“Dirty cat-killing shitheads. Karma is a bitch and yours is coming three fold.”
She picked up the binoculars again. The bastards and mongrels had chased each other around back and out of her view. The thought of the children crying—especially the little doe-eyed one—brought a smile to her face. She would teach them a lesson, seeing as how their parents weren’t up for the job. By tomorrow she’d be the one laughing, and they would have a small taste of her misery.
Rebecca turned from the bay window and moved through the front room. Piles of newspapers and magazines were bundled as high as the ceiling. A department store’s worth of clothes covered the floor. Boxes filled with miscellaneous items formed crooked and rickety walls. Jars of trinkets filled every available spot. Several cats passed through the maze like wisps of smoke. With the death of Willow, she was down to nineteen fur-babies. She hated odd numbers, but until the menacing dogs were taken care of she was unwilling to even up the count.
The cats darted in and out of the clutter, sometimes meowing for attention, sometimes squalling in anger at each other. There were ten litter boxes stationed about the house and though she changed them as often as she could, the air reeked of urine and feces. Perhaps if there wasn’t a family of blue-bloods across the street paying off the sheriff to leave their hellhounds alone, then she could let her darlings out to potty. But no, the law always favored the rich.
She pressed on through the maze of detritus, careful not to tip any unsupported stacks, until she finally reached her recliner. She shooed three of her babies out of the seat then flopped down in her chair and the pitted and stained cushion gasped under her weight.
Surrounded by the walls she had constructed of her life, she felt her nervous agitation wane. She didn’t like looking out the bay window at those snobs. In fact, it had taken her a whole day to shift the stacks that had been blocking it. But it was necessary to keep an eye on them. The world had just grown too large and noisy. It was enough to make a person dizzy. These days, she only bothered going out when she had to check the mail.
But tonight I’ll need to be strong. It was going to be a difficult trip, but perhaps the darkness would wall off some of the fear. She couldn’t back down. This is for Willow.
Rebecca dozed in her chair until she was awakened by a knock at the door. She sat up, startled and disoriented, and looked about her maze that was now lined with deep shadows. The knock came again and the sound triggered a small slice of a dream she had been having. In the dream Rebecca had been lying in an old pine box. The Browns and their mutts stared down at her with mockingly urbane smiles. She attempted to sit up but the dogs kicked dirt into her face. The children laughed and pointed while the man with the cane slid the lid over her coffin. The hollow thudding of the hammer driving the nails echoed from her dream into reality.
When the knocking came a third time followed by the doorbell, she pealed herself out of the chair and made for the door. “I’m coming. Hold your damn horses.”
She secured the chain lock before opening the door. Through the six inch opening she spied a man silhouetted by the setting sun.
“Get off of my porch, scumbag, before I call the cops,” she barked.
“Ms. Reid,” the man said, his voice full of caution. “I’m Sonny from Miller’s Grocery. Did you call in a delivery?”
She started to slam the door in his face when something tickled the back of her mind. Normally her grocery deliveries came on Saturday. Was today Saturday? No, she was sure it was Tuesday. It was a scam; a trick. It was a way for raping murderers to gain access to her home.
“Did you place an order for hamburger?”
Wait a minute. That did ring a bell. Her mind revved a bit and she felt the veil of her dream slide further off. “Yes, I ordered hamburger. It’s fresh ground, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She removed the chain and opened the door. “Did you bring the antifreeze?”
“I sure did.” He set the bags on the porch and fished for the receipt. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need with antifreeze? I thought your car broke down a while back.”
Rebecca stabbed at the man with her eyes. “I do mind. Give me the damn paper to sign and keep your nose in your own business.”
The man handed her the clipboard and a pen. She signed off on her tab, took her copy of the receipt then flung the clipboard back at him. She snatched up her bags before he could utter a complaint and slammed the door in his face.
Nineteen cats emerged from the corners and crevasses of her home to follow her into the kitchen. An unsynchronized and loud chorus of hungry meowing played about her feet. More than once she had to shoo one of the cats from the counter.
“This isn’t for you.” She placed the butcher’s paper package on the countertop then pulled a large bowl from the cabinet and dumped the hamburger into it. The cats went wild. After shoving away the fourth cat she turned on the faucet and sprayed them with the extendable hose. The felines scattered in an explosion of hisses, squalls and sharp claws clicking on the linoleum.
Free from interruptions, Rebecca pulled out the large plastic jug of antifreeze. She opened the cap and dumped enough of the sickly sweet liquid in the bowl to cover the meat. She stirred the concoction together with a wooden spoon until it formed a nice thick soup. She was pleased with her recipe, but something was lacking. Rebecca went to the kitchen table and sifted through the large pile of trash until she found what she was looking for. She dropped the three burned-out light bulbs into the soup then used the wooden spoon to crunch the glass into small shards.
“I hope I can hear them howling while they die.”
After making sure there was no poison left out for her babies to get at, she went back to her recliner. It wasn’t enough to have full darkness; she would have to wait until she was sure the Browns were all asleep. She sat watching TV and stroking the occasional cat that passed by, until almost two in the morning. After checking in her binoculars that no lights were on across the street, she twisted through the clutter-maze to the kitchen, then out the door with the bowl of poison soup in her arms.
She stared at the star-speckled night, listening to the breeze whistle through the trees. The air was warm and balmy, infused with perfume from various roses planted at the big house across the street. She didn’t want to step off of the porch, not because she had reservations about killing the dogs, but because the knot of panic within her gut said if her feet carried her too far from her own door then she would get swept up and never make it back home again.
One of the three cat-murdering mutts barked and the sound electrified the cord of hatred running through her. She took a deep breath through her clenched teeth and stepped down onto the sidewalk. She moved in slow shuffles. If she could concentrate and force out the wide and complicated world, keep her mind on the task, then she could be back home in a matter of minutes.
This proved easier said than done. The first obstacle was crossing the street. She made the mistake of looking both ways for oncoming cars. The sight of the shiny blacktop with its yellow stripes and square reflectors tapering off to infinity in both directions brought her to a crashing halt. She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. She couldn’t do it. It might as well be a river full of crocodiles.
She turned her mind to the bowl. She ran her hand along the icy concavity; felt the weight pull on her biceps. The antifreeze fumes tickled her nose. She thought of Willow, the poor innocent cat, whose only sin was to wander into the presence of murderers.
She stepped into the road with her eyes still closed. If a car was coming she was a goner, but at this time of night hardly anyone in Shadeland was traveling. It took longer than it should have to cross the street and had anyone been watching they would have thought her insane. Her shoulder brushed the rough brick façade covering the Brown’s mailbox. She opened her eyes and spit on the brick.
She moved up the long gravel driveway toward the tall Victorian house. She kept her
eyes on her feet, willing every step, but occasionally she would look up to search for the dogs. Any other mutt would have run up to her as soon as she stepped onto the property, especially if they smelled the meat. But not these three. For a brief moment she caught sight of the yellow lab standing beside the house, bathed in the light of a security lamp, but he quickly darted out of view. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard whimpering off in the distance.
She cut through the yard. The dew on the grass soaked her shoes and spritzed her legs as she walked. She considered whistling to the dogs, but didn’t want to alert anyone in the house. Why couldn’t the idiot mutts come find her, to sniff out the food? The stubborn asses were determined to make her walk all the way.
Rebecca continued through the yard, heading for the edge of the woods instead of toward the house. Her socks took on water and every step felt as though she was walking on old dishrags. Her back ached from the weight of the bowl and the cold soup within had numbed the thin skin of her arms. A small dip in the ground caused her to stumble and the death-soup splashed up onto her chest.
Rebecca let loose a long string of curses under her breath. She wanted to set the bowl down and wipe the mess off of her shirt, but she knew once she put it on the ground she wouldn’t be able to pick it back up again. Perhaps she should just dump the mess on the ground right here and go home. The mutts would find it. But what if the big lab got greedy and hogged it all for himself? She wouldn’t get another chance to kill the other two. No, she needed to make sure all three dogs ate the soup.
Her feet lost feeling, and her knees went rubbery. Twice more she stumbled, and though common sense told her to dump the soup here before she fell, her hatred of the dogs carried her onward.
A thick layer of fog poured from the forest like an incoming tide and covered the ground with a resplendent white coating. The fog rose to about mid-calf and seemed to have a weight to it that hindered her steps. She kicked at the mist, stirring up a frenzy of ghosts that chased each other in violent pursuits.
A deep silence settled over the night to the point that she wondered if she had gone deaf. She grunted a few times, clearing her throat, and the noise seemed thunderous. What had spooked the world into silence? Surely not her. No crickets chirped; no summer cicadas sang; the bats didn’t squeak and even the lightning bugs seemed to have taken shelter.
She stopped, alone and stranded in the midst of a billowy tundra. Off in the distance toward the house, the fog swirled in a strange eddy that was coming straight at her. The scar in the fog continued to grow, spinning off a wake like a boat sailing calm waters. Rebecca clutched the bowl to her chest. Her skin prickled and the hair on her neck danced.
It’s only a trick of the wind, she told herself. But as the line in the fog zippered closer, that hope was dashed to the ground.
Its tail poked up out of the fog and curled forward over its back. Eyes collected the small amount of light and reflected it back at her. Five feet from her it stopped and poked its head above the fog.
The small black dog sat upright, the tip of her pink tongue just poking out. She shifted around in nervous agitation, scattering the fog in rippling waves.
“Where are your buddies?”
A whine behind answered her question and she nearly screamed. The Australian shepherd stood behind her. Her demon-blue eyes were fixed on Rebecca and her tail hung stiff between her legs. From the left, out of the trees, the lab came trotting up. He flopped down like a lounging lion and yawned, showcasing his full set of sharp teeth.
There was nothing threatening in the dogs’ demeanors. They paid very little attention to Rebecca, only occasionally glancing at the bowl in her arms. They seemed more focused on the night about them, flicking their heads toward sounds she could not hear, and scents she could not smell. Every now and then one would whimper, or they would take turns fanning the fog with their tails.
A deep chill settled into her joints despite the warm night, and her body begged to return to her recliner. There was too much space here, too much fresh air. She needed her maze of boxes and newspapers, her mountains of clutter. That was the only place she was truly safe. And Willow’s vengeance had waited long enough.
“I brought you a treat,” she said.
The three dogs looked up at her as though they doubted her honesty. She knelt as low as her arthritic knees would allow and turned the bowl over. The death soup fell to the ground with a great wet splosh.
“Here you go. Eat up. Compliments of my poor Willow.”
The three dogs darted to the meat as if they intended to swallow first and ask questions later. Yet, instead of gorging, they walked circumspectly and took a series of suspicious sniffs.
“Well, go on you little shits. Eat up. C’mon now. It’s yummy raw hamburger with my own special dressing. What’s the problem?”
But the dogs wouldn’t eat. They made a couple more passes sniffing the meat then turned and walked away from it.
“Even their dogs are snobs.” She pointed a finger at the little black dog. “Don’t you assholes know how much time and money I spent on this? The least you could do is eat it then die a painful death.”
The Australian shepherd let out a low and menacing growl. Rebecca spun to face the dog, the empty bowl held out before her like a shield. How could she have been so stupid? Why did she leave the house without bringing a weapon along with her? There was a perfectly good meat clever sitting on her countertop. She should have known that she might have to defend herself against the dogs. How could she have overlooked the fact that her clothes were saturated with the scent of cats?
The lab jumped to his feet and the little black dog turned in circles. Rebecca backed away. The best she could hope for was to brain the dogs with her heavy glass bowl. Perhaps if it broke she could grab a shard to stab them with.
The dogs pawed at the ground, kicking up grass and dirt. They hunkered with their tails low between their legs. Their fur stood on end making them each look as if they had suddenly grown. Their growls turned to snarls. They snapped, their jaws popping.
But the dogs didn’t attack. Instead, they encircled her and backed up until their hind quarters touched her legs. Rebecca couldn’t understand what the dogs were doing. She clutched the bowl to her chest.
Then she saw it. Five lines from all directions cut the fog’s smooth surface, heading straight for her.
Taken Away
Casper sucked in a deep breath as if he had been too far under water and broke the surface just in time. He coughed so hard his eyes watered. A dry sticky film filled his mouth; his clothes clung to his sweaty flesh. He gagged and for moment he was sure he was going to vomit. After a couple of dry-heaves his stomach settled.
Maggie stepped from the master bathroom, dressed in her nurse’s uniform and pinning her hair up in a bun. “Are you alright? You’re not getting sick are you?”
Casper pinched the bridge of his nose to release some pressure in his sinuses. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”
Maggie came over and gave him a quick look over. “You don’t have a fever, but you don’t look good.”
“Thanks.”
“How do you feel?”
Casper started to say like some crazy beast just ripped my guts out, but the thought of speaking those words aloud filled him with a sudden chill. An alarm rang in his mind, but he couldn’t grasp why. He kicked his feet out of bed and winced at the soreness in his muscles.
“Your leg?” Maggie watched him concern nestled in her eyes, and for some reason it made Casper feel uncomfortable.
“I’m just a little stiff. Probably slept funny is all.”
He could tell she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t ask any more questions. He grabbed his cane from beside the dresser and stood up. A strange sensation passed over him, not quite dizziness, but more as if reality had slipped a bit. It was similar to the way he had felt the first few days after his leg surgery when he had been doped up on pain medication.
Maggie wa
lked over to the window and opened the curtains. Instead of lush trees and green grass the world outside had been erased, leaving nothing but a dull white veil.
“Wow, it’s really foggy this morning. I can’t see anything.”
An image flashed in Casper’s mind: a snapshot of a dark night illuminated by a thick carpet of spectral fog. The scene fled his thoughts as quickly as it had appeared, but it left behind an inexplicable panic brewing in his heart.
“Where are the kids?” he asked.
“Lucy is watching cartoons in the living room. Tad and Beth are still asleep, I believe. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t want them out in this fog. They could wander into traffic.” He doubted she was buying it. He turned to get dressed so she couldn’t read his eyes.
“Look, if you’re not feeling well I can call in sick. The hospital is slammed but they’ll understand.”
“No, I told you I’m fine.” This came out harsher than he meant it to. “I’m just tired. I don’t think I got much rest.”
“I’m not surprised.” Maggie’s words were sharp. He had hurt her feelings. “You were having a pretty intense nightmare last night.”
Casper searched his memory but it was like trying to catch his reflection in troubled waters. Bits and pieces surfaced—the fog, the dogs, a woman—but nothing seemed to be connected. “I kind of remember something, but it’s gone now. Did I talk in my sleep?”
“A little. You said ‘They’re coming’ but the rest was just mumbles. It took me a while to settle you down. I thought maybe you were dreaming of Iraq again.”
Once again the concerned look on her face brought a tiny stitch of unbidden anger. Yes, he had seen combat. Yes, he’d had to kill more than one man. But he didn’t have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There were events in his life that he’d just as soon forget, and moments when guilt swept in and caused him to question his past actions, but he was still in control of his own mind.
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