A House and Their Screams

Broken pavement, the dying leaves dance a fading waltz underneath the darkened sky. In between the feet of laughing trick-or-treaters leaves are broken and left behind, twirling into a non-threatening tornado that disperses seconds later. A white picket fence neighborhood on the night of Halloween. Two story houses across from and next to other houses that only differentiated in terms of color. The house at the end of the street, last one before the turn that leads to the highway into the city part of Elea. A house of deep maroon siding and black shutters with grey curtains drawn so tight not even a scream could be heard. Behind the sleek lie of perfection is an unhappy wife, by the name of Mrs. Barker, who had called over her neighbor, Mr. Winfrode, a few hours ago.

He was helping her clean a leaky faucet while her husband was out of town and now all of their clothes are off and her breath is fogging up the little window in the middle of the door as he pounds into her without shame, telling her to yell his name and beg him for more. They don’t hear the back door open. Normally, there is a little squeak to the knob whenever it is turned, but not tonight. The man’s heavy boots are feathers against the wood of the back porch that was remodeled towards the beginning of the summer. The guest knows this. The guest was there. In the little forest area behind the owner’s house where a murder was committed in 1985. A boy had strayed too far from home. Now, they stay in their houses. Now, they bring the death indoors.

The watcher knows this the same way they know the look on Mr. Barker’s face when he caught his neighbor staring at his wife’s ass as if he knew exactly what it looked like without the normal tight beige skirt. The same for her body, which was normally covered in some shade of pink. Her favorite color. The watcher knew that too.

The husband was weak, he never said a thing. He knew what was happening. A pair of underwear in the dryer that wasn’t his, the smell of a different cologne, the little things told a big story, but this was a story that Mr. Barker did not want to read but wanted to live. Nobody in this house was innocent

A leaf trails in behind the unexpected guest as they revel in their reasons for life, dancing between their feet as they brandish the knife at his side.

Send the sinners to a lost world. Replenish the earth.

Their moans of lust and desire echo around the dark house. The smell of their actions are thick in the air. Sweat and lies mix together to create a pungent smell that singes the hair in their nose. The floor whispers to him, coercing him forward. The marble counters of the kitchen and the island reflect the moon, sending long shadows across the wall, objects becoming trapped in brick until day breaks. They rest the knife against the counter, twirling it on the tip in a dancing way, and then they slide it down until the glinting material connects with the metal sink. An awful shiiiiink that gave them goosebumps dances with the open air only to fall to the ground without a purpose.

Moving across the ground, around the counter and through the doorway, into the hallway, the sound of the two of them gets louder. She’s screaming his name at this point. Joseph becomes imprinted in their mind, forever marking it from here until the end of time. They hadn’t heard the knife. They hadn’t cared about what hides in the dark. The hallway got darker the closer they got. It reminded them of the boogeyman stories that were told to them as a child. He used to wonder if the boogeyman was pushed to their actions. Did the boogeyman have a motive?

They enter the living room unnoticed. In complete darkness, the curtains drawn closed, he takes a seat on the couch. The noise between the two does not stop. Drowning out all other thoughts, Mr. Winfrode grabs onto her hair. The watcher pushes the lamp that was smuggled onto a ship to America sometime in the 1700s that is an assortment of blue, brown, and a deep red, onto the ground. The lightbulb shatters. The two scream and look to the room next to them. They scramble for their clothes, the breath on the window begins to fade, to slither away into the edges of the entryway. Mrs. Barker feels an emptiness in her the moment her neighbor pulls out and puts his clothes back on. She was close to a climax. The watcher could tell by her moaning. Louder and louder with each passing second only to have it cut off. Pity. The watcher doesn’t scramble like they do. They know how this will end. They always do. Always will. Nobody has connected the dots just yet. Will they ever? A killer with their motive. A killer who always wins. How?

To the neighborhood perfect specimens, the living room is empty. Darkness is a guest to the soul, one often trapped at the door. The same as now. The world does the hiding. He doesn’t have to move a muscle, run, hide, nothing. When the sin is severe enough, not even the light wants to befriend it. The light runs, leaving the one thing the people deserve in its place. The dark.

Safe passage for him, he slinks back to the kitchen where the knife rests on the counter. Panicked steps can be heard from the hallway now. Frantic steps through a cursed house. They pass the living room where the two of them started and where their actions came to a stop, where she got on her knees and did whatever he asked of her. They tiptoe now, over the rug that has been washed of dog piss so many times, next to the coat rack where the son of the family recently put out and hid a joint in one of the pockets, next to the vase of flowers that has been broken a total of five times and replaced within the same day with the same looking vase. Mrs. Barker hasn’t noticed. They walk over a dug up and dangerous nail that the entire family has trained themselves to avoid rather than fix. The closet where the family hides their darkest secret above clawed wood and behind perfect alibis is walked passed, now without a sound, their hands touch the wood of the door and they continue to walk towards the back of the house. They are being cautious. The two pass the stairs that lead to the second story of the house where the guest watched Mr. Barker and his secretary do a lot of extra work late into the night. Mrs. Barker and Mr. Winfrode’s heartbeats sound more and more, beating against their rib cages with anguish. Their shadows join the room, and the watcher is consumed once more.

The moon gathers its stars into its bag and runs away. The shadows encased in brick didn’t have to wait until morning. Nobody would have to wait until morning. Mrs. Barker and Mr. Winfrode enter the room next. She is attached to his arm. He is about to piss himself. The watcher doesn’t move. They stare right at him. They stare through him. Their actions are his reason for victory. Untouchable and unable to be seen, he raises his knife, but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

“Hello?” Mr. Winfrode asks the dark, not questioning the lack of moonlight. He is praying that his wife would get on without him. Already begging for death. They scour the room, taking in shallow breaths and letting out little wheezes of air. An empty kitchen. An empty house. “There isn’t anybody here,” he says in conclusion.

“Maybe it was just the wind. It blows open the back door all the time. It’s strong tonight.” Mrs. Barker lets go of Mr. Winfrode and heads toward the back door. Knowing the distance from the doorway to the otherside of the room by heart, it’s a fast walk in her mind. She doesn’t question the lack of light. “Or maybe someone wanted a little show and they’re watching us from the dark. Wouldn’t that be an interesting situation, eh Jimmy?” A slight chuckle enters her voice as she reaches the door.

“Is that a fantasy of yours, Mrs. Barker? To have somebody watch?” Mr. Jimmy Winfrode asks as he begins to unbutton his ripped Levi jeans once more. “I could call over the creepy guy on 4th. He seems like the watching type.” His jeans and underwear fall, his shirt following. “Would that make this a little more exciting?”

Mrs. Bernice Barker latches the door. She hears Jimmy kick his clothes out of the doorway. She begins to hike up her beige skirt and turn around.

The watcher moved without a sound, the knife still suspended in the air. It slides into her skin, a barrier broken and a life taken in the kitchen where it was meant to.

She grunts, and he can feel the drops on his hand instantly.

“Bernice?” Mr. Winfrode asks.

The watcher twists the knife in her gut, ensuring a death in the dark. Her body falls and he moves back, slinking behind the counter as Mr. Winfrode takes a few steps forward and then releases a scream. The man turned to run, but he was too blind still. Dead to the house, silently praying for his wife with his last breath, he is able to stare into the eyes of his killer as a light begins to fill the room. One he didn’t notice was missing.

Mr. Winfrode did, as well, wonder what about the boogeyman when he was a child, but he did not think about the motive. He was always curious about the creature’s features. A monster who never left the dark. A killer without remorse. He wanted to know what he would think when staring into the eyes of the creature under his bed, but the boogeyman does not have a face, he found out. Not one of its own, that is. Looking at your reflection in the water, your image is distorted. Almost as if it is far away, when in reality you can break it yourself with the simple wave of a hand. He is the boogeyman. He was his own downfall.

We are all boogeymen of our own stories. He hadn’t noticed. The same as he had no questions. He hadn’t asked himself why he was doing what he was doing. He didn’t ask where the moon had gone. He had heard the noise in the kitchen, but all he wanted was to get off. He wanted a good time. The boogeyman had won, and all he could do was fall to the ground, feel the thick and warm blood between his fingers. He was left with no other choice but to watch the monster open the door, take a step onto the porch and crunch a few leaves on the broken pavement.