Porch Frights

After eleven Momma has set a new rule, stay on the stoop even if I'm soon seventeen; she's in bed with just the grey light of late night TV floating across her half-open eyes. I promise her to 'keep it down' and kiss her on the top of her head. I get it: lots can happen these days, especially over the course of a night. Think about it. What do we do when we first wake at seven a.m.? Turn on the news or now a days, turn on our phones for the latest headlines. In the course of one night there are people arrested, car accidents, tsunamis, deaths by natural causes and yes, even murders.

Rolling a joint I wait on the steps, the gold light illuminating my habit. My tabby, Dudley, struts along the wooden planked porch as if he is in onto something I don't know about, kinda cocky-like, then slinks up to me purring as he rubs my jean covered thigh. I like his company but I am up for more. Peering up toward the dead end of our street I try to count how many porch lights are on then lean back against the house, scooting my rump to the left, away from the brightness, into the shadows.

Dudley's fur stands on end, he hunches his back with his tail straight up and leaps into the darkness. What the hell? Such a weird creature. Then, I hear a whistle, from the sidewalk, or is it in our driveway? Suburban life is never lively unless someone has a birthday, baby shower, graduation, wedding or death: that's when lots of unknown cars are parked everywhere and one can hear unfamiliar voices and maybe laughter. Who whistles this late? I strain to hear the tune. It's not a song, just a do-dee-do strolling whistle. Did Dudley hear it first? The whistling is louder and closer: I ash out my joint and shove it in the front pocket of my windbreaker.

"Boo!" then lots of laughter, from him. I recognize Mr. Asher who used to teach biology at school. Of all people. I mutter out a 'hello' back. It's uncomfortable to see him so close, so in my space.

"What are you doing up so late?", his emphasis is on the you. Who the hell does he think he is? It's a week from school starting and he's not my mother, defiantly not my father who I never even met. I shrug my shoulders. I'm thinking I should go in but Dudley is still out. Shit.

"I miss being so young, nothing to really do or worry about, am I right?" He inches towards the steps and crouches in way to loose sweatpants. Is he trying to look friendly? I stand up.

I sputter something out about curfew, my cat, my mother and feel my heart pumping.

"Can I help you find your cat? I used to have a cat. He got hit by a car." He pulls out his phone and turns its flashlight and swirls it around the shrubbery.

"Uh, that's okay Mr. Asher. I can handle it." I sound fairly firm, I think.

He chuckles a bit. "I'm sure you can, handle it that is. You're frightened aren't you? Scared old Mr. Ashton is some weirdo after hot young teens, eh", he slaps his knee and rolls his eyes. I think I am beginning to sweat and reach for the screen door handle just as I hear Dudley almost crying from the street.

Mr. Ashton stares coldly at me then turns and walks away into the night.

I run toward the sidewalk and see Dudley, he's obviously missing a huge chunk of fur and his tail is bent, as if broken. I try to pick him up and he springs further away. "C'mon boy, what's happened poor baby?" I move closer and again he runs faster and further, always looking back. I know I am not to be this far from the porch at night. I look at my phone, already one-thirty? Sitting on the curb I keep one eye on Dudley and another on my phone. I'm now half-way to the end of our street where the circle for a turn around marks the dead-end. From there it's dense woods and only one porchlight it on. I am hoping if I don't move, neither will Dudley.

Pulling out my lighter I restart my joint while texting my bestie Tim, "FFS, el creepo science freak, Mr. Ashton made a surprise visit at like midnight." I don't wait for him to answer and shoot him five emojis adding Dudley's hurt, too." I look up, NO! Dudley is nowhere in sight.

I'm not shouting his name, I am almost whispering so as not to stir unwanted attention from anyone. PING! It's Tim. Just as I am about to text back I hear Dud's little mew. I see him lying on his side in the middle of the circle under a basketball hoop. This time he doesn't run or resist as I approach and lift him into my arms. My phone pings again and again. I can't answer now. I get home and inspect Dudley's tail under the porchlight. It's not bent at all. Why did I think that? It sure looked broken earlier. His hair is as always. Nothing is wrong with him. Nothing.

I slither back into my comfy spot on the porch and scroll through messages: 'OMG! No way, you on shrooms?' It's Tim and ten other mutual friends he has told about Mr. Ashton adding stupid comments. Scrolling faster I shutter and stop.

I re-read a thread. "Dude, didn't he just die, like last week?" I feel a chill, it's close to four a.m. now. I answer, "He's very much alive!" and send. I call Dudley near and cradle him close. "Ole Dud's you saw that man, too. Don't worry, he won't hurt us." Purring I can see Dud's is ready for me to go inside.

Locking the screen door I softly release Dudley onto his favourite couch pillow and he curls up cosily. I chain the inside door which we never do, but it was kind of freaky seeing Mr. Ashton: never knew he lived in our neighbourhood.

Slipping into my sleep shirt I go into Momma's room and turn off the TV, a habit she has begun perhaps out of loneliness. Instead of going straight to bed I make a couple of pop-tarts then crawl into bed and plug in my phone, still a bit unnerved. Luckily my 'to-do' list is a big 'nothin' when the sun rises.

I wake to my mother blabbing. "Wasn't Mr. Ashton your biology teacher last year?" - HUH?

I've had maybe two hours of sleep. "Why now, Mom. I'm sleeping!" and I start to roll away from her.

"He's been arrested! It's on the news now! Come!" I stumble toward her room and sit on the end of her unmade bed. I can smell fresh coffee. Her voice is high, "there, look, isn't that him?" It is Mr. Ashton. Holy shit! I hear myself asking Mom what happened.

"He raped a girl from your school and killed her cat!" Then she says with utter dismay, "See why you have a curfew now? This is what can happen in the matter of one night."