Tara leans against the front door then slides down to the floor. She looks around and begins sobbing. “God, please not tonight. Let me be. I don’t think I can take anymore more of this.” Tara gathers herself then walks cautiously towards the kitchen. She sees a black grayish mist by the dining table. Nothing new to her. She’s seen it before. She fears something else. Something in the form of a human. She walks in front of the mist and places her hand through it. She feels needles penetrating her palm. She quickly pulls back her hand. “Leave me alone! You’re not wanted here!” Tara sees a black shadow in the corner of the kitchen and dining area. It looks the same as always, however, he wants something. Something she will never give. She looks right down the hallway, leading to her bedroom. A white apparition is at the end. Tara stops and stares at the apparition. She tells it, “Be gone!” The apparition is still there. “Be gone, I say.” The apparition vanishes. Tara chuckles; she’s proud of what mother had taught her. “That’s right,” Tara says to herself. “Don’t mess with me, assholes. You know who I am.” She gathers her composure and confidence then makes her way towards the kitchen. Tara reaches the kitchen and takes a towel. She begins drying off her hair and face. She opens the cupboard and grabs her favorite Ham burglar glass. She turns on the sink water and fills the glass. Her hand’s still shaking from the night’s trauma. Outside the kitchen window, she hears a voice, “Tara, come to us.” She drops the glass in the sink. Thunder then lightning strike outside, lighting the kitchen and dining area. From the right corner of her eye, behind the sliding glass door, the white, misty apparition appears. Tara looks at it and smiles. “Go away, spirit. You’re not welcome here.” The apparition vanishes. Tara gathers herself and takes another glass out of the cupboard. This time it’s a Shamrock shake. She turns the sink on, fills the glass, and takes a drink. Tara is pushed from behind, so hard, the glass is thrown from her hand, cracking the window. She turns around quickly and sees a black figure about three feet tall in front of her.
“What do you want?” Tara asks.
“To know what it’s like being human.” Says the black hooded figure. Your soul. Thousands of years of pain, despair and torture, Tara. You’re the one that summoned us."
Tara quickly grabs a knife, then turns around. She screams “No I didn’t.” The apparition sits at her dining area table. Taunting, laughing, starring at her. Telling her about her mother. Telling stories about her father. Why he abandoned her. She holds up the knife, shaking and crying. Thunder and lightning strike as the figure turns and crawls across the walls of the dining area, then down the hallway. “I said you’re not wanted here, unclean spirit. Leave now!” The black ghost laughs at her. Tara begins to panic She is thrown the ground, knife falls to the ground, sliding under the refrigerator. The spirit laughs and cackles are heard from her mother’s bedroom area. She hears a door in her mother’s bedroom. It’s the master closet. There the demon is safe from the light. There, the demon waits, hides and observes.
Tara walks back to the kitchen area and sits at the island. Her back is so tense that her muscles feel as they are being torn apart. She feels suffocated and dizzy. Every breath is labored. She knows the evil presence that was summoned before will not leave.
When she was young, he and she used to be nice. Play games together. Games like checkers and chess. Tara would sit in front of the board, as her imaginary host when makes its move. Now they hate her. Want to destroy her. She knows now she shouldn’t have played the Angel Ouija. She knows she shouldn’t have had pre-marital sex, or dangerous narcotics. She knows she shouldn’t have called Sid Vicious in a séance. She knows she shouldn’t have cursed God. It all seems so suddenly clear now.
Tara picks up the cordless phone and calls her mother. Tara’s mother is a night nurse at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach. As she dials, the phone rings four times; it goes to voicemail. Tara’s mother’s voice over the phone is so loud, she holds it away. “Hi, it’s my cellphone. And if it’s you, Larry, don’t call me again. If it’s you, Tara, honey, your dinner is in the oven. It’s a Hungry-Man. Mac and cheese. Your favorite. I’ll be home around 8:00 am.” Tara rubs her hands over her face then slams her fist on the counter.
“Mom, it’s me. Please call back. I need you now.” Tara’s voice is raspy and nervous. Tara feels hopeless. She dials the police department and gets a recorded message. She remembers the drugs she took and knows it’s a bad idea getting them involved. A hand grabs Tara’s shoulder. It’s a burning painful grab that makes the left side of her body numb down to her foot. Tara turns around and screams.
“I said leave me alone!” Tara is frantic. Her mind’s swimming in all directions. She grabs another knife from the culinary block. She thinks of taking her own life. Then she remembers what the pastor said at the Crossroads. She places down the knife and begins sobbing.
“Why, why is this happening?” she says to herself. “What touched me at Cindy’s when I was sleeping? Why, why?” Why can’t I ever sleep? Why do I hear voices in my head all the time? Why did my boyfriend rape me? Why did he always encourage me to have group sex?" Tara hears a man laughing down the hallway. “Go away, you son of a bitch!”
Thunder strikes then things go suddenly quiet. Wind chimes ring outside, and the sound of the rain stops. She still sees the rain but cannot hear it. There are no more sounds, no more voice. All she hears are the chimes. The chimes are soothing to her. Her mother used to rock her to sleep with those wonderful chimes, singing her into restful sleep. Suddenly the chimes sound if they are thrown to the patio area. It makes a sheet metal sound, blasting through the air, right through her eardrums. A voice speaks from outside the sliding glass door, “Tara, we’re waiting for you.”
Tara stands up from the barstool, then loses her legs. She runs to the living room. There, a couch sits in front of a bay window. She regains her hearing. The rain sounds if pebbles are hitting her driveway. She looks out the bay window seeing trees swaying with the wind. The wind picks up now, shaking the window behind her. She thinks she hears voices in the wind, telling her to kill herself.
She thinks of a book she once read. It was about the KGB and Satanic rituals, mind control and human sacrifice. She remembers what a pastor once told her. “Demons are al, and smarter than you. They use the Bible and your knowledge against you. Love, family, and humanity means nothing to them. They pray on Distinctive Tendencies, and man’s desire to sin. Do not listen to them. The only way to rebuke them is through the Blood of Christ, prayer, and knowledge of the Bible. Don’t listen, Tara, don’t listen.”
As the wind picks up, she hears voices again. “Tara, we’re waiting for you. Tara, come to us.”
"She walks to the living room fireplace and looks at a portrait of her and her mother. She sees a dark shadow crawl over the portrait. It hits the base of the fireplace, then shatters.
Tara falls to her knees and screams. She holds her knees and rocks back and forth, looking in all directions. Her lips are moving violently and throat throbbing with pain. Her spinal cord begins to tighten as she screams in pain and begs God for forgiveness.
She looks to the right at the dining room area. Again, the cloaked demon appears and laughs at her. The cloaked demon asks her, “Where is your God now, Tara? Tara?” says the cloaked devil. “Tara, we won’t leave you ever.”
“Stop it, leave me alone!”
“Tara, come to me. Take my hand. Join us in eternal bliss.”
“Stop it!” Screams Tara.
“We’re waiting for you, Tara. We love you. We’ve wanted you since your birth.”
“Stop it!!!” Tara screams bloody murder with her hands over her ears. As she screams, a large tree branch crashes through the living room window. Tara gets up from the couch then sprints to the sliding glass door in the kitchen area. She looks over her shoulder and sees the small, dark, cloaked demon behind her. The face of the demon that is her mother.
Tara screams as she exits out the sliding glass door. The sounds of thunder muffle her s
creams. Nothing remains, no sound is heard. Not a dog barks in the distance; except the long white drapes moving with the wind and the sound of chaotic rainfall.
The sun is out, rain has subsided. Sunlight shines through the trees. A few chairs from the patio are turned over from the wind the night before. Most of the trees have lost their leaves, flower petals are absent.
A paper boy holding the Orange County Register throws it at the front doorstep.
The interior of Tara’s home is empty and lifeless. A dim grayish light overlooks the sea blue carpet and Navaho white wall. A grandfather clock in the living room clicks away hopelessly. The time shows 8:00 am. The clock chimes four times then suddenly stops. No hand movement exists. The telephone rings at an alarming level. Tara’s bed is empty, all her girlish items remain untouched. There are stuffed animals on the bed. One of a unicorn, a dragon, and a monkey holding a banana. Tara’s mother’s voice is now playing on the answer machine.
“Tara, are you there, honey? Pick up. Pick up, pick up. Well, guess you’re not home.” Tara’s mother sighs over the machine. “Anyways, I’m on way to Larry’s. I probably won’t be home most of the day. You know how it is. I’ll bring home some frozen dinners for you later before work. Call me, I’m worried about you. Love you, honey, bye.”
The sliding glass door is still open. The white drapes hang without movement. There sits a wooden rocking chair on the patio. The rocking chair moves by itself to the sounds of birds chirping. The chair suddenly stops.
A wild coyote is in Tara’s back yard. The predator sits, slurping a young Tara’s foot drenched with blood.
Tara hangs from a very old large tree in the back yard. Tara’s wrists and ankles are slashed, the knife from the kitchen lay at the bottom by the trunk.
The coyote looks up at Tara, then takes a bite out of her ankle. A large fly lands on Tara’s face for a moment, then crawls over her white dead eyes.
The automatic sprinklers turn on and sprinkle Tara. The coyote takes another bite of her foot and tears it from the limb.
The coyote observes its prey, hears a dog bark next door then quickly runs away.
Tara’s body lay hanging. It sways back and forth, dripping in blood and water.
The county coroner places Tara’s body in a body bag. They zip up the bag and wheel Tara out through the front door. Tara’s mother falls to her knees and begins screaming and cursing the sky above. She also curses the neighborhood and everyone within. A police-woman kneels down, hugs, and tries to console her.
Tara is placed in an ambulance. Neighbors in their robes and sleeping attire watch and gossip. They look at Tara’s mother, placing judgement.
The policewoman places a blanket over Tara’s mother and helps her step into the ambulance. The door closes, engine revs, lights flash. Tara’s is gone forever.
The neighbors continue gossiping. “Too many problems, what a shame, it’s tragic, her mother should be home more. She was always with the wrong crowd. I think she was a drug addict.”
Ms. Collen Martin, an old friend of Tara’s mother, looks on. She screams at everyone. “Who are you people? What a community we have! Tara was a child, for God’s sake. Who are you to judge? You all go to church, then sit home after. Snorting your coke, drinking and watching pornography. Having group sex. The worst part is, you all spy and gossip about everyone and everything. Look at yourselves. Yeah, look at me, I’m part of the neighborhood watch. It’s your fault that little girl is she dead. You’re all a bunch of pathetic assholes! I hope you rot in hell. All of you!”
Ms. Martin spits towards the crowd, tightens her robe, and walks away. She turns around and says, “Self-righteous assholes! All we do is sit at home and stare at each other. This community is sick, I hope it burns down. And it will. You will see it all burn. And I swear to god, I will dance around the carnage and sulfur with great joy. Fuck you, Fuck you all!”
Chapter Nine
Detective Santos is 42 years of age. He was born in Costa Mesa, California. He has a wife and six children. He went to Costa Mesa High School, played football at Irvine City College, then joined the Air Force.
After America liberated Kuwait from Iraq in three days, Detective Santos became bored. Mainly bored with the theory that America has won the war against terror. This is reason why he joined Police Intelligence.
He and his family moved south of Costa Mesa to Blackhawk. There, he joined the police department and immediately was recruited as detective. Mainly because of his intelligence and extraction methods learned in the war. Detective Santos is a good father, police detective, and a soccer coach. He’s coached the kids in the Blackhawk community for over five years. His team won the county championship three times.
His detainment methods have been studied by police forces all over California. His theory is simple: “I use my brain and my hands, not my guns.” Detective Santos is of American Indian and Mexican descent. His wife was born in Dusseldorf and is a cardiologist. He is 6’2", 220 pounds, and in excellent physical condition. He also works on a suicide prevention unit that speaks at grade and high school levels. His unit is aware that religious cults are prevalent across Orange County. The kind of cults he and his crew are planning to annihilate. Cults that sell computer hacking software, make black market porn; by human extraction. cheat people out of their businesses, homes, millions of dollars, and yes, sometimes even kill.
Detective Santos parks his car in front of Cindy’s home. As he shuts his engine, he wonders why Scotty Myers moved to Blackhawk. He’s heard a few disconcerting things about Scotty. He also heard that he likes looking at the girls as they walk to and from school. Scotty has sexual desires for Cindy. Scotty is a well-known male prostitute and floats down both sides of the river, He is known to conduct business at car washes throughout Orange County, and San Gabriel Valley. Scotty prays on older women who are widowed and lonely. His code is simple, and well known. “You look like a movie star.” Say the old women.
Detective Santos will make sure Scotty will stay away from Blackhawk. Seeing the recent breakouts on his body and his lust for anal sex, he knows it’s imperative. Best for the community, and Cindy.
Detective Santos turns off the engine. He’s been through this scenario many times before overseas. Only a few times in Blackhawk. Recently though, FBI reports show suspicion, and abnormal computer behavior throughout Orange County. Mainly from private detective agencies and organized crime.
He adjusts the rearview mirror and looks at his teeth. He had prime rib for lunch. Every Monday with his two partners, they have prime rib at the Rusty Pelican. He likes the food and the owner cooks on Tuesdays. It’s not crowded on Tuesdays and there is no crappy, hippie guitar player singing ‘Sugar Mountain by Neil Young.’ He likes Neil Young. He does not like postgraduate intellectual losers, that still live with their mother.
He finishes picking his teeth in his car. Picking his teeth never works for him in public. “It’s mad matters.” His father used to say." His car is his refuge. A place where he can relax, concentrate, and think about things like perpetrators, victims, thieves, liars, hypocrites. The crime, result, the outcome. For Detective Santos, being a detective is easy. He likes his car. It’s a 1993 Pontiac with NASCAR engine. The crime, the result, the outcome he thinks. In fact, about eighty-three percent of his cases are finalized in his car. He finishes picking his teeth, then speaks to himself.
“Well, here we go again.” This work’s fuckin aging me. Retire says the wife, retire. We already have six fuckin kids." He looks in the mirror one last time. “Retire she says, retire,” in a condescending tone. “How can I retire when the battle against terrorism is now on our home front?”
There are meetings in garages, collecting money for terror groups. Watch committees hell-bent on racial divisions. These are grass-root recipes for disaster."
The Detective knows this; his team knows this. They witnessed it overseas.
Detective Santos gets out of his car, adjusts his belt, and looks around. N
o need to worry, he thinks. “Hmmm, Grandma mowing the lawn. Her husband sits and watches, drinking a beer, yelling at her. Jogger lady walking dog. Well, looks like I’m ok.” Detective Santos sighs and looks ahead at the end of the cul-de-sac. A curtain window moves for a few seconds, then closes. Detective Santos adjusted his eyesight then grins. The curtain opens again. This time it stays open for about five seconds. He opens the doors quickly with his left hand and the curtain quickly closes. “I still got it,” says Detective Santos.
He exits his car and walks with confidence towards Cindy’s front door. He sprays Binaca Blast in his mouth, then rings the doorbell. He knocks a few times, then a dog barks in the distance.
A dark spirit runs through his body. That old feeling. The feeling of something or someone starring at you from behind a curtain. They think you cannot see them. But do. The same old feeling at Grandma’s house in Old Santa Ana. He looks over his shoulder and shakes it off the entity. Chills run over his arms. His back muscles tighten. He thinks of reading ’Where the Sidewalk Ends as a child, and suddenly being pushed from an apricot tree knowing no one was there. He never said a word, fearing his farther would beat him for lying. Just keep it all in he thinks. Show no weakness. Remember your faith, remember your prayers.
The First Culling Page 10