Night One
All I Want Is To Not Be Alone: Stories From The Start #7
“Mmmmmm.”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“It was a loud knock.”
“What? No, I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded like it came... there! There it is again.”
“Yeah, OK, I heard that.”
“You going to check it out?”
“It’s probably just raccoons in the trash again.”
“Come on, John, just go check it.”
“Helen, really. It’s the middle of the night.”
“But you know, last week, someone tried to break in next door. If their dog hadn’t lost his mind barking, they could have been robbed blind. Or worse.”
“Oh, Helen. That wasn’t a robber. It was just Shelly sneaking in after curfew.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I saw her. Caught her red-handed but promised to let it slide. The one time. She’s a good kid. She can break the rules every so often.”
“Still, it’s a weeknight.”
“Is it?”
“OK, Mr. Retired... some of us still need to get up in the morning.”
“Alright, alright. You go back to sleep. I’ll check it out.”
“Thank you... and...”
“Yeah?”
“Say hi to the raccoons for me. They’re cute.”
“Oh my God, Helen. You are really... just sometimes.”
“Love you, too.”
John stretches out of bed. His back is stiff even though he’d followed the doctor’s and Helen’s nagging about doing his daily stretches and exercise routine. He doesn’t even really do it for himself, but it’s a great argument tool to have when Helen doesn’t want to do her end of the exercise. Her replacement hip still gives her some trouble, though she usually denies it.
He throws on his robe and pulls up his house pants. It’s early, still dark out, but now he’s wide awake. He could use a cup of coffee. What else does he have to do?
He goes downstairs and turns on the lights in the kitchen. He flips on the coffee machine and makes sure it starts to fuss. He hopes all this action is enough to scare away whatever critter is banging around outside.
Sometimes they get stuck in the pool. They don’t cover it in the summers, and there have been a few times he’s found squirrels grasping onto the filter edges.
He grabs his mug and looks out the kitchen window. He takes a sip. He doesn’t see it at first, but catches it after a minute.
A dark silhouette stands out against the dim pool lights. It seems to shimmer in the night air, and it takes a minute for John to be sure it is a person.
The figure looks to be slouching, gazing into the rippling surface of the pool. A breeze knocks the water around, but they stand still. They wear a thin jacket that almost looks like it’s in tatters, as the wind ruffles it around like party streamers.
John’s senses go on high alert. They’ve never had a trespasser before. It was never even a real thought. Their neighborhood is safe. They don’t even lock their doors half the time. But there it is, right in front of him. There they are in the swimming light. Standing.
That’s the first thing that strikes him as odd after the initial shock. Why break into the yard just to look at the pool? Wouldn’t they be trying to pick the back door handle or open a side window? What value does the pool have?
He finds the coffee hitting his lips in an automatic motion as he thinks the situation through. He’s lit like a display window. There’s no way the person hasn’t noticed his entrance to the kitchen. There’s no way they can’t see him plain as day. Either they have balls like kettlebells, or they’re insane. Maybe drugged out. That would explain a lot.
John is stuck on the spot. He’s not sure if going out is smart or if staying in is dumb. He takes another long sip of coffee. It tastes extra good this morning. He thinks of Helen upstairs. He hopes she fell back asleep. He doesn’t want her to be afraid in her own house.
Enough is enough. John grabs a knife, the largest one out of the wooden block that sits on the counter, next to the sink. He doesn’t plan to use it but knows how intimidating it looks. He’s a big guy, over the six-and-a-half-foot mark, and his age has pushed up his weight into the heavyweight class. He hopes it’s enough to scare them off.
Just in case he grabs his phone off the charger and starts to record. Better to have everything on video. If things go south, he can go back in, lock the door, and call the cops. He’ll have the whole interaction documented to avoid any hearsay later.
He turns on the flashlight, presses record, and leaves the kitchen.
“It’s three thirty-eight in the morning. My wife and I heard some noise in our yard. I went to our kitchen, which has a view of the backyard, and saw a trespasser by our pool. I’m going out to ask if they are OK and inform them that they are trespassing. If they take any action besides leaving, I will go back inside and call the police. This is a video to document all of this. There they are. You can see them by the pool. They’ve been just standing there, staring at the water for about the last five minutes. I don’t know how long they’ve been there before that. OK, here I go...”
John leads with the bright light of the phone. As he approaches, the person still doesn’t react. They continue to stand. They continue to stay fixated on the water. The wind picks up a bit.
“Hello? Hi. You, there! Are you OK? You’re in my yard. This is private property. What are you doing in my yard?”
The figure jerks up at attention. It turns with a slow, methodical twist toward John. He can smell them. It’s like a wave that makes him cough back sick in his throat.
It’s a man. At least it looks like a badly battered representation of one. He completes his turn to John’s horror.
The knife falls to the ground, and John quickly dials 911. A busy tone bleats on in his ear. He takes a few steps back.
“Oh my God. Oh, man! Are you OK? I mean, look at you! Just sit down, relax. I’m calling an ambulance!”
The man steps forward with an unsteady lurch. He lets out a slow grumble that sounds more like a dog in the back corner of a shelter cage. His clothes are ripped, wet, and full of dark stains. His jawline is scratched open and exposes his moving teeth. They clamp around his mostly severed tongue.
The rest of his face matches with deep tracks of red and gore. One eye sinks back, far too deep, into his skull. He looks nearly scalped, though John can’t make out if it’s a hairpiece fluttering in the wind, or the man’s actual skin.
“I think you should sit down. Shit! Why is it busy?”
John pounds on his phone to redial. It’s busy again. He tries a third time and is met with the same repeating tone.
“Come on, you son of a bitch!”
“John!”
“Helen? Honey, stay inside. There’s a man out here. I think he’s hurt. Bad. I can’t get through to an ambulance.”
“John! Look out!”
The man by the pool is almost on top of him. John hadn’t seen him make the unexpectedly quick progress across the patio. His eyes were glued to his phone, but divert to look directly into the man’s, only a few paces away. They’re dull, like clouded fishbowls.
“Whoa, mister. Hold on. Just take a beat, now. Take a step back.”
Despite his height advantage, the man’s presence sends John backpedaling to the kitchen door.
“Honey. John. What’s wrong with him? Oh my God. John! Look at him. What’s wrong with him?”
“Go back in, Helen! Get inside! There’s something not right with him.”
“John!”
The man quickens his pace and lunges. Two patio chairs fly to the wayside and skid across the polished concrete. John falls back over another and sends the table tumbling to its side. He lands with a thud on his back and feels a pop in his shoulder. Intense pain rockets from his neck down to his left leg.
The man is on top of him. The exposed jaws snap in quick succession. John has never smelled it before, but he still knows what it is. This man reeks of death. Of rot. Of the ending of all life. The teeth are chipped into sharp shards.
“John!”
“Stay back! This guy is crazy! Helen, lock the door!”
Helen instead hustles to help her husband. She picks up the knife next to the struggling duo’s feet and rams it hard into the man’s back, just between the spine and right shoulder blade.
The man turns his attention to her. He grabs out and latches onto her forearm. His fingers are dirty and cracked. His shrapnel teeth clench just under her wrist. The color drains from her face.
“You son of a bitch!”
John tackles the man, and they tumble toward the water’s edge.
“John! Watch out!”
The two splash in and stain the water a murky mess. It sloshes into a dark brown mix of struggle and stillness.
The waves settle to a calm, and the reflected light halts its dance. Helen stumbles toward the edge, trying to make out any movement under the surface.
“John? Oh God! John?”
A form explodes on the opposite side, by the hooked ladder, diving into the deep end. John pulls himself over the edge and sputters and coughs. The other blurry shape remains sunken.
“Helen? Helen! Are you OK?”
“Oh, John! Thank God. Are you OK?”
“Yeah. Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“What’s wrong with that man? Did you see him? He looked like he was half eaten by a pack of wolves.”
“I know. I don’t know how he could still move like that. Someone with those types of injuries. I don’t know, hon, you’d think he’d either be in shock or just in so much pain. I really don’t know... but that doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s coming back up. Did he get you? Let me see your arm.”
Helen leans down to her husband and holds out her forearm. The man left a nasty mark. A clear semi-circle of punctures surrounded by deepening purple bruises. Droplets of blood leak from each hole like thick runs of rustic paint.
“He got me, but it’s not too bad.”
“Hon! That looks terrible! God only knows what that guy has for diseases. We need to get you to a hospital.”
“Maybe you’re right. From the look of him... he wasn’t normal.”
“Normal or not, a person bit you. I think that’s hospital-worthy. And I should probably call the cops. Better to get them involved as quickly as possible.”
“Right, right. But maybe we do it from inside? I’d feel better being behind a locked door.”
“I guess. I don’t think he’s going to be any more trouble.”
“I don’t know, John. There’s something not right about him. He gives me the creeps. I just... I don’t know, I have a feeling. I think we’d go in and lock everything up. Maybe there’s more like him around.”
“Dear God, let’s hope not. That’s the last thing we need is a pack of lunatics running around biting people. Bunch of crackheads. Jesus. Alright, let’s get you up and in. I should change, too.”
Helen yanks her husband’s wrist and helps him up. Water drips in his footsteps, and he sheds most of the wet clothes and throws them on a patio chair before going in and locking the door. He yanks at the handle to make sure it sticks. His eyes constantly dart back to the pool, but he tries not to let Helen catch his fear. She’s been through enough, and he’s more worried about this bite than he tells her.
“OK, we’re in. Everything is locked. Why don’t you clean that bite out? Tons of soap, warm water, maybe get it twice. I’ll get you a fresh towel.”
“Thanks, hon.”
John leaves his wife as she fusses in the sink. The towel closet is upstairs, and so is her phone. He left his outside and eyes the pool as he goes upstairs. It sloshes slightly. He grabs a towel and pulls her phone from the charger on her nightstand. It’s fully charged.
He calls 911. It’s still busy. He tries again. The same.
“Shit.”
He wanders around upstairs to see if it’s a service problem. The phone shows full bars. Their wi-fi looks fine as well. He goes to the window that overlooks the backyard. He calls his phone. It rings. He can see his phone light up and skitter across the patio. He hits the red button to hang up when he thinks the pool’s surface jolts into small waves.
“Can’t be...”
He rubs his eyes and goes downstairs. He’s tired and wired all at the same time, but his wife is more important. She sits at the island in one of the high stools they use to drink their morning coffee. He hands her the towel and grabs her mug. She smiles and looks pale.
“It’s OK, John. It cleaned up OK. I think it’ll be OK.”
“Well, still, we need to make it to a hospital, but the darndest thing. The emergency number is busy. I’ve tried it a few times, and nothing. Just a busy tone.”
“Maybe it’s your phone?”
“Thought about that. It’s the same as yours.”
“Who was it that made the big case that landlines are useless these days? At least there you could get an operator.”
“I know, I know, I know. But that’s not a bad idea. You know, the Williams still have a landline. That old bird rises before the sun. I bet they’re already up. And anyway, it’s an emergency.”
“You shouldn’t bother them.”
“No, I think it’s the right thing to do. Look, Helen, besides your arm, we need to not forget there’s probably a dead man in our pool. I’d rather have cops and the whole brigade here to avoid any problems later when asked why we didn’t call right away. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll go to the hospital, get you sorted, and then I’ll go to the cops. The station’s not far from the hospital.”
“OK, hon. That sounds good. Go slow, don’t panic, I’m OK. Really. The coffee has done the trick. I needed some caffeine to calm my nerves.”
John kisses Helen on the forehead. It’s clammy. He lays her phone on the countertop.
“Take this. I’m going through the back to get mine. If anything, we can call each other.”
“OK. Be careful, please. That guy in the pool still gives me the creeps. There’s something just, I don’t know, not normal about all this.”
“Agree with you one hundred percent, hon.”
Helen follows John to the back door as he unlocks it and steps out. His eyes never leave the pool.
“Lock it behind me.”
“I’m not locking you out there. You’re a strong man, John Brown, but sometimes a stupid one. I’ll be fine. If there’s any trouble, I’ll lock it if I need to. But I won’t lock you out for no reason.”
“Alright. Then go back in. I’m sure I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Go on, already.”
Helen closes the door, and John scoops up his phone. He isn’t sure why, but he has the urge to keep the noise level down and nearly tiptoes to the side yard.
Next door seems all quiet. Even their dog must be asleep at this hour. John undoes the small lock on their side gate and squeezes to the small walkway where they keep the trash cans.
“I’d rather have seen those damn raccoons.”
He stops short. His view of the street is mostly blocked by the rest of the fence dividing the two yards, but he can make out a few people standing under the streetlights. Just standing. Like the man by their pool.
“Shit. What is going on?”
The words suck back into his mouth when one of the figures starts to move. It sends John quietly into the shadows next to the neighboring house. Down the street, a garage door opens, and a car backs out. They speed away, leaving the door wide open. Other houses have lights on too.
The details fuel his flight. No matter what this is, he doesn’t feel safe outside. Exposed. Vulnerable.
He knows they don’t lock their side gate, so he slips into the yard. They won’t mind. He’ll just slip through their yard and then to the Williams. There’s a gate that connects the two on the other side. It’ll be safe. Safer than out on the street. His skin crawls. What is it about those figures that’s unsafe? The feeling reminds him of the pool man’s smell.
He hustles down the side yard and turns at the corner of the house. It’s dark. They don’t have a sensor light. Nothing flicks on to illuminate the deep black. The stars are too weak.
The first one grabs him, hard on the right shoulder. The second on his left knee. It takes a moment to register that there are two of them. His mind pictures a large, tentacled creature sprouting from the depths of Hell.
They let off a wheezing groan that gets caught in dry throats. John stumbles back, out of their grips, and crashes hard into the side of the small shed. He can hardly make them out. Their forms merge in and out of the shadows.
He fumbles along the wooden wall until it disappears. He falls back and lands on something that pokes hard into his ribs. Pain rips through his torso. Something has been broken. He knows from his college days as a linebacker.
John grabs in the dark and pulls at the pointy thing. It’s a wooden handle. The front has a silvery arrow-shaped head.
The two shadows descend on him, and in a flash, he swings the shovel. It lodges in the head of one and carries through its momentum to topple the connected body into the other. They fall, and he rises. He jumps around the downed bodies back into the yard.
They stand like a wavering nightmare. The shovel sticks out from their singular, dark shape. He grabs at it, the wooden handle slick, and pulls till a sickening suction sound escapes. He falls back with the weapon, bounds back up, and unleashes blow after blow after blow after blow. He rains the brutality down on the two bodies until they feel like Jell-O molds.
Still, they move. Still, they pull toward him. Still, they persist.
“Why won’t you fucking die?”
He slams the spade down a dozen more times. They remain in motion. He backs up a few paces.
“Fine! Fine, you undying pricks. You won’t die, huh? Alright, maybe you just need a proper send-off. A real six-feet-under statement. Fine. See how you wriggle out of this!”
John Brown strikes the soft earth and removes the first shovel full. He keeps an eye on the two things in the yard but thinks of the one in his pool.
He thinks of Helen, then strikes the earth again.