The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  “Hello, Everyone!” Heather said. She smiled, but felt that first dinners did not require hugs and stuck her hand out instead. Jean took it and pulled Heather inside.

  “Come in, come in!” Jean squeaked. Behind Jean, in the kitchen, stood the tall pear shaped Tommy holding the hand of a small girl. Their ominous smiles were as haunting as the second to last scene of a twisted horror film, as if they were waiting on her not to have dinner, but to be dinner.

  “Sarah, say hi to Ms. Luzader.” Tommy gently prodded the girl. Heather waved and Sarah shoved her face into her father’s leg.

  “Kids.” He said. “She has to warm up to you, first. She does this with everyone. We're so thankful to have you as a guest, Heather.”

  “It's great to be invited.” Heather said.

  “You ready to eat some home cooking?”

  “I made Sheppard's pie. It's a bit of a general dish, but I wasn't sure what you liked.” Jean remarked.

  “Oh, that's fine, Jean. I'm sure it'll be great.” Heather said.

  From experience, Heather immediately absorbed her surroundings as she walked to the kitchen, checking for exit points and monitoring the demeanor of the occupants. A large poster of Jesus with a crown of thorns, trickles of blood sliding along the sides of his sunlit face as he beseechingly looked skyward, hung above the mantel and jarred Heather's attention. “Wow. Unique.”

  “Huh?” Tommy turned to Heather, then the poster. “Oh! Well, it shouldn't be. The Lord asks us to serve, and we take great honor in doing so.”

  Heather nodded without agreement or dissension. Religion was not a topic she cared to discuss – nor could she. Kathy was an atheist and Heath was an alcoholic, both of which were sure to get her tossed. Suddenly, those welcoming smiles reminded her of – of recruitment.

  “And you?” Tommy asked.

  “And me, what?”

  “Do you follow the teachings of Christ?”

  If an eyelash had fallen, it would have created more noise than the awkward silence in the living room.

  She wasn't immediately escorted out of the house, as she first thought, though jaws did drop and Jean seemed to sway in disbelief when Heather said that she was an atheist. Tommy smiled, invited her to the table and did not force his religion on her, which she appreciated. He did, however, refer every instance of life to a teaching in the Bible as they talked over dinner. But it was not aimed at her because, after she found out he was indeed a minister – a Baptist minister, a point Tommy felt the need to emphasized – she figured that the Bible was all he knew and the only thing he could relate to.

  Jean plated nice sized helpings of shepherd's Pie on everyone's plate and nearly doubled the portion for Heather, adding that the additional food would help thicken her coat for winter. Georgia winters could be considered Spring in many parts of the world and the comment could have only been made from a Yankee.

  Once they finished dinner, Tommy kissed Sarah on the cheek and Heather gave the girl a hug before Jean escorted her to bed. When she returned, she removed an apple pie from the oven and a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer. Everyone helped themselves, though Heather couldn't understand how they could consume more food. When she asked, Tommy gave her a mildly serious glare and said. “This here ain't no food. This is dessert. A different thing entirely, so it doesn't count.” Then he smiled. His waist and his cardiologist may have different opinions about that, Heather thought, but only returned the stare with a smile of her own.

  “So you like it over there?” Jean said, scooping up a dollop of ice cream.

  “This is my first day back in a while,”

  “In a while?” Tommy gasped with a mouthful of pie.

  “Yes. I grew up in that house. Mom lives – lived there and I was just cleaning it up today. I may stay in town for a while.”

  “Grew up there? No wonder I didn't see a for sale sign in the yard.” Tommy said.

  “I thought it was a foreclosure.” Jean said.

  “So you're finally ready to settle down after being on the road?”

  “Excuse me?” Heather asked.

  “From your work? Traveling sales?”

  “Oh!” Heather said, forgetting her lie from earlier. “Yes. It can be grueling; having to drive 300 to 400 miles to meet appointments, make the pitch, then having to drive another 300 miles to do the same thing in another city.”

  “It sounds grueling. But we all return home sooner than later.” Tommy said.

  “Did you know your neighbors – when you lived there?” Jean asked.

  “Jean!” Tommy blurted. “Not now, please.”

  “It's just question, honey.” Jean returned. Tommy huffed and rolled his eyes as if her intention was unfounded.

  “That's okay, Tommy.” Heather said. “Which side?” She asked Jean.

  “Either.”

  “Well, the Hamilton's used to live to the right of our house. But I saw an older gentleman out front today, so I guessed the Hamilton's moved.”

  “Yeah. That's where Bill Strickland lives now. What about the other side?”

  “Growing up, one of my best friends lived there. They were the Lassiter's. Paulette and Frank Lassiter, and my friend was Sabrina. I remember coming to check on mom about two years before I took her to Autumn Gardens and there was a new family there. Russians, I think.” Heather thought silently for a moment. “No! Not Russian. Swedish. Madeline and Bjorn Kerlson or Kerlisson. Something like that.”

  Jean's eyes bulged. “So you know them, too?”

  “'Know' is a strong word. I met them once or twice. I was looking forward to talking to Bjorn because Madeline said he worked with computers.”

  “Do you know who's there now?”

  “Jean! Enough already. Don't badger our guest.”

  “Did they move?” Heather asked.

  Jean shrugged. “I used to talk to Madeline all the time. She went to our church and we cooked together during the ladies retreat. If they had moved, she would have told me. I know that she mentioned going to visit Bjorn's family in Sweden, but she told me that she wouldn't leave me on the hook with any of our church obligations and would let me know if and when they decided to leave.”

  “And?” Heather asked.

  “And, I haven't heard from her in more than a week – eight days now. But the strange thing is, I occasionally see lights flicker on and off in the house. Not really lights, because no light stays on for more than a second or two. I should call the police and have them –,”

  “You will do no such thing, Jeanette! You leave those people alone.” Tommy said.

  “Clearly, if Madeline and Bjorn are not there, someone is, Thomas! I want to know who's in our community so that our child is safe.”

  “So what are you saying, Jean?” Heather asked again, more curious than before.

  “I'm saying –,”

  Tommy interrupted with a great exhalation and no shortage of condescension. “What she believes is that some man is living there and that he means to rape every women in the community and rob every house. Isn't that right, honey?”

  Jean said nothing. She looked down at her desert and began eating it more vigorously. “That's not what I said at all.”

  “It's not true. If you want, I'll go over there tomorrow to prove it to you.”

  Jean and Tommy sat quietly for many seconds as awkwardness settled between them. Tommy finally broke the silence. “Excuse me, ladies. I need to go to the big boy’s room.” He slid his chair out and rubbed Jean on the shoulder as he walked upstairs.

  When the bathroom door closed, Jean turned to Heather. “Someone is there. He doesn't have to believe me, but someone is in that house.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Jean looked to the stairs, making sure Tommy wasn't listening in on their conversation. She turned back to Heather and released a sigh that contained many days of frustration.

  “Tommy and I had an argument two nights ago that we left unsettled. That's not normal for us.”
She laid her hand on the table in front of Heather. “I don't want you to think there's any domestic abuse going on here. He went to bed and I stayed up crying. After I cried all the tears my eyes would muster, I tossed down two aspirin with a SmartWater and went upstairs. But soon I realized that the time was near midnight and that if someone were really living in that house while Madeline and Bjorn were away, and they never came out nor turned on any lights, maybe they'd come out at night. I went onto the porch and sat in the rocking chair for about forty-five minutes. Suddenly, out of the darkness, I see two people walking down the street. I couldn't get a good look at their faces because of the distance and, wouldn't you know it, the street lamp that was right over their heads cuts out when they walk under it. But they continue and turn into the Kerlinsson's driveway and walk behind the house!”

  “Behind the house?” Heather reflectively tilted her head. “Couldn't they have just been cutting across the yard?”

  “Well,” Jean turned to the stairs again, then back to Heather with the look of conspiracy in her eyes. “That's what I thought at first. Against my better judgment, I walked over to see if they had indeed cut across the yard. There's a long steep hill behind the Kerlinsson's house that leads to another neighborhood. If they'd climbed that hill, they would have still been climbing the hill when I got over there. But when I arrived, they were gone. As I began to leave, I decided that since I was already there, I'd just knock on the door. If Bjorn or Madeline answered, I'd make up a little white lie about needing to use their phone or something. So, I'm walking toward the porch.” The upstairs toilet flush took Jean's attention from the story. She still looked in Heather's direction, but her line of sight peered past her, as if someone behind Heather was giving Jean a conspiratorial nod signifying to hurry the story along because Caesar was coming. “I hadn't even gotten my foot planted on the first step when I noticed the living room curtains were open and there was this white apparition in the window. I figured at first it was my reflection. Then, I looked harder at it, you know, getting my face right up to it. The reflection didn't move as I approached and suddenly, I realized it was the face of some bearded man staring back at me!” The water splashed in the sink upstairs. “His eyes were coal black and he looked like Satan himself! It about scared me to death! I fell in the yard while running home. The next day, as I was walking Petey, I intentionally passed the house and saw that the curtains in the living room were drawn. Whoever is in there must have had a security camera watching me as I walked up because I didn't make a sound when I got there and he had the curtain pulled back as if he knew I were coming!” Jean lowered her head and whispered. “I don't want Tommy getting involved with whatever's going on over there. That's why I don't –,”

  Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs, visible only to Heather. She looked up and smiled at Tommy.

  “So that's when we decided that we would enroll Sarah in a Christian private school.” Jean said in her normal tone, without so much as a flinch.

  “Whatever happened to your tales of the fantastic?” Tommy plodded down the stairs, his girth jostled underneath clothes.

  “I took your advice, hon.” Jean falsely conceded. “Heather said it was probably just someone taking care of their house while the Kerlinsson's are away.”

  Tommy bowed to Heather. “Thank you! Finally.”

  After the deserts were gone, sleep soon followed. Tommy yawned. His wide mouth and stretched arms reminded Heather of a casually dressed, Polar bear, and Jean's stories seemed to trudge on with no foreseeable point. Jean cleaned the table and loaded the dishes in the sink – which drew a scornful gaze from Tommy. Jean dismissed it with the phrase. “In the morning, hon.”

  They escorted Heather to the door. Hugs seemed natural now and were given generously. She knew that they were not deviants, or of any threat to her – and now felt guilty about bringing the Glock along, which Tommy had almost grabbed when he reached his long arms around her torso – but one could never be too prepared. As Heather walked off the porch and into the night, the Kerlinsson house, now just a dark silhouette in a drape of night behind three darkened street lamps off to her right, stopped her in her tracks and she turned back. Behind her, still standing at the door, the Grimes' were watching to make sure she got home safely.

  “Jean.” Heather said.

  “Yes?”

  “Since, Tommy doesn't want Sarah in public school, you shouldn't go looking into that option, alright? Just listen to him. Private school is better.” After watching docile Jean cook and clean all night, pampering his fat ass, the phrase nearly forced vomit from her. Heather fought the urge and wouldn't break eye contact with Jean, wouldn’t even blink, until she got an answer. Jean's eyebrows furrowed, lips parted as if she were about ask the meaning of the question. Then, her face straightened and her dourness subsided, though her eyes wanted to know why.

  “Ok. You're right, Heather.” Jean said and embraced herself. Heather could see in the woman's eyes that she understood and she smiled at Jean and Tommy.

  “You had doubts?” Tommy asked Jean.

  She shrugged. “Small ones. Heather cleared it up for me.”

  “Wow, Heather!” Tommy said. “We should have you over more often!”

  After Heather returned home, undressed and readied her herself for bed, sleep came with an unusual rush, quicker than she'd expected. But quick rest, and the haste to achieve that state, meant vulnerable, ill prepared sleep. Her dreams involved fire fights with Somalian rebels from the blown out window of a grocery store front. Though the dream was more actual history than fiction, her subconscious manufactured endless waves of poorly trained rebels whose bodies – once shot – piled atop the recently killed in towering, apocalyptic mounds. Ammunition was fantastically short and in her ammo pouch there always seems to be no more than a handful of 5.56x45mm NATO rounds, yet the few bullets she had were continuously effective. Though rebels seemed to materialize rather than emerge from alleyways and from behind cars, her attention was not on holding this tiny front against the onslaught – waiting for her eternal reinforcements which would never arrive – instead, between shellings and return fire, she focused on the front door's security capacity – jiggling the door knob to make sure it was locked. Returning to the window, she manually chambered rounds, released a three round burst and several men exaggeratedly tossed themselves into agony as if all were poor actors, and again she jiggled the knob. It was locked and that proved to be a small piece of comfort, but there was a childlike security in grasping the knob. Then, the door took on the appearance of the Kathy's front door and the Somalian rebels receded into the urban devastation, dead bodies swept into a spiraling vortex that made no sense and continued to spin in midair even after the fire fight was over.

  Her eyes were open and a mist of sweat coated her brow as she watched the ceiling fan spin glinting orange street light with every turn. With as many precautions as she took, leaving the front door unlocked was an elementary misstep. Awareness was instant and she wasted no time leaving the sheets, snatching the gun from Kathy's night table and, in panties and tank top, moved stealthily through the night filled house. Nothing moved, no one rustled silverware in the kitchen and the house was too old to creak, but she could never be too sure and held her weapon with acute readiness.

  Strangely, as she approached the front room, the living room seemed brighter than it had been when she came in from the Grimes's. There was no reason to continue wielding the Glock and Heather lowered it to her side as she reached the front door. She could see that it was unlocked before she touched it, then locked it, checked it and checked to make sure the door was secure. Then she leaned against the couch and opened the blinds. To her left, the three street lights that were off when she left Jean and Tommy's house were now on and did not flicker in the slightest. She knew that these lights were solar powered and often turned themselves off if a passing car's headlights were bright, or a well-protected home kept many of its flood lights on. Sometimes the radiant
noise from too many Christmas lights in a neighborhood during the holidays would shut off all the street lights. Never had she ever seen three lamps, placed in front of a vacant, unlit home turn off for no reason.

  She stepped away from the window and listened to the ambient noise of the house as she prepared her eyes for sleep, and she heard nothing.

  Heather walked to Kathy's room, which still didn't feel right since she was sleeping on the same mattress that her parents screwed in, and dropped herself on the side of the bed. The thought of Heath and Kathy doing anything in the bed besides sleeping drove chills and goose flesh up her arms. She rubbed her eye's, blinked once, and when her eyes opened, the room was dark.

  The window behind the headboard was her quickest access point to see exactly what was happening. When she pulled a small portion of the curtains back, those same three street lights were out and there was no oncoming light source, nor any excessive ambient light around them to cause the phenomenon. If those three go out, shouldn't they all go out? Heather reasoned to herself. She looked for movement and listened for the giggles of gallivanting teens, but saw nor heard anything.

  “This is stupid. I'm going back to sleep.” Heather said. She gently returned the curtains to their original position, laid down and tried to find that sweet spot of comfort that she'd lost. After a minute of working the sheets and pillow, she found it and the slumber rolled through her mind in waves.

  At four minutes after four am, an orange glow splashed over Heather's face. She was too far into a dream about Phil Kirby to realize that something in the room had changed.

  Outside, the three street lamps stood like placid guardians with light as their sole defense. At first, all three lamps ignited and didn't flicker to life as was normal. But within seconds, the two lights closest to Heather's home turned themselves off and left the furthest one glowing – then, its orange glow grew brighter until that bulb was brighter than any on the street. Because one well placed, extraordinarily bright light as opposed to three staggered lights was all that was needed.