Neighborhood Watch

by Stuart R. West

  He pulled open the garage door. Now it’s harvest time.

  * * * *

  “Just stay there, bastard!” Toni kept her gaze locked on the man, ready to use the knife if necessary. She had no qualms about taking a life in self-defense, to protect herself or her husband. These murderers brought this insanity into their lives, made her doubt her husband and question his stability. She glowered at Langton, mentally daring him to make her day. Part of her wanted him to.

  Something slithered across the linoleum in the kitchen. Toni shot upright. She shifted her eyes between Langton and the kitchen. A dark figure filled the doorway.

  “Derek?” But she knew it wasn’t him. She would have heard the door open. “Don’t come any closer! I’ve got a knife.”

  The tall, thin figure wavered in the darkness, lightning illuminating it briefly. It stepped forward. Pale as chalk, an old man wearing overalls slowly walked toward the table. His face was weathered by sun and age, his eyes colorless like a blind man’s. He quietly sat at the table next to Langton. Langton glimpsed at the man, mouth agape, before hiding his face in his hands. The man looked straight ahead into the backyard, seeing nothing, never acknowledging Toni or Langton.

  “Hello? Are you part of this? Are you lost?” Toni didn’t feel a threat. He appeared lost, unaware of his surroundings. “Are you hurt?”

  Another figure appeared in the doorway, this one short and round. The woman waddled in, as casual as if shopping at the grocery store. Except for the hatchet slapping into her palm.

  An odd smile crept across Toni’s lips. She thought, cool, ghosts. Not in a million years how she thought she would react upon seeing a ghost. Like she ever thought she would see a ghost. But after the other events tonight, it didn’t seem so extraordinary. She stepped back to watch the spectral event unfold.

  The woman stopped behind the farmer and raised the hatchet. She brought it down into his back numerous times, the events playing out like a silent movie. The farmer fell onto the table. Then he sat back up and smiled. While Toni felt one step away from applauding their ghostly performance, Langton raised his head and screamed. The ghost woman’s pupil-free eyes widened as if she’d just been awakened. She turned toward Langton, raising the hatchet again.

  “No! No, no, no! Please, almighty Satan, how have I offended thee? Oh, powerful deity of the dark arts, Mica Coyote, forgive my trespasses!” He jumped to his feet, the chair falling back. Shoving Toni aside, he ran for the center of the living room, shrieking. The farmer and his wife, arms around one another, happy together again, silently retreated into the kitchen.

  Glass shattered across the bay window. A large rock bounced onto the floor. Carl’s face appeared at the broken window. His shirt wrapped around his fist, he started knocking out the window panes one by one.

  “Damn it!” Toni jumped over Langton, who had collapsed to the floor. She stood by the window, knife held high.

  Another crash sounded in the TV room. The sliding glass doors onto the deck. Trapped inside, coming at her from front and back. Where are the damn cops? It’s been nearly half an hour!

  She poked her head into the TV room cautiously.

  From behind her, a voice said, “Hey, bitch!”

  Toni wheeled. Kendra ran at her, claws held out. Toni pulled back, stabbing at the air. Kendra blocked the knife thrusts with her arm. The knife fell to the carpet. Toni threw her weight into the other woman, driving her back. Not letting up, Toni bulldozed her into the kitchen with a righteous strength she didn’t know she possessed. Patch barked behind them, snapping his jaws in and out of the fracas. Toni kept her momentum going, her endgame in sight. In front of the basement steps, Toni paused to take a deep breath. Two quick steps back, then she shoved. Kendra’s arms waved, trying to correct her balance. Gravity won. Tripping over the top step, Kendra bounced down the steps, every thunk and crack sounding final. Toni couldn’t see the bottom of the steps. But she heard something. A small, slithering—maybe crawling—sound.

  “Hey, yourself, bitch,” she said into the darkness.

  From the front yard, she heard the ripping of a power saw.

  * * * *

  Now Derek felt truly crazy. He stood in the torrential rains, handling a power saw, cutting down an enormous oak tree capable of inspiring multiple murders. Evil spirit—good spirit?—possessed or not, the tree had to go. Otherwise, the cycle would continue. How’s that for crazy?

  Soaking wet and freezing, he sawed. The reverb hammered up to his teeth. Not much progress. Only six inches in. An all night ordeal, and he didn’t have all night. Maybe it’s even impossible. The Satan squad will be on him any minute. Even with his potent weapon, he couldn’t fend them all off.

  The blade continued sticking in the trunk’s thickness, fizzling to a stop. And it was just a matter of time before the rain fried the motor.

  Lightning lit up the sky, nature’s million-watt light bulb. Another howl sounded, this time closer. And louder. Derek levered his weight onto the saw and pushed. He screamed, hoping it would dredge up more strength.

  “Drop the god-damned saw,” Carl yelled behind him.

  Derek ignored him.

  “Drop it!”

  Derek felt a massive blow to the side of his head and fell against the tree. The saw whirred inside the trunk, hissing, sparks flying, then snuffed out by the rain. Carl hit him again, and this time Derek crashed to the wet ground.

  A voice shrieked, “No!”

  Derek’s front door slammed open, followed by Langton’s running outside. Carl turned, distracted. Derek brought his foot up into Carl’s groin. Carl fell back.

  “Stop it, you idiot! You don’t know what you’re doing!” Langton yanked at the chain-saw.

  Derek kicked Carl’s head before shoving Langton aside and pulled the saw from the tree. The motor sputtered and died. Pulling the cord, he watched Carl climb to his feet. Come on, start! Carl shook his head and charged him, a 250-pound angry bull. The engine buzzed. Derek swung it at Carl. The blade sliced through his mid-section with a sickening, bone-grinding sound. Carl fell, his body nearly cut in two.

  A hellish shriek arose down the street. Winds swept through the trees. Branches bowed down, praying to an unseen superior being, caressing the parked cars and prepping them as sacrificial lambs. Derek’s clothes flapped against his body. The sheer force of the wind suggested something primordial. A tornado.

  A small, dark torrent danced down the middle of the street, swirling, twisting, gaining force and volume with each rotation. The shrieking grew louder, emanating from the center of the small funnel cloud. The tornado bounced off the cars. Metal screeched. Automobiles upturned into yards. Tree limbs cracked. Coming his way. Fast. And growing.

  Derek ran for the front door. “Toni, grab the keys! Now!”

  Toni met him seconds later, keys jangling in her hand. Running to the car, Derek glanced at the storm of destruction headed their way. The tornado—stubbornly—stayed in the street. It fed on the air itself as it grew. The unnatural screams pounded at their ears. Cries. Native American battle cries, filled with power and fueled by vengeance. The tornado’s center glowed purple. A chanting began. Low at first, it swelled, with more male voices joining in the ominous choir. Throbbing, thrumming, determined and rhythmic.

  Toni screamed. “Derek, Patch!”

  Derek swallowed and nodded. They couldn’t leave him. “Go, Toni! I’ll take him to the basement!”

  “Not going without you!”

  No time to argue. She wouldn’t budge. “Come on, too late to drive! To the basement!”

  They ran inside, the vortex of the tornado nearly drawing them back. The funnel hit Tommy’s yard, picking up his BMW and smashing it into his house. Patch met them at the door, tail wagging. “Come, boy! Now,” Toni yelled.

  They stopped halfway down the stairs. Patch stayed at the top, head sunk, unsure he was welcome down there. “It’s okay, boy. Now!” Patch scrabbled down the steps, still uncertain.

  At the bo
ttom of the stairs, they stepped over Kendra’s body. “Sorry about my mess,” said Toni.

  From outside, the war whoops grew louder, a freight train of fury. Winds tore at the house, making the foundations quake.

  Over it all, a coyote howled like a banshee.

  From a distance, they heard Langton let out a sky-shattering scream. But the coyote’s howl was louder, absorbing Langton’s final cry.

  A crack sounded, ice breaking across a pond on an early spring day. It grew louder, intensifying. The tree coming down. He held Toni’s hand and squeezed. They both understood. If the tree fell over their house, not even the basement would protect them.

  The ominous cracking continued, persistent and agonizing. They waited for fate to decide whether they lived or died. The snapping sound stopped. Soon then. The instant of calm before the tree teetered and fell on top of them, ending their lives. Derek swallowed, eyes closed, hands linked with Toni’s.

  Finally, a delayed, thunderous explosion. The foundations underneath them shook. Followed by creaks. Smaller creaks. Calming, settling creaks.

  Then silence. Dead silence.

  They were alive.

  Alive.

  * * * *

  They stayed in the basement until the lights came on. When Patch lapped at Kendra’s face, Toni shooed him away.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Give me a minute.” Derek sat—practically fell—on the steps. And cried. Toni sat next to him, arm wrapped around his shoulders.

  “It’s over, Derek. It’s over.”

  Except for a few broken windows, their house, unbelievably, remained intact. Stepping outside, they watched as police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances lined the street. Red and blue lights brightened the sky, a garish, yet nice, respite from the aura of blackness they’d left behind.

  The oak tree lay across the street, the top of it buried in the center of the demolished brick house. Smoke wafted from the basement window. The tree’s roots spiked out, veins exploding from the ground. Rubble rested across the yard, little calling cards from…wherever.

  Derek couldn’t resist. “Guess that little piggy’s house wasn’t so sturdy after all.” Toni stifled a laugh as she saw a policeman approach them.

  “Just what in hell happened here tonight?” He looked stunned, mystified. No more so than Derek felt at the moment.

  “It’s a long story, officer.” Derek watched as covered bodies were entombed within ambulances. His gaze fell upon a large hole in the ground next to the uprooted tree. Ignoring the policeman, he walked toward the hole. Six feet deep, there appeared to be marks on the sides of the hole. Claw marks.

  * * * *

  It took weeks of endless meetings, interrogations, and repeat visits until the police were satisfied Derek and Toni had nothing to do with the mass carnage found on Pawnee Lane that night. There had been enough evidence and DNA found intact in the brick house’s basement to corroborate their story. Derek and Toni told the truth, excluding the ghostly visitations. No sense in appearing insane. Policemen love killers who are insane. It explains things that don’t make sense in their rigid world of concrete evidence.

  Insanity is what the media latched onto. The cult across the street was described as deranged Satanists on a killing spree. End of story. Until the movie comes out. And of course, there’ll be one.

  The two surviving wives weren’t found. Neither was Dr. Robert Langton. The police assured Derek and Toni they would catch them. Derek couldn’t help but wonder if something had already caught them. He would wake up in the middle of the night, shuddering at what he’d seen. And at what he hadn’t.

  Derek couldn’t bring himself to move back into their house. The house he’d lived in for twenty-six years. He just couldn’t do it. Toni understood, though she liked the idea of ghosts. They talked about their ghostly visits once, shortly after their living nightmare. But just once. Some things are better off left buried.

  Against Toni’s wishes, they temporarily moved into Derek’s mother’s house. To Toni’s vast amusement and satisfaction, Patch became Derek’s mother’s underfoot nemesis. Toni delighted in calling it payback for the suffering she endured from her mother-in-law.

  “So where do you want to live?” asked Toni.

  “Somewhere without neighbors.”

  She smiled. “I understand country living does a soul good.”

  * * * *

  Spring blossomed once again. Nowhere was it more pronounced than on Pawnee Lane in Barton, Kansas.

  The newlyweds stepped out into the front yard, thrilled with the home the realtor had just finished showing them.

  “Look, honey,” said the woman, pointing toward the large grassless patch of ground.

  “Hey, looks like a tree’s springing up.”

  Green buds burst through the dirt, crying for life.

  About the Author

  After working as a graphic and production artist for the last 23 years, the company for which I labored shuttered its doors in July of 2010, finally allowing me the time and mental energy to tackle something that I'm passionate about.

  Neighborhood Watch is my first adult thriller, with, I hope, many more on the way. The Tex, The Witch Boy YA trilogy is available through Muse-It-Up Publishing and other on-site venues.

  I'm married to a professor of pharmacy (who greatly appreciates that I now prepare dinner for her) and have a 21 year old daughter, who hasn’t yet decided what to do with her life. But that’s okay…it took me 25 years or longer.