” he repeated.

“Yes, it’s a word.”

“Nobody says famished.”

“I say famished.”

“I’ll find us a place to eat.”

“Yeah, as soon as you get off this godforsaken road. I haven’t seen anything for miles. What made you get off the highway in the first place?”

“I was bored,” he shrugged. “I wanted to take the scenic route.”

“Well, you definitely got your wish.”

Ray turned up the radio to give himself a much needed reprieve from the conversation, and to drown out the rattling of a bad catalytic converter. He went through every station until he found one that wasn’t playing Christmas music.

Ray and Lena’s road had been a rocky one. In fact, their relationship had been a road paved with landmines. But they had evaded every bomb in their path and managed to keep their relationship intact. Ray knew all too well what divorce does to a child. He’d been through it before, and he wasn’t about to put Zach through the same. And Lena seemed to concur. It was the only thing keeping their frayed marriage from completely falling apart.

“That’s it, I’m using the GPS on my phone,” Lena said, fed up.

The catalytic converter rattled and pinged.

“Don’t bother,” Ray said as he saw a sign welcoming them to the town of Hither Hills.

There was a sharp turn after the sign, and as they came around the bend, it darted out from the tree line. Ray panicked and popped the brakes to avoid hitting the deer. The car skidded on the slick winter pavement, and they collided head-on with it.

The deer went flying and the car came to a sudden stop. They both took deep breaths, waiting for their hearts to beat normally again.

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and sputtered.

“Sit tight. I’m going to get out and see the damage.”

Ray popped the hood and opened the driver side door. He got out and checked the front. The damage was more than superficial. They would need a tow truck. No way he was going to get it running without repairs.

“Poor thing,” Ray said, looking at the deer sprawled out in the road. Given the size, he wasn’t surprised at the damage. It was the biggest deer he’d ever seen up close.

He walked around to the passenger side and Lena rolled her window down. “Better call a tow truck. There’s no way this thing is going to start.”

“What about the deer?” Lena asked.

“I don’t know,” Ray said. “I think you have to call animal control and they come pick it up. I feel terrible, but it’s the least of our concerns right now. I’ll call my dad and Elliot and tell them both we’re going to be late tonight.”

Rough, serrated claws scraped the pavement as it clambered to its feet.

Lena tried to scream. Tried to find the words to warn her husband. She could hear them in her head. But she had no voice to produce them.

It’s not a deer.

Ray saw the horror in her eyes and was afraid to look. He turned slowly, revealing the bipedal creature that towered over him.

Its body was a suit of thick gray fur, its eyes as yellow as moonlight. Jagged, asymmetrical fangs protruded from its thick, hairy, wet snout. The beast growled, taking Ray’s breath away.

He couldn’t shout, couldn’t talk, couldn’t find the air. He felt dizzy, faint. But he remained on his feet long enough to feel it sink its teeth in.

His screams pierced the night. It was aiming for its neck, but instead its fangs sank into his left shoulder. It ripped and teared away, pulling flesh and muscle from the bone. When it had its fill and its lust for blood was satiated, it disappeared into the night, running back into the woods.

Ray could feel the change almost instantly. Felt his body transforming under the moonlight. He begged and pleaded with Lena to leave him behind before it was too late.

She slid into the driver’s seat, grinded the key in the ignition, praying the car would start. The engine groaned and sputtered.

“Come on,” she cried. “Please, just start.” She turned the key again. Nothing.

She glared through the windshield, watching as the transformation completed. Fur replaced flesh. A thick, gray snout replaced his face. His yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.

In one last act of desperation, she twisted the key again and the engine rumbled to life. She floored it out of there, swerving to avoid the beast in the road that was once her husband.

She looked back in the rearview mirror, watching him howl at the bright, piercing moon above.

THE HOUSE ON BAXTER STREET

 

 

 

THE HOUSE ON BAXTER STREET

By Randy Romero

 

 

Every small town in America has its own ghost story or infamous urban legend.

The jilted lover who was stood up on prom night and died in a tragic accident, her broken-hearted spirit forever doomed to roam those dark, lonely roads.

The hitchhiker who was murdered and vanishes into thin air when you stop to offer them a ride.

The escaped mental patient with a hook for a hand. The monster or demon who hides under a bridge or inside a tunnel, waiting for any unfortunate souls to enter its domain. The uninhabitable haunted house with its dark, unimaginable history, and its restless spirits roaming the hallways.

Fairview’s local ghost story was The House on Baxter Street.

An innocuous looking, two-story, Cape Cod style house with bay windows that faced the street on both floors.

It had been abandoned since before Billy Caputo was born. Craig Caputo loved to frighten his son and daughter about the house. Ellie hated hearing those stories. But Billy, a horror movie fanatic with a keen interest in the paranormal, relished his dad’s memories.

He enjoyed the mystery behind it.

What had led to the McFarlane family–Tim McFarlane, wife Terri, sons Tim Jr. and Buddy–packing up and leaving without so much as a wave goodbye? Why did they just up and abandon their own property? Why did they leave all their furniture and many of their earthly possessions behind?

Tim McFarlane hadn’t even given notice at the local power plant. He just stopped showing up for work and after a few days, they sent the cops to his house to do a wellness check. That’s when they found out the family had split town and left most of their stuff behind.

It was cold that morning, even for December. The temperature outside was twenty-seven degrees and dropping rapidly. The weatherman had snow in his forecast, but Craig didn’t put much stock into what he had to say.

“I wish I could get paid to be wrong seventy-five percent of the time like the weatherman,” Craig said while reading the newspaper at the breakfast table.

“You’re a man and you’re my husband,” Shelia said. “You’re wrong one hundred percent of the time.”

“True, but I’m not getting paid for it,” he said.

Ellie came down to breakfast first. She wore ripped blue jeans and a red flannel hoodie; the buttons open to reveal a Nirvana shirt with a yellow smiley face with the eyes crossed out. A gift from her boyfriend. Her father doubted if either one of them even knew who Kurt Cobain was.

Ellie was fifteen, and her brother was only twelve.

“The nineties called,” her mom said. “They want their outfit back.”

“Of course, they called,” Ellie said. “They couldn’t text back then.” It wasn’t hard to see where and who Ellie got her sarcastic wit from.

“Burn,” Craig said.

“Burn? Geez, the nineties wants that reference back too,” Shelia said.

“Oh, like you’re all that and a bag of chips,” Craig said.

“Did people really used to talk like that in the nineties?” Ellie asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Shelia said.

“The nineties? Isn’t that when the McFarlane family moved away?” Billy Caputo asked, joining the conversation.

“That’s correct,” his father said.

“Ugh, not that story again,” Ellie groaned.

“I’m actually in agreement with her,” their mom said. “I can live without hearing it again.”

“We’ll talk more about it after school,” his dad told him. “Now hurry up and eat your breakfast so you don’t miss the bus.”

 

 

***

 

 

Twelve-year-old kids can be troublemakers.

Billy and his friends were no different. Especially Kevin Keller. His dad wasn’t thrilled by the idea of Billy hanging out with him. That was one of the reasons Billy never mentioned him or invited him over. Kevin didn’t take any offense to it. He knew his reputation.

“Have your parents ever talked about the house on my street?” Billy asked his friends one day during their lunch period. High school was a new experience for them. But as freshmen, they were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. They sat in the back of a nearby pizzeria, Billy more focused on the house than his food. Pat Reilly spoke up first.

“You mean that creepy house across the street?” Pat asked. “Yeah. My mom says it’s haunted. But my dad says that’s a bunch of bullshit. But he doesn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or anything paranormal. Thinks it’s fake.”

“And you think it’s real?” Kevin asked.

“Hell yeah. I mean wouldn’t you want to be a ghost when you die? Ghosts live rent free. You don’t have to go to school or work. You get to haunt and scare people. Being a ghost sounds like the life.”

“Have your parents ever said anything about it?” Billy asked Kevin.

“Not my mom. But my dad says nobody will live there. He says they can’t sell it. My brother says there’s a demon living in the basement, but I know he’s just trying to scare me.”

“Or warn you,” Pat said.

“Very funny. Why are you asking about that old house anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, I suppose. It’s been empty forever.”

“Could be the perfect hangout spot,” Kevin said.

“Are you suggesting we break in there?” Billy asked.

“Why not? Who’s going to know if it’s abandoned? You go right in through the backdoor or find a window to the basement to jimmy open.”

“No thanks, I’ll pass,” Pat said.

“Wussy.”

“I’m going to have to pass on that too,” Billy said, remembering why his dad wasn’t crazy about him hanging around Kevin.

“Well, if you change your mind let me know.”

They finished their lunch and headed back towards Fairview High, the house on Baxter Street looming over Billy’s thoughts the entire walk back.

 

 

***

 

 

Billy’s eyes fluttered as the light shone through his window. He woke up tired, confused, disoriented. His heavy eyes moved towards his alarm clock. 3:13 AM.

He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window to close his blinds.

That was when he realized the bright light was emanating from an upstairs window across the street.

“What the hell?” Billy muttered.

The house had been abandoned for nearly thirty years. The power had been cut off a long, long time ago. And yet, he stared out his window at the glowing fixtures in the adjacent house. The light seemed to beckon him.

That was when he remembered Kevin Keller’s offer.

Kevin lived a few blocks away. And like most kids nowadays, they both had their own cell phones. Billy’s phone was mainly for emergency purposes. But like most kids, he had a habit of abusing the privilege.

He sent Kevin a text and hoped he was awake. He got a response in less than a minute.

It just said: On my way.

Billy snuck out through the garage and met Kevin across the street. They made sure the coast was clear before they walked around the side of the house and hopped the fence. No basement windows, but there was a backdoor.

“Watch the magic,” Kevin said, preparing to pick the lock.

But he didn’t even get that far. The knob was loose, so he tried the door. Unlocked.

“Ta-da,” he said.

“Wow,” Billy said, feigning admiration. “I’m so glad I text you for that.”

“After you,” Kevin said.

Billy took a deep breath and stepped inside. Kevin followed.

The floor creaked with every step they took. The house was almost beyond repair.

Broken fixtures. Rotting furniture. Holes in the ceiling. Stains on the floor. Dust and debris.

In the living room was a white couch devoured by black mold. The smell of mold and mildew permeated the air. But another stronger smell cut through it. The stench of rot and decay.

Billy assumed an animal must’ve died behind the walls or got stuck inside the chimney.

Paint bubbled from the walls and ceilings. Threadbare carpets that dated back to the eighties. Mustard yellow wallpaper in the living room and wooden panels in the basement.

The windows were frosted over inside from the lack of working heat. No running water either.

Billy ascended the staircase, Kevin trudging behind him, but they stopped at the landing. They froze in place as a tall shadow fell over the hall. It was stationary for a moment, then seemed to drift across the hallway.

The shadow moved on its own, with seemingly no entity present to guide it. No figure stood in the hallway. No man or woman could be seen at the top of the stairs. The rogue shadow descended the staircase, gliding towards them. Billy gasped, shut his eyes, and–

 

 

***

 

 

–Woke up in his bed.

His pajamas were drenched in sweat. At least he hoped it was sweat. It took him a moment to realize it was all a dream. He had no idea what time it was until he glanced at his alarm clock.

3:13 AM.

He’d only been asleep for a few hours.

“Just a nightmare,” he whispered to himself. It served him right for getting caught up in those silly ghost stories and letting his dad spook him.

But just as he rested his head on the pillow again, a light caught his eye from across the street.

The light in the upstairs bedroom seemed to call his name, summoning him. He couldn’t resist.

Should I go look? He wondered. But he’d already made his decision, sealed his own fate. He just didn’t know it yet.

KNOCK, KNOCK

Genre: Horror 

 

 

 

KNOCK, KNOCK

By Randy Romero

 

 

The wind howled as it swept through the vacant streets of Redfield. Not a soul would be caught outside on a night like this. Not in this inclement weather.

Mark Hess rested his bones by the fireplace, chair reclined, watching TV. He only got up occasionally to stoke the logs on the fire or add another chunk of wood to the flames.

With one eye open and one eye closed, sleep was imminent.

But three gentle raps at the door seemed to revive him.

“Who on earth could that be?”

He couldn’t imagine anyone standing outside in this cold unless it was a life or death emergency. He got up and moved briskly to the front door, disengaging both locks. He opened the door to find nobody waiting on the other side.

“What the…I could’ve sworn I heard someone knocking.”

He closed the door, locked it tight, an heard it again. A soft knocking sound against some wooden surface. It wasn’t the front door. He was certain of that. So he went to the backdoor. Nothing.

Hollow knocking sounds echoed through the house. Was it coming from inside or outside? He couldn’t tell for certain.

The din ceased for a period and he returned to his recliner, to the comfort of the fireplace, bewildered.

Knock, knock.

“What the hell is going on?” Mark asked aloud.

Was he losing his mind? Was it all in his head? Was this someone’s idea of a practical joke? Was he supposed to ask, “who’s there?” the next time they knocked?

He listened closely for the next thump.

It sounded like it was coming from the front door again.

He returned to the door but refused to open it this time.

“Hello?” he called out. “Is somebody there?”

“Let me in,” a voice hissed.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t let strangers in. Especially at this time of night. Are you in trouble? Have you been in an accident? I can call the police or an ambulance for you if you need them.”

“No trouble,” the voice said. “Just open the door and let’s talk.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you, Mark. Let me in.”

“Leave. Now.” It wasn’t a request.

“Let me in,” the voice cooed.

“Go away!” Mark shouted.

“Have it your way,” the man said with a deep sigh.

He heard footsteps retreating and assumed that was the end of it.

Mark returned to the warmth of the fireplace but could not rest.

He heard tapping again, this time against glass. The man was at one of the windows. He just had no idea which one.

“Let me in,” the voice hissed. He tried not to listen.

He walked from window to window, searching for the culprit. He came to the final living room window and two eyes, black as charcoal, stared back at him. The man grinned, baring his fanged teeth. His face was ageless. No lines or creases. Jet-black hair. A piercing, mesmerizing stare.

Mark didn’t have time to react to the horror of the fangs. Those dark eyes were hypnotic. Too powerful to resist.

“Let me in,” it said, rapping at the window.

In a dream-like daze, he floated to the front door and opened up.

The man met him at the front door, seizing him by the nape of his neck, and sinking his fangs into Mark’s jugular. Still under the vampire’s spell, he could feel every second of it, but he couldn’t react.

The vampire drank and drank and took from him until there was nothing left to take.

DEVIL'S NIGHT

 

 

DEVIL’S NIGHT

By Randy Romero

 

 

Five haunting words echoed through the phone and chilled Michelle Albright to her core.

“You’re going to die tonight.”

The caller’s voice was garbled and distorted, but she could still make out the words. And what scared her the most was their tone. There was no urgency in their voice. No hysteria. They were calm, cool, collected. And that’s what truly unnerved her.

Though they did seem in a bit of a rush to get off the phone once the message was delivered.

Michelle never even had a chance to respond. The phone rang twice, she answered, heard heavy breathing, followed by that ominous threat, and then the line went dead.

She didn’t try *69, as the number had come up blocked on her caller ID. Instead, she called the Suffolk County Sheriff's Office, but had little luck.

It was October 30, after all. All Hallows Eve, otherwise known as Mischief Night or Devil’s Night. And the police were receiving an influx of complaints about prank calls, spray painting, acts of petty vandalism and destruction of property. Tracing one particular phone call that was most likely a prank was seen as a waste of their time and resources.

She thanked them for their service and hung up the phone.

Her mind raced. She thought about if she had wronged anybody in the recent past. But Michelle had no enemies, no crazed stalkers or creepy admirers. She kept to herself and her family. She was happily married with a son and daughter, both in college. She managed a department store and all her employees adored and respected her. How many managers can honestly say that?

Her husband, Shane, worked in an office and his free time revolved around football, hockey, model trains, and most importantly, family.

Devout Catholics, the Albright’s attended Mass every Sunday, with or without their children present. And Shane was always the most generous when it came time to donate to the collection plate.

Why would anyone want to hurt me? Michelle wondered. Not just hurt me but KILL me.

As soon as she finished speaking with the police, she called Shane. His cell went straight to voicemail. She tried two or three more times and got the same result.

Then she bravely did a full sweep of the house; she checked every closet, made sure every door and window were locked. The door leading to the basement didn’t have a lock on the outside and could not be locked by key. But there were windows in the basement that a person could easily smash and crawl inside if they so desired. So Michelle grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and wedged it firmly under the knob.

If she heard the glass shatter, she could be out the front door in five seconds before an intruder even had time to realize the basement door was jammed.

She remembered the Snub .38 that Shane kept loaded in a shoebox under the bed. She was cursing herself for never learning how to use it. Shane had offered multiple times to take her down to the shooting range, but Michelle just couldn’t bring herself to try it. Guns terrified her. Just the thought of holding a loaded gun in her hand was enough to make her entire body quiver.

After she conducted her search of the house, Michelle sat in the living room for hours, her back against the wall as she watched television at low volume. Every light in the house was on. The place was lit up like Yankee Stadium. She had taken a butcher knife from the knife block on the countertop and was clutching onto handle like it was a new appendage.

Her mind was racing, her heart pulsing. Where the hell are you, Shane? I need you here.

Michelle knew of Shane’s after-work ritual. Every evening after he punched out at work, he’d swing by the BBQ Shack with his co-workers for a pulled pork sandwich. And if they twisted his arm enough, he’d follow them over to a local bar and knock back a few beers before returning home.

It was one of the few things Shane Albright did that irritated his wife, but she was always willing to look past his minor imperfections. And at that moment, all she wanted was for Shane to be at her side, to assure her everything was going to be all right.

The front door of the house sometimes sticks when you try to open it from the outside. You have to give it a hard push every once in a while to pry it open. When she heard that hard push, followed by the door bouncing off the inside wall and swinging back, she screamed loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

“Jesus,” Shane exclaimed, wiping rain off the shoulders of his jacket as he stepped inside. He walked over to the living room where Michelle was cowering in the corner. “You scared the hell out of me. What’d you see a spider crawl under the couch or something?”

“Shane!” She exclaimed.

“That’s my name, Michelle my belle,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Are you okay, babe? You look really pale. And are you holding a knife behind your back?”

“Why was your cell phone off? I tried calling you so many times.”

“My battery died on the ride home from work. Sorry I took so long. I didn’t want to, but Louis insisted on stopping for a beer. Now what the heck is going on here?”

“I got this weird phone call a few hours ago. Someone threatened me.”

“What’d they say?”

“I don’t even want to repeat it,” she sighed. “I’m just so happy you’re home.”

“Oh come on,” Shane shrugged again. “How bad could it be?”

“They said, ‘you’re going to die tonight’. Then the line went dead.”

“It’s probably just some punk teenager trying to scare you. It is the night before Halloween, after all. Devil’s Night. People love to play pranks around this time of year. Someone did that to my aunt once. Scared the daylights out of her. You’ve got nothing to worry about now. You’re safe with me. So put that knife away before you hurt me accidently.” He chuckled as she lowered the knife and placed it on the glass coffee table. Then she wrapped her arms around him like it was the first time she had seen him in years.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” Michelle reiterated.

“Me too,” Shane said as she released her grip around his waist, and he removed his wet jacket. “I hope you didn’t make too much for dinner,” he said as he stepped out into the hallway and headed for the staircase. “I’m all filled up on barbequed pulled pork.”

When Shane removed his jacket, he had tossed it aside on the floor; an unbreakable habit that irked Michelle every time he did it.

As Michelle unwrinkled and neatly folded Shane’s jacket, his phone slid out from the pocket. But it wasn’t Shane’s iPhone that landed on the beige rug. It was a cheap flip-cover phone; a brand she didn’t even recognize. A burner phone. One of those drug dealer phones you’d buy at a pharmacy or a convenience store.

She should’ve stopped right there, turned around, and ran straight for the front door. But Michelle had to know for sure.

She dug her hand into the pocket that the phone had fallen from, and her fingers brushed a thin slab of rectangular-shaped plastic. She drew her hand from the pocket and held the phone card up to the light of the ceiling fixture. The card had been recently activated, as the spot where you obtain the code to activate the card had been scratched away with a coin.

“Tell me if this sounds familiar,” Shane crowed from the hallway. Michelle turned and froze at the sight of the Snub .38 in his hand. “You’re going to die tonight.”

While the rest of her body remained frozen, her lip was quivering involuntarily and her hands were tremoring at her sides.

Shane lowered the gun almost instantly, when he saw all the color drain from face. It looked as if she was about to keel over.

“Oh, honey,” Shane said, lowering the gun gently to the floor. “It was just a joke. I’m so sorry. I guess I went a little overboard.”

“You sick bastard!” she screamed, running over to bat his chest with her tiny fists. “You scared me half to death! Why on Earth would you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. You have every right to be mad. Don’t worry. It’s not even loaded. I promise. I would never point a loaded gun at you. I just wanted to, you know, give you a little scare.”

“The phone call was more than enough.”

“Honey, I didn’t make that call,” Shane insisted. “I swear. I just saw how jumpy you were and I thought I’d have a little fun at your expense. Did you really think I was going to shoot you?”

“I found the phone card, Shane,” Michelle said, pointing towards the jacket he carelessly discarded on the rug. “And I found the phone. You’re not fooling me.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry, Michelle. I never meant for you to find that. I honestly didn’t make that call. The phone…I use it to call my supervisor.”

“Why can’t you just call him on your regular…” Michelle trailed off when she remembered meeting Shane’s supervisor once at a company Christmas party. His supervisor was a woman, not a man. And that’s when it dawned on her what Shane was trying to convey.

Before Michelle could blow a gasket and go off on a profanity-laced tirade that Shane certainly had coming to him, a noise grabbed her attention. It was faint and unclear, but it almost sounded like glass crunching underfoot.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Shane responded. Then he added, “Oh, I moved that chair away from the basement door. I guess you did that when you got that phone call. Well, there’s nothing to worry about now.”

“Shane,” Michelle gasped, her body suddenly quaking again. Her throat was dry and she was on the edge of shock, but she ultimately managed to utter the words, “Behind you.”

The stranger towered over her husband. Long dark hair obscured most of his face as he looked down, which was actually a good thing to Michelle, because his face was a roadmap of scars. Shane was speechless, couldn’t utter a word. And neither could Michelle.

The stranger looked down at Shane. Didn't speak. Didn't take a breath or make a sound.

“It’s about time you got here,” Shane finally said. “You were supposed to be here before I got home. What the hell am I paying you for?”

He wrapped his enormous hands around Shane’s throat and squeezed.

“What are you doing?” he coughed out the words. “We had a deal.”

“You’re going to die tonight,” the stranger whispered.

The stranger squeezed hard enough to crush his windpipe. Shane’s body crumbled to the floor beneath Michelle’s feet.

“Your husband paid me to break in here and kill you,” he spoke. “He just made the mistake of paying me everything upfront. He wanted it to look like a robbery gone wrong. The way I see it, he got what he deserved. I propose I keep the money and you forget that you ever saw me.”

He brushed his dark hair back to reveal his scarred face as if to intimidate her and force her into agreeing. His face told the story of a man who’d already been to hell and back. A man who didn’t fear life in prison. A man who didn’t fear anyone or anything.

“He got what he deserved,” Michelle agreed. “Keep his money and go. I never saw you. I wasn’t even here. I was out at the time. I came home and found him like this.”

“Good story,” the stranger nodded. “Stick to it.” Then he disappeared into the night.