It’s always the breaks.
No really. That’s how you know something is up. People break routine. Despite all our claims of originality and spontanaity, we live for routines. Routines make the hellscape reality we’re in easier to live with. They’re work, school. Taking out the garbage, all that. No matter what you tell yourself, it’s the things you do a thousand times that define your existence.
People thought I was crazy for starting a neighborhood watch. They all argued it was dumb, that our cul de sac tucked away from the city was quiet. That nothing could ever happen here. I guess in their own way, they were right. The only time you heard sirens through here is when Old Man Johnson had his heart attack a year ago. He’s fine, now.
But that night, when it did happen? I saw it. I saw how they squirmed, opening their front doors. Glancing around in a panic. It was the pained expressions of people caught with their pants down. The comfort of dinner broken by a single blaring noise. Everyone rubber-necked as the ambulance pulled up. When the stretcher rolled out, I could already hear ‘em.
“Oh my god, do you think he’s dead?”
They rolled Johnson out, his hand clutching his chest. People just stared as his wife wailed, clutching her arms like she was cold. She cried as the ambulance rolled on, and not a single one of them stirred.
So. At the next home owner’s association meeting, I brought up a watch. It was shot down-but they humored me enough to say if I could organize it, I could do it. So I did-I did if for no other reason than I was the only fucking person that hugged Johnson’s wife. The only one that told her it was going to be okay.
Everyone else was too ingrained in their little routines.
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I didn’t have to keep notes, but I did.
I didn’t use cameras, or solar lights. That would have been way too overt. No, I went the old fashioned route. I bought a set of binoculars at Walmart, and a notebook. The total cost of our neighborhood watch?
Well under two twenties. Not much for a security system.
I worked from home, so it was easy. At the top of every hour, I’d go peek out the window on the second story. I’d glance up the street, down the street. I’d scribble a few notes, and that was it. Who left when, who did what at what time. I’m not fucking crazy-I know, that’s the first thing someone really god damned nutters would say. But I’m not-I simply realized something.
If these knuckle-draggers would go into shock over a consoling widow, what would they do in a real emergency? See what I mean?
I know you’re expecting me to say it was some Rear Window laddenned affair. Honestly it was monotonous as hell-all because of those damned routines. Not a single break for the first six months. There were a couple of times I didn’t even keep notes-what was the fucking point? It’s not like Clara and her three cats went anywhere on sunday night. Or the Smiths and their terrier weren’t going to walk at six-thirty to seven every night. Believe me, I’d know.
Then there came the knock at my door.
I’m not anti-social. But being unmarried, un-childed and un-pet having, people tend to avoid me. Couple this with being “the crazy guy”, and the most action my doorstep got came from Amazon deliveries. They didn’t knock, either.
It was a saturday night. The neighborhood had been quiet all day. I didn’t have a reason to leave, so I didn’t. I stayed inside, and pretended to pay attention to Netflix. Half the time I just dozed on the couch. My eyelids were about to droop again when it happened. I almost bolted upright-hearing it, I mean. I’m not skittish, not in the least. But when you’re so used to the quiet, even the hardened get a jolt. I glanced up at the clock-six PM, even. I rose off the couch and walked over to the door. I glanced out my peephole, only to see Mrs. Smith there. A dog leash in her hand, but no ratty mutt. She was gripping her arms, bouncing on the heels of her feet.
I pulled the deadbolt back, but not the chain. It rattled as I opened the door, and peeked out.
“Karen,” I said.
Her lips twitched into a nervous smile, but she stopped bouncing. “Hey uh-Smitty. It is Smitty, right?”
“One and the same,” I replied.
Karen nodded, but dropped the smile. She raised a hand to her mouth, and cleared her throat. “So, uh-Duchess? Our dog?” she said, “She went missing. You didn’t happen to see her, did you? I mean-I know you do the watch, and-”
“You last had her yesterday, right? About six thirty, seven?”
Karen paused, her entire being rigid. She blinked, and as the moment stretched I started to feel my stomach sink. But she shook her head, that practiced smile returning.
“Uh, yeah. That’s when we normally walk her. I’ve been at work all day, and I just got home. Sometimes she hides in the house, but she’s got out before. You didn’t happen to see her? Maybe running up the street while you-watched?”
Ugh. So I had said the wrong thing. I tried to smile, but it didn’t help. I’ve never been good at that-keeping people calm. S’why I do things myself, usually. I shook my head, and tried to find the right words.
“Nah, can’t say that I have today Karen. But listen, if I do? I’ll call her over-what’s her name again? Duchess?”
“Yep,” she said, “That’s it. Thanks Smitty. I uh-I knew you were the guy for the job,”
She turned away without saying goodbye. I closed the door, and set the deadbolt again.
A missing dog. A routine broken.
As weird as it sounds, I was a little elated. It was the first time in almost a year anything happened. I actually had a reason to peek from the blinds again. Something to pass the hours with.
Then the second pet disappeared. One of Clara’s cats, the black one. Which was damned odd-Clara kept a close eye on them. Closer than I did the block, but one still managed to “get out”. That’s what she chose to believe, at any rate. I made notes of it all. Of course I did. But I didn’t give it a second thought until the next home owner’s association meeting.
In a month, five animals had gone missing. Duchess, Clara’s cat, a german shepard, and a few mousey types someone had. All from inside the home. All at odd hours-daytime, night time. There one day, then gone when the owner got home. For the first time, people suddenly had questions.
“Smitty, did you see anything?”
“Did you happen to glance out the window?”
“You were home that day, right?”
Johnson, gripping a cane and a scowl, walked up to me later. We hadn’t said three words since his heart attack, but he clapped his hand on my shoulder all the same. “Son,” he said, “You ain’t behind all that, is you?”
I couldn’t wriggle out of his grip fast enough. I almost cursed, but I stopped myself. I plastered on a fake smile, and shook my head. “No sir, can’t say that I am. Like my house like I like the block-orderly,”
Johnson nodded, but leaned forward on his cane. A moment passed with his eyes searching my face. He parted his lips to say something-then his wife came, and slipped her arm into his elbow. His face fell as he looked at her, with her wide grin. Her blue eyes met his with a chill that’d silence anybody. But when she turned to me, she let out a laugh that warmed us both.
“Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just upset he can’t smoke anymore,” she said. “Honey, if anybody knew? It’d be Smitty. Wouldn’t it?”
I gave a nod, and made some small talk with them. When I turned to leave, I thought about all that had been said. How freaked out everyone was. Like a typhoon had rolled down the block, and only swept away the furballs. I paused when I made the sidewalk, the october air chill against the back of my neck. I looked up and down the street, and watched as everyone made for home.
All except for one person.
Someone who hadn’t been at the meeting.
Someone I couldn’t remember seeing in the last month.
I double checked. I counted heads, and accounted for a few absences. Sure as shit, she was missing. I tried not to grin then-tried to keep myself calm as I made my way back home. I set the lock, the latch and the deadbolt.
My footfalls were hard and manic as I made it upstairs to my notes.
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Routines make us. But that doesn’t mean those routines are normal.
Johnson? He’s the most boring out of the bunch. Every day he does the exact same things at roughly the same time. Evening news with the wife at 8. Wakes at six AM, takes a shit at six oh five. Clara, she’s a tad weirder. Every morning she gets up at seven. Her kitchen light goes on my seven oh five, and she bends to feed her cats. Her bathroom light dings on about seven ten, seven fifteen. Then, freshly washed and with the windows open?
She lays down on her bed, and jills off. Right there on the floor level, her back curtains open for the world to see. I’m not complaining-it’s just damned weird considering all else about her. Clara only left the house for three reasons-home owner’s meetings, groceries, and to see her mother exactly once a month. Little ticks like that-the curtains, I mean-it’s reminds me of Johnson’s heart attack. How people stood on their doorsteps and gawked. These little breaks, these little routines-that’s where you learn the meat of a person.
At least, that’s what I’d learned. Before, when I was a detective. Got to where I could precisely predict how someone was going to act.
Until that one night.
Thinking about it still makes me shudder. So I don’t.
It’s not just those, though. These little behaviors that reveal so damned much. It’s the absence of them that gets my eye too. See, if we’re creatures of habit, and you don’t have one? The first question anyone is going to ask is why. It’s easy for me-everyone just thinks I’m nuts. Fine, whatever. let them fucking think it. Let ’em roll in their hamster wheels of choices and pretend they’re okay. I’m no different than them. Not in the slightest. I wasn’t even the one they should be watching.
The Graves were.
Name withstanding, the Graves were an odd couple. Young, but stern. Lenny Graves looked like something out of a punk magazine, with a shaved head and all-black everything. He had a deep bass tone that bellowed out of him like he was glowering. But it was Aggie-short for Algotha-that caught your eye. Pretty thing she was, slim as a toothpick. Narrow chin, high cheek boneslike a model. She had straight auburn hair she let hang loose about her like a mask. I’d never heard her speak-and neither did anyone else. Truth be told, it was her eyes that kept folks away. Blue as neon, and piercing as a stilletto. With all that hair, you didn’t see them half the time.
But when she put her gaze on you, it wasn’t you she was looking at. It was your insides, your guts and bones. Like she was ready to pick you apart, regardless of how you greeted her. Most folks avoided the Graves because of Aggie. Myself included. She reminded me way too much of why I had to put up my badge.
I’d gone back down with my notes, and set a pot of coffee to brew. I started flipping through everything, eyes glazed by the time I got a cup. I pursed my lips and blew as I finally landed on the Graves.
Lenny was out usually late at night, guitar in tow. Okay, fine. But Aggie, as far as I’d observed never left. She’d open the curtains of that single-floor ranch house at the end of the block. Only for seconds at a time though. Not once did they open otherwise, and not once did I see her leave. But the day Duchess wound up missing?
She stopped looking out.
Lenny hadn’t left the house, either.
I set my cup down, and sat there staring at what was before me. Honestly, it was shit. Lenny staying home, Aggie not going out? Could have been terminal illness. They could have been on vacation or evicted for all the fuck I know. I rose from my seat, and went to the living room. I parted the curtain, and glanced down the block.
Their car was still in the driveway. An all-black jeep, tires dry as Arizona. I closed the curtains, and went back to the table.
I sat there, reading over every scrap I’d taken about them. My head started to tick in sync with a clock I had over the stove. A loud, pounding din that drove in a single thought.
I had to get more intel. Possibly tonight. No-I absolutely was going tonight. If for no other reason than a wellness check. That’d work.
I sipped the rest of my coffee, and closed my notes. The clock pounded on as I pondered where I’d left my Mag-Lite.
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The first thing they teach you about responding to calls?
Don’t stay in the door frame. Especially if you don’t have a partner, especially if it’s the front door. The reasons are really, utterly simple:
This is America.
It’d been years since I had a partner, though. Even when I was active duty, I tended to work alone except on domestics. Going to the back porch was out of the question-it’d look bad, both to the graves and anyone else. But I still stood to the side, just as I had hundreds of times. I rapped the door, and waited.
Not a single noise from inside came back. I turned my head, and looked down the block. The street lights had just cut into the black october night. A few people had their porch lights on. I checked my watch-Johnson would be watching the news. I glanced back up, my ears perking for even the slightest stir. But the only sound that came was the wind.
I turned back to the door, and knocked again. This time I decided to speak.
“Hey uh, it’s Smitty? Your neighbor? I was just wanting to check in. Y’all good?”
It could have been seconds, or minutes. All that met me was silence, still. I tilted my head towards a big bay window, one I’d seen Aggie use to peek. The curtains were drawn tight-blackouts, at that. I squinted in the dark, and tried to see the slightest sliver.
The lights were off. I checked my watch again. Seven oh five. I lowered my hand, and hooked my thumbs into my jeans. They could be asleep-with Lenny “working” the hours he did. But rarely, if ever, did that black jeep roll out during the day. Even then-it was only seven.
I spat a curse, and pulled my maglight from my hip. I glanced down the street once more, and walked left from the doorstep. My boots crunched on dead leaves as I rounded the corner of the house.
Most of the time, you can tell how someone is by their yard. Another little routine. If the yard is tame, all is well with the world. Leaves aren’t uncommon this season, but the height of the grass was right at my ankle. The backyard had nothing in it-not so much as a shed for a mower. So they hired a landscaper, maybe. I glanced up, and looked at a rickety porch that lead to a sliding glass door. Covered with the same blackout curtains as out front. I held my Maglite, finger on the button as I took the first step. It squaled beneath my boots, and I waited.
Nothing. I took the next, and the third. I stood on the porch, Maglite raised at my temple as I waited. Not so much as a bump or muffled curse met my ears. I crossed, and lifted my hands to the sliding glass door.
I pushed it about three inches, and waited.
Most people, especially in neighborhoods like this? They don’t lock the things. They figure they’re safe. But they do put these little alarms on them. Annoying damned things that shriek if someone so much as farts at them. That’s what I was waiting for-that shriek, the scrambling of feet. But all was quiet yet again, and my heart seized in my chest. I’d been out on cases like this before. Wellness checks that turn into a homicide-suicide. But that was with a badge, a gun.
I was a civvie with a flashlight and bad rep. I rolled an excuse through my head, looking for something that worked in the back of my mind. All that met me was headlines, though.
“Attempted Robber Discovers Murder-Found To Be Disgraced Cop”
“Former Cop Shot by Well-To-Do Upstanding Neighbors”
I pushed that glass door all the same. I stopped it, just wide enough for me to get it. I flicked on my flashlight, and nudged the curtain to the side with it. I felt myself freeze as my bowels tensed.
When you see a living room? You’re seeing pieces of someone. Their life, their routines, their ticks. All the little things people surround themselves with to make a life. Unlike the lawns, the messier a house is? The more someone is living. A messy house is a good sign. The graves?
Their place was so clean even dust didn’t want to lay on it. There was a single couch, and a coffee table. No TV, but the walls were lined with book shelves. I passed my torch over the titles, brow furrowing as I read them.
“The Yellow Sign”
“Greater Eldermancy”
“Crowmother’s Burden”
The rest were wrote in a different language, or the spines were so faded I couldn’t make them out. I stood there in the living room, my breath shallow as it left my nose. That’s when I noticed how warm it is. Warm enough to cause sweat to bead above my eye. I listend for the sound of a heater-but the place was still. No wheezing sound through the ducts.
Just me.
I turned, my light falling over a small conjoined kitchen. Just as clean as the living room. There was a small hall past that. I took a few steps forward, and saw two doors. One was ajar, and lead into a closet-sized laundry room. The other was made from a dark wood, firm within it’s frame. I stood before it, the light probing against the black wood when I finally heard something.
Panting. Faint, but real. Like someone was pumping iron, or-
My cheeks went warm as I realized just what the hell I’d stumbled into. I almost backed out then-almost. But I thought back to my notes. To how-for an entire month-the graves hadn’t so much as stepped outside of their place. I raised my hand, and gripped the door knob as the panting grew louder. Almost a shriek, animalistic in it’s grunts and breathy inhalations. I turned the handle, and swallowed as the door opened into a fiery orange light.
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The pets were never found.
But the random animal disappearances, they stopped. At least that’s what I heard through idle chatter the wind carried. People blamed it on me, of course. It looked so weird, right up until they thought on it. All those little routines they had, all those ticks-I didn’t have those. I was the oddball, the cook. And didn’t I get fired from being a cop? Ranting and raving about a guy that could set things on fire, so they tossed me out?
Fine. Whatever. Let them go on. Let them think they’re safe for now. If that’s all it takes, fuck them. They found a scape goat, they think they’re okay.
It’s not like Agoltha needed anyone else. She’d found a replacement for her husband, with his husk of a corpse propped in the corner. Always watching, the sunken eyes of his skull wide as it sat there.
A learning process. A new tick. That’s what happened to the animals, to Lenny. Agoltha-she prefers her full name, if that’s even it-had been trying out a new hobbie. Judging by the weight of her ass when she bucked down on me, it’d worked. She’d simply needed something stronger than a cat, a dog. A junkie guitarist with a weak heart.
She wanted someone healthy, with keen mind. And I’d walked right up to her front door.
Her cunt tightened on me inside the circle, it’s orange glow casting long shadows over her rolling hips. She’d snarl, her eyes flaring as her hair hung down in matted tangles. Every buck, she’d let out a snarling grunt. I’d let out a cry of pain as her claws dug deeper into my chest. Over old wounds, opening new. It didn’t matter to her. All that mattered was that I was alive, my heart was still beating.
As long as I could pump her full of life, I was useful. I’d live.
But as I laid there, bound to chains looped through the floor, I’d look up. Over at Lenny’s dried out body, the head tilted towards us. I’d sit there, and wonder just what would happen when my balls started shooting blanks.