For now, I'll have to settle for the Hoeksmas. I've been watching them for a few weeks. She's an ER nurse, he's a teacher. They have a pretty ranch in Rancho Sol. I know tonight she's not on call and they'll likely fuck. They're usually like ships passing in the night because of her schedule. So when she's off, they make sure to get it in. I'll wait until they're asleep and naked. She'll be tired from her three weeks of non-stop work, and he will be in a deep sleep from fucking.
I walk from my getaway—a car parked several streets away. It's past midnight and this residential area is quiet. Only a few lights still shine through the windows of the ranches and split-level homes with manicured front lawns. I blend in just fine with my dark wig and matching mustache. My passage is a series of canals that connect several neighborhoods. They are barren and dark and make getting from point A to B quicker. I use the canals to get from my car to a couple of streets down from the Hoeskma's house. For the next two blocks, I am a late night jogger in a black sweat suit.
I tuck my chin down as I proceed so if anyone does pass, they won't get a clear view of my face. These small adjustments are important. As long as no one ever gets a clear view of me, and I get away from the scene, they'll never be able to identify me. I am always changing, so any picture painted of who I am will be blurry.
The jog to the house is easy. I only pass one person, a man walking a dog who doesn't even bother to look at me. I turn towards the vacant house neighboring the Hoeksma residence, put on my gloves, and hop the wooden fence into their yard. Just as I predicted, all the lights are off, but their cars are in the driveway. They're sleeping in there, but it's still too early. I know the night. I flourish in the darkness. And for me, 3:15 is the quietest time of night. Far beyond most people's ability to stay up late, and too early for even the earliest riser. It's when you are secure in your sleep, in the safety of your warm covers, when you think you are most alone. That's when I come, when every last guard is down.
I wait patiently behind the bushes for hours, until every last light shining from the houses around me goes dark. It's finally about three and time for me to begin. Connie and Don use a window air conditioner and it roars loudly in their bedroom. I'll still be quiet, but I am less concerned that they can hear me over the white noise. Before I step out of the shrubs, I pull a black balaclava out of my pocket and slide it on. I head to a potted plant by their sliding glass door, where I hid a large screwdriver the last time I was here. I work the door, prying it open, trying not to make a sound, but the hunger is growing. The excitement is creeping up. Weeks of planning and I am so close to another house, another life, another rush.
Their glass door frame is thicker than usual, but eventually I am able to finally bend it, reach the latch, and jimmy it open. I take a deep breath, my hands shivering with the thrill, and slide the door. I listen for sounds of life. Nothing. There's a reason it's called the dead of night.
The sliding door leads directly into the living room of the well-maintained ranch. I have mastered moving quietly. I don't make a sound as I approach the sofa and lift a couch cushion where I have hidden duct tape. I take in the pictures hanging throughout living room one final time.
The happy couple. The nurse and the teacher. They sleep blissfully, taking for granted the life they have.
They want to hurt you again.
I creep to the bedroom door. Last time I was here, I oiled the hinges so they wouldn't make a sound as I entered. Carefully, I turn the knob. It's not locked, and I gently push the door open. It glides beautifully, not letting out even the slightest of creaks.
I approach the foot of the bed and watch them sleep. Don is on his stomach, a sheet haphazardly covering his bare ass, one leg hanging out of the covers.
Doesn't he know the boogeyman can grab it?
Connie is on her back, one of her tits is peeking out, her midsection and pussy are covered, and both of her legs are sprawled open. Her hair is spread across the pillow. She lies there exposed, secure that her husband can protect her. But my shadow rests across her partially nude body.
She's delicate. She's pretty. But she's not Vesper. I hate that she makes me do that. Each hit used to be perfect, existing as its own entity. Each experience new, unique with its own flavor. Now I find myself comparing each home to what it would be like if Vesper was there instead. She's stealing my thrill. I'll make her pay for that.
Connie and Don breathe slowly, their shallow breaths indicating they are unaware of my presence. I stand there for a few minutes, each one that passes adding to my power and their vulnerability. It builds. Until I am as charged as I can be without waking them, until I am throbbing with the unfulfilled craving. I pull out a handgun from my holster and a small flashlight from my pocket. I place the tape on the nightstand next to Connie.
Then I flash the light in her eyes.
She squints, shielding her eyes from the bright light. “Wake up,” I growl.
“What? Oh my god. Don—?”
“Shhh,” I say, putting the gun to her forehead.
Don stirs.
“Grab the tape,” I say, shining at the roll resting beside her. She stares at me, her eyes like globes, her mouth agape, as she reaches for it.
Don raises his head, still disoriented. I shine the light in his eyes and he opens them but clamps them shut immediately, shielding his face. “What the fuck?” he mutters, scrambling to an upright position.
“Don't move,” I keep my voice hushed, disguising its real tone. “I just want your money.” This is the critical part. There are two of them and one of me. I need to pacify them. I need Don taped up. It's easier to control the mind than the body.
“Okay, whatever you want man,” he says, trying to stand up. “Just please take what you want and go.”
“Don't move,” I command. “Connie, tape him.”
She's petrified. Her hands quiver as she grabs the tape, but her eyes are glued on me. She can't see me. Not with the mask and the light in her eyes, but she's trying. “Tape his hands together, then his feet.”
“Please don't hurt us,” she begs, her voice quavering in terror.
“Just do what I say, and you'll be fine.”
She tries to cover her nude body with the sheet.
“No,” I say. “There's no time for that.”
She pulls the tape open, barely able to rip it off the roll because of her nervous hands, but she finally gets it.
“Keep going. I don't want to see his hands at all.” She completely envelops his hands in the tape. “Now his ankles. At least ten times around. Count them out loud.”
“One…” she whimpers. She stops.
“Count them all,” I grunt.
“Three…four…five…”
I wait until she's done. Until the main threat is lying on his side, bound. I rip the tape from her hands and tie her hands behind her back.
“It's gonna be okay,” Don whispers to her.
“Shut up,” I order. He's completely emasculated. I'm the man of this fucking house now. This is my fucking castle.
Once she's taped up, I pull Don off the bed and onto the floor. He hits the green shag carpet with a thud. Now, he can see nothing over the bed.
“Show me where your purse is,” I demand, pulling Connie to her feet and dragging her to the living room. Now it's just us. Now Don doesn't exist. I have conquered everything that is his. I grab a blindfold.
“But you said—”
“If you don't shut up, I'll fucking kill him,” I rasp into her ear. There will be no more assurances of safety. Now I am in complete control. I bind her feet together as she sobs.
“You have a choice,” I declare in a low gruff. I walk over to their fireplace and grab a poker.
“Oh my god,” she cries.
“I hit him, as hard as I can, with this. Five times in the head, five times in the stomach. Or I fuck you.” I wave the poker tauntingly in front of her. “How much do you love him?”
“Please don't,” she whimpers, bowing her
head in complete submission.
“Choose or I'll choose for you.”
“Don't hit him. I'll do it,” she answers in defeat.
“Well, it's not your choice. It's his.”
“Please don't!” she begs, a little louder than I'd like. I tape her mouth shut and blindfold her. There's a few more things I need to do to make sure this script goes according to plan. I make my way to the kitchen and grab a stack of dishes, leaving behind Connie in the living room.
I speed back to the bedroom and find Don trying to chew off his restraints.
“Just take whatever you want,” he repeats.
“You have a choice. I gave the same one to Connie.” I hold the poker in front of me menacingly. “You either take five, full-force hits to the head, five to the stomach. Or I fuck her. You wanna guess what she chose?”
“You sick fuck!” he scowls. “You said you just wanted money.”
“She told me to come here and bash your fucking head in. But I think I'll veto. I'd much rather have some pussy.”
Don desperately tries to pull out of his restraints, but I pull him by his hair, extending his neck, and tape his over his mouth and eyes.
“Get on your fucking hands and knees.” He holds his kneeling position defiantly.
“Hands and fucking knees,” I repeat. “She has a chance to live.” I place the gun to his temple. Without having to say another word, he obeys. I place the stack of dishes on his back. I whip a pillowcase off one of the pillows and cover his head. I use tape to secure it around his neck.
“If you try anything, I'll hear it. I'll kill you, then I'll kill her.”
The pillowcase draws in and out with each breath. I realize combined with the tape on his mouth he might suffocate. I'm not here to kill. The threats are just another means for control. So I pull a hunting knife out of my ankle holster and cut a small slit in the fabric for more ventilation. That's as much generosity as he is getting from me. The stage is set, and it's time to make all of this mine.
I come back to the living room. Connie is on her knees, frantically turning her head, trying to get a sense of where I am. She has no idea I'm right in front of her. I push her down to the floor and she wails, but it's muffled under the duct tape. She's trying to say something. Probably begging. But it's pointless. I don't know mercy.
I pull off my sweatpants grabbing one of her tits to get me going. Normally, I'd be rock hard, but today I'm not all the way there.
A plate crashes. Son of a bitch. I run back to the bedroom. Don is still in place, one of the plates slid off the top. “Don't fucking test me,” I snarl. I remember the lube is in her nightstand drawer. I didn't need to bring my own as they have a healthy supply.
When I come back to the living room, Connie is hopping towards the front door. Blindfolded, naked, and bound, I almost admire her tenacity, but anger is the overriding response. I grab her by the waist and pick her up in one motion. She writhes and kicks, but she's back on the floor in seconds.
I mount her, rubbing the lube on myself as I rub my head against her pussy. It won't fucking get all the way hard.
“Fuck. Shit,” I hiss. She cries harder, afraid my words signal bad news for her.
This almost happened last time. And only one thing made my dick grow so solid I could come without even entering: thinking of her. That fucking girl. The beautiful one I saw at the grocery store. The one with the little boy who she looked at lovingly. Who had the nice life with the boyfriend and the parents. I close my eyes and imagine her: her champagne-colored eyes, her smooth skin, her firm ass and pert tits.
This is our house. We have this life. For these next couple of hours. I can have it all. She'll smile at me the way she does in those pictures. I'll be in on the joke instead of part of it.
Imagining Vesper's face twisting in a mix of agony and pleasure makes my cock grow thick and firm. I thrust. And I thrust, holding her name on the tip of my tongue. I can't give anyone a reason to warn her that she's next, so it stays there, begging to be uttered.
The warm clench massaging my cock is her pussy. And if this fantasy can feel this good, I don't know how I can handle it when the real thing comes. I barely hear Connie's cries as I come, erasing the last man who was in her. She's not even there anymore, she's just a placeholder until I can get the ultimate target.
I pull out, relieved, the unrelenting fire that rages in me momentarily snuffed. I don't bother to put on my pants. This isn't over. There's so much more I have left to do. I go through their house, tossing things around, trying to remember it all. Trying to somehow live their entire lives in these two hours. Connie has a lot of medical books. But she also likes old classics: Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
Don likes model cars. They don't have kids, but he keeps a lot of pictures of kids who I think are his nieces and nephews. I could do this gently. I could be quiet. But I want them to hear me tear their place apart. I want to continue to control them through fear. Their terror feeds me. And as long as they can hear me raging, they won't try anything stupid.
I open the front door. “I'm not ready yet,” I hiss before closing it. It's just another red herring to make the cops look for someone who has an accomplice.
I have another go at Connie. Another reminder that Vesper is consuming my thoughts.
“Make it stop. Make it stop,” I whine during my second bout of rifling through their things. Another distraction to make them think I'm delusional. I'm not delusional. I know exactly what I am doing. I show my face in the light of day. I am your neighbor. I am your brother. I am the guy who builds you that beautiful deck or fixes your broken front door knob.
By now it's 4:15 or so and I am famished. I open up the fridge and find some leftover chicken. I eat it on their back patio, relishing in the act of eating their—my—food. Everything of theirs is mine. This is my life as long as I am here. I glow in the act of eating outside, their neighbors oblivious to the goings on just feet away.
It's so quiet at this time, you would think no one even lives in this neighborhood. This is my hour. The darkness belongs to me. They shunned me. They forgot me. But I never went away. I am here. I am their living nightmare.
Once my belly is full, I know it's time to go. I can't stay past dawn. The early risers will be up and about. I leave the carcass on the patio table and go back in. I put my pants on and sweep the house for anything I don't want to leave behind before slipping out the patio door again.
“Hey!” A man's voice shouts from the street. It's okay, these things happen. I have my mask on. I have my gloves on. I don't even look back at him. Instead, I run in the opposite direction and hop a fence, then another, and another. I run towards the vast canal system I use, like a main artery to get me from one neighborhood to the next.
I lose that guy easily. Once I am in the brush, I catch my breath, pull off the balaclava, the gloves, the black wig and mustache, and tuck them all into my pockets as securely as I can. I pull off the dark sweatshirt and throw it in the brush, revealing a white t-shirt. I brush my light brown hair back, and walk back out to the street where my car is. I pass another obnoxiously early riser out with his dog. He nods at me and I keep my chin down, so he can't make out my face in the pre-dawn light, and give him a quick wave.
It's only a few more steps before I am in my car, calmly driving away, towards the interstate and my freedom. It won't be long until I have to feed the urge again. I don't know how much longer these morsels can hold me when I have been preparing a feast.
I lounge in front of an episode of Sanford and Son, waiting on a fresh batch of popcorn. Johnny is tucked in and my mom and stepdad left for the airport a few hours ago. It's just me in this quiet house on a Saturday night. I should go out more, but I often have to watch Johnny and I am usually tired from school and work. Carter and I even had plans to go out to a fancy dinner tomorrow, but when my mom decided on her way back from the Caribbean that she was going to book a last minute trip to Egypt, I had to d
rop them.
Once the popping sounds from the kitchen slow from their initial burst, I run over to pull the pot off the stove and melt some butter. When I reenter the living room, hugging my bowl of warm popcorn, Sanford and Son has ended and the evening news has taken its place. On the screen is a zoomed-in black and white sketch of a man’s face, mostly obstructed by a ski mask.
“Police say the man attacked a couple in their Rancho Sol home,” a reporter says. Rancho Sol is a subdivision, not twenty minutes away from here by car.
The image zooms out so it’s hovering over the shoulder of the reporter, with the words “The Night Prowler.” I fixate on the image. There have been a rash of break-ins all over Sacramento County. It’s one of the reasons why Carter insists on staying with me when I am babysitting Johnny alone. But Carter won’t be able to come over until much later tonight. I look over to the picture window that faces the main street and wonder what I would do if on the other side of the blinds was that masked face staring back at me. The cozy feeling of holding a fresh bowl of popcorn in the comfort of my home is overcome with the insecurity of the unknown.
The doorbell rings. The popcorn flies out of my arms and I fumble with it, saving it from tipping over, but not before making a small mess.
I tiptoe to the window, peer through the shades and am surprised to see Carter is here earlier than I had anticipated. I let out sigh of relief, placing the bowl on the coffee table, and open the door with a wide smile on my face.
“You're early!”
“I thought I'd surprise you.” He gives me a soft peck on the lips that turns into something more, but then he stops himself and looks over my shoulder.
“Don't worry, he's in bed,” I whisper mischievously.
“So does that mean we can go to bed?” he asks, pushing into the house with my body laced in his arms so that the door shuts behind him.
“I suppose so,” I tease.
Carter locks the door behind him, still pressing his lips to mine, and picks me up by my butt. “That feels niiiice,” he mutters against my lips as he leads me to my bedroom.
Take Me With You Page 2