by Billy Wells
Billy didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse. For some reason, White had despised him from the first day they met, and he felt the same about him. Not only had he not hired him to shovel his driveway and cut his grass, he tried to blackball him with the other neighbors. He suspected, but couldn't prove, he was the one who punctured the basketball he left on the playground near his house. White was also the only one who complained about the noise he and his friends made when they played basketball until sundown during the summer. For criminy sake, if he didn't like to hear kids playing, he should not have bought a house next to the schoolyard.
Billy pulled his coat up around his face and started walking toward home. He continued recounting all the reasons he ‘d set the trap for White on the ice. The miserable son of a bitch was so tight; he wouldn't close his windows and turn on the air conditioning so he wouldn't hear them dribbling up and down the court. Jeepers! How did he expect them to play without bouncing the ball? And how about the time he called his parents and accused him of battering his mailbox with a baseball bat. Sure, he was in the car, but Skipper Norman had done the deed. He was also with his buddies when they toilet papered White’s shrubs and soaped his windows on Halloween. His friends never knew it, but he had never lifted a finger against the old fart. He didn’t know why, he just didn’t.
He had despised Mr. White for so many reasons, but the crowning blow, the reason he wanted him dead, was when Corky, his precious, little cocker spaniel, went missing.
He and his parents had put signs on every post in the neighborhood and on the bulletin boards of every convenience store. He cried all week when not one person had come forward with any information. Corky had disappeared from the face of the earth five days ago. It was a mystery until yesterday morning when Mr. White tipped his hat and smiled his crooked smile as he went by in his Volvo. He had never done that before. Billy knew then, he had taken poor Corky, and he was flaunting it.
Billy was so happy the world would be a better place without Mr. White. He doubted anyone would shed a tear for the miserable, old Scrooge.
As he reached the halfway point home, he thought of what he would say if his parents discovered he hadn’t slept in his bed last night. He checked his phone for messages and found he didn’t have any. His parents usually got up late on Saturday so if he hurried, they may not even know he was gone. If they did check his room, he would just say Benny was sick, and he‘d helped him deliver papers that morning. This excuse always worked.
Suddenly, on the path in front of him, he saw a grisly pile of bones and guts. Apparently, a large predator had ripped apart and mostly devoured a smaller animal. Turning away in disgust, he tried to think of what animal in the neighborhood could have done such a savage deed. Then, he saw Corky’s name on the familiar green dog tag he always wore around his neck, laying among the sickening stew of remains.
A tremor of guilt struck him like lightning as the realization that White had not been responsible for Corky’s disappearance after all. He had been too quick to be his judge, jury, and executioner. The loss of Corky had pushed him over the edge. He stood there, recounting all the other things that had caused him to set the trap for White. The punctured basketball, the flat tires on his bike, the incessant whining to his parents.
It was painful to consider the possibility that White may not have been responsible for any of these things, the same as he had not been responsible for Corky's disappearance. A frown of deepest sorrow and guilt replaced the wide grin that had lit up his freckled face only moments ago in celebration of his perfect crime. Deep shadows of uncertainty brought bitter tears to his eyes.
Behind him, Billy heard an ominous growl that froze him in his tracks with fear. Turning, he saw the bloody, bared teeth of Mr. Foster’s enormous white wolfhound foaming at the mouth with ravenous, hungry eyes.
“Nice doggie,” Billy whimpered, just before the rabid hound tore out his throat.
THE BOOGEYMAN
Each day after supper, Agnes went for her two-mile evening constitutional before settling down to watch TV before bedtime. A little exercise after eating made her feel less bloated, allowed her to sleep better, and diminish the calories required to stay at her current weight of 120 pounds.
She weighed the same as she had as a teenager. At the last high school reunion, many of her female classmates at Garfield had ballooned up. She didn’t even recognize some of them. Agnes had always cared about the way she looked and never wanted to be fat.
Her husband died last year, and it was lonely in their big house by herself, and a little scary, but at this point in her life, it suited her just fine. She really didn't want to start another relationship with an old geezer. Just thinking about a grizzled old reprobate groping her at her age made her skin crawl. Now, if a young Clint Eastwood or Richard Gere would try to get her in the sack that was another story, but that would never happen.
The evening walk on the path that followed Route 11 went the same as always. She smiled when a young man, who could have been her grandson, blew his horn as he stormed noisily past in a red Corvette. Her body was pretty svelte, thank you, but she was 65 years old, and no longer bothered to color her graying hair. Maybe, the young man needed glasses in addition to a new muffler.
She took the path following the high road on the way to the convenience store, which was almost exactly half way. On the path returning, which followed the low road, Agnes had to walk through a covered bridge. The wooden structure about 100 feet long was always as dark as a cave even in daylight. She had almost reached the middle when she thought she heard footsteps behind her. A person could easily hide behind any of the large support posts that ran along both sides of the bridge. These foreboding posts had really frightened her at first. Now, after a decade of walking through without anyone jumping out and pouncing on her, she rarely gave it a second thought. But tonight was different. She really thought she heard footsteps behind her after entering the bridge.
Stopping abruptly, she turned and looked back. It was too dark to see anything. She listened for the slightest sound and mentally prepared herself to go into an all-out run if need be. But, just like always, she only heard the sound of the stream rushing across the rocks below. It comforted her to know that unless the pervert caught her off guard, she could surely outrun him. It would take a seasoned athlete to catch her if she started sprinting for her life. She had participated in the Boston Marathon five times in her younger days, and she could run pretty fast even now.
When she reached the end of the bridge, she thought she heard the footsteps again and turned abruptly as before and listened. “Is someone there?” she cried out.
Suddenly, several bats flew from the rafters and swooped past her head, sending her into a defensive crouch. After resuming an erect stance, she melted behind a post and didn't move a muscle for several minutes. Stealthily, she peeked around the post; almost certain something big and terrible would be standing there to grab her. To her utter surprise, there was nothing but the sound of water running and the gentle whisper of the wind in the trees. She could see the opening at the end of the bridge but couldn't detect anything moving across it.
In the last half mile, Agnes stopped several more times and looked back. She still had the uncanny feeling someone lurked in the stand of trees along the path.
When she finally stepped up on her porch and looked back at the empty road, she felt silly, she'd let her imagination get the best of her. Then, she gasped when she saw the front door standing wide open. She remembered closing and locking it when she left for her walk. Or was that yesterday she remembered so vividly?
She hadn’t left the door unlocked even once since she moved there ten years before. Reaching inside, she switched on the light. Her heart pounded as she stood peering into the dimly lit interior beyond the foyer. Nothing stirred, and nothing seemed out-of-place.
Should she call 911? The intruder, if there was one, could still be in the house. Had she left the front door open? It was possi
ble, she guessed, but not probable.
“Better safe than sorry,” she said aloud as she returned to the front yard and called 911 on her cell.
Immediately, a woman’s voice came on the line, “What is your emergency?”
Agnes replied, “I believe someone has broken into my home.”
“What is the address?”
“99 Barbary Lane, Mt. Jackson.”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Agnes Schwartz, the owner of the property. Is this Maude Kline, my old bowling buddy?”
“It sure is, Agnes. Is Henry there with you?”
“No, Maude, Henry died last year, I'm surprised you didn't know.”
“You're not in the house, are you?”
“No, I'm standing just outside the front door.”
“My advice is to go to a neighbor's until the officers arrive,” Maude instructed. “The intruder may still be in the house. Do you have a car you can lock yourself inside temporarily?”
“I have a car, but it’s in the garage, and I can’t reach it without going into the house.”
“Move closer to the street. The police officers are on their way and will be there in five minutes. I'll stay on the line until they arrive.”
“Thanks, Maude, I hope this is not a wild goose chase,” Agnes said timidly. “When I returned from my evening walk, I found the front door open, and it gave me a fright.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Maude said, trying to put her at ease. “The policemen will be happy to check out your house, regardless. Stay calm. Did you see any sign of a break-in?”
“Not really, but I only took a quick look inside.”
“I understand. You can't be too careful these days, especially with the Boogeyman still at large.”
“The Boogeyman?” Agnes asked, clueless.
“Certainly you must know about the Boogeyman, that’s what the media calls him. He's strangled eight elderly women in their homes over the last eight months. The whole town is buzzing about him. Don’t you read the paper or watch TV? No sane woman over fifty would leave her home after dark with that madman on the loose.”
“I don’t watch the news,” Agnes confessed, “it upsets me… and I don’t get a paper. I love movies, and that’s all I watch. I get them from Netflix.”
“I don't mean to scare you, but each of the murders occurred on the last day of the month. Today is March 31, and, as far as we know, the Boogeyman hasn’t strangled anyone yet, and It’s only four hours till midnight.”
“Eight women?” Agnes thought. She remembered Gertrude, her bridge partner, talking about some murders several times, but somehow, she imagined the victims were young women. She couldn't remember any serial killer targeting older women in any TV show or movie she's ever seen. She never once thought her life could be in danger, and like a fool, she was walking two miles after dark every night.
In the distance, she saw the lights of a fast car approaching and was relieved when the police car pulled into her driveway.
“The officers are here now,” Agnes said, starting to breathe easier. “Thanks for staying on the line with me.”
“You’re safe now, but my advice to you is to forget your movies from Netflix and keep up with the current news, at least, until they catch the Boogeyman. After all, you are exactly the kind of person he chooses for a victim. I have to go now. I've got another call. Good luck.” Agnes returned the phone to her pocket and walked toward the cruiser.
A tall mountain of the man in a blue uniform got out of the driver’s seat and approached her with another much shorter officer, who followed behind him from the other side of the Crown Vic.
“Are you Mrs. Schwartz?” the tall officer asked in a peculiar accent that sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles.
“Yes, I’m the one who called,” Agnes admitted nervously.
“I'm Officer Danielson, and this is my partner, Officer Johnson. I understand you may have had a break-in?”
“When I returned from my walk, I found the front door not only unlocked, but open. I’m 99% sure I locked it when I left. I don’t think I’ve ever left the door unlocked in the ten years I’ve lived here,” Agnes explained. “I reached in and turned on the light, but considering someone might still be inside, I decided to call 911.”
“You did the right thing,” Danielson said, stepping from the shadows into the front porch light.
Agnes did a double take when she saw the officer's enormous hands holding a medium-sized notepad in his palm like a playing card. Looking up, it was all Agnes could do not to scream when she saw his ghastly, misshapen face riddled with patches of scar tissue. To gather her composure, she quickly turned toward Johnson, who remained partially obscured in shadow.
“You should never enter the house after a break-in until we make sure the perp is no longer inside,” Danielson continued.
Agnes decided he had a speech impediment rather than a foreign accent, and keeping her eyes riveted on his partner, remained silent.
“Sit in our patrol car while we inspect the property,” Johnson said firmly, as he unhooked the leather strap from his holster.
Following his instructions, Agnes went to the cruiser and climbed into the back seat. She watched the officers draw their guns and stealthily enter the house.
As she sat there, she realized Danielson looked a lot like Grendel Ogre, a weird-looking man who played a human monster in several black and white movies that had scared the wits out of her in the fifties. She couldn’t keep her hands from trembling as she watched the lights go on all over the house.
Fifteen minutes later, the officers came out the front door. Danielson moved around the right of the house, and Johnson disappeared into the backyard to the left.
In another five minutes, with their firearms holstered, they returned to the patrol car. She met them in the driveway.
“Well, Mrs. Schwartz,” Danielson mumbled, barely understandable, “we checked everything, and we couldn't find any sign of a forced entry.”
Johnson piped in, “On the surface, everything inside seemed fine, but, of course, if something was stolen, only you would really know it. All we can say is there is no one hiding in the house now, and you can go back in without any fear.”
“Thank you so much,” Agnes said, fixing her eyes on Johnson and moving toward the front door. “I'm sorry if this was a false alarm, but when I found the door open, I was frightened.”
“No need to keep apologizing, we don’t blame you for being frightened with the Boogeyman still on the prowl,” Johnson said, writing something in his notebook.
“Since I don’t get a paper and rarely watch TV, I didn't even think of the Boogeyman when I found the door open.”
“Really…” Johnson said, turning to Danielson with a look of disbelief, “he’s the first one you should've thought of. You know it’s the last day of the month, and if he follows his profile, he'll strangle someone by midnight.”
A cold shiver ran up Agnes’ spine, and she felt an odd lump in her throat when she thought of the black tongue protruding from the mouth of one of the strangler’s victims in Hitchcock’s movie, Frenzy. A weak smile forced the horrific image from her mind, and looking between the two men to avoid eye contact with Danielson, she said, “Well, thanks again. I promise I’ll be a lot more careful from here on out, and I’ll watch the news every day.”
Both officers smiled and turned toward their patrol car. Danielson paused and looked back as if he wanted to say something. Agnes pretended not to notice and turned toward the front door.
From the porch, Agnes watched the officers get in their car and drive away. She hoped Danielson had not detected her inability to look him in the eye, and her intense mortal fear of him. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she knew his appearance had to be a terrible problem for him each time he met at new person. Johnson must be a saint to partner with someone who looked like a movie monster in real life. She closed the front door and double locked it.
It was only nine o'clock, and she never turned in until at least eleven. Her adrenalin was still pumping, and she didn't feel like watching a movie. She went into the living room and took a seat on the sofa in front of the television. Placing the 38 on the end table, she recounted what had happened in the covered bridge and afterward along the path. She thought of the gaping front door, Danielson’s horrible misshapen face, and his eerie way of speaking. She couldn't get the vision of his huge, meaty hands out of her mind and could almost feel them gripping her neck.
An unfamiliar sound at the back of the house piqued her senses. Turning, she cringed when she saw that one of the officers had left the curtains on the slider completely open. If anyone was in the backyard, they could be watching her every move. She jumped up, and moving quickly to the back wall of glass, she pulled the cord and closed the curtains. Returning to the sofa, she turned off the lamp on the end table and sat in the dark. Everything around her seemed strange as she kept replaying the night’s events over in her mind like a scary movie. She wondered if the Boogeyman had strangled someone yet.
An hour later, the chime of the front doorbell sounded and startled her awake. For a few moments, Agnes sat frozen in fear. No one had come to her door at this hour in years. She struggled for the strength to rise from the sofa. Running the marathon in her current state was out of the question. She had never felt so drained of energy as she picked up the revolver and tiptoed toward the foyer. When the doorbell chimed a second time, she peeked around the ficus tree and tried to catch a glimpse of the person at the door through the side panel.