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Tom and his wife, Barb, aren’t the couple most believe them to be. On the outside, they’re the picture-perfect pair from the 50s who play their part well. Constant signs of true love, holding hands, and a kiss on the cheek whenever Tom leaves for work. It’s ‘Leave it to Beaver’ time, and I’m not buying. The vibes they give off when near are pure evil. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but I will.
Some nights, I end up calling the police. Screams from their basement can be heard across the street. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. It’s PTSD on steroids, as it reminds me of the torment I witnessed while on tour in Iraq. And here’s what’s odd: when the police arrive, nothing happens. It’s like they’re under a spell and believe the same ole line.
“Sorry, officers, it’s our TV with the Dolby surround sound, making all the noise. We will turn it down.”
Ok, whatever, I call bullshit. I’ve been in the shit, and I recognize torture when I hear it. Those shrieks aren’t coming from the idiot box. They came from someone or something in agony.
Then there’s Jack, who lives next to Tom and Barb. Another odd character. This guy returns home from work in the middle of the night like clockwork. But here’s the clencher. He grabs an odd-shaped duffel bag from the trunk. They’re always different, and he rushes into the house. The one detail I’ve noticed, these bags are covered with what resembles blood splatter stains. Maybe it’s the light from the porch, I have no idea. But that’s a story for another day.
Why the hell did I ever move to this town? I’ll never know. But what I do realize, whatever Tom’s up to, it isn’t good.
Every night when the moon shines bright, Tom sneaks out alone carrying a backpack with unusual items. He showed me them once, and from what I recall, the pack had a lantern, a few candles, a knife that reminded me of a Ka-Bar with a double-edged blade, some type of cup, rope, and a folding shovel like the ones the military issues to new recruits. The few other items I don’t recall. After sharing, his usual ramblings began. This time it’s about whether he should tell Barb about the secret. I asked what secret, and he’d change the subject and carried on about voices in his head.
Ok, fine, whatever. I knew guys like this from combat, and they’re lunatics. What do I care? Because from where I sit, the dude has issues. Whatever he’s up to, it’s not normal. Teacher by day. At night, who the hell knows, as he wanders town with the backpack. I’m kind of tired of listening to him and should keep my distance. But, it’s near impossible being next door. The constant yapping about the voices drives me insane. How they’re the angels of light who lead him from darkness into the meadow under a full moon. How they allow him to complete their Christian work. Because it’s the whisper who guides him and gives the commands, but if he refuses, he’ll face their wrath.
What wrath, and who the hell are they and their? The guy’s delusional. But to Tom, it’s another random day.
Four AM, and I need a smoke before work. I head out onto the front porch, light my cig, and enjoy. Then, out of nowhere, it’s you know who, Tom and his backpack. In usual fashion, he invites himself over for a chat. Before I could escape, he started.
“Hey Dave, bum a smoke?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well, I have something I need to tell you.”
“I’m not interested, Tom, it’s 4 AM, and I need to be at work in an hour.”
“It’ll only take a minute. Tonight, I sprinted to the cemetery through the meadow behind the house.”
“Dude, I got to…”
“You done? Anyway, I jumped the gate, then stopped to catch my breath. Once I realized the path hid under the tree line, I lit the lantern, and the angels guided me through the trail.”
“Dude, where is this going?”
“What’s your problem? Let me finish. We headed to the cemetery.”
“Who headed to the cemetery?”
“Thanks for asking.”
What the fuck is he talking about?
“Upon arrival, I pulled out my shovel, and we began the task.”
“What task, Tom?”
Who the hell are we?
"It doesn’t matter. The fact we used the shovel the whisper commanded is all you need to know. One thing I learned, this tool can dig and cut like butter. I’m glad they had me sharpen the edge, or I’d have to use my teeth to finish. It made the task that much easier."
Right then, before he said another word, I ended the conversation. He rambled on for a few more minutes. The last thing I recall was something about how he panicked, and they had to hide it until he got home.
What he had to hide, I have no idea. Who they are, I don’t care, nor do I want to know. At this point, I’m going zero contact with this nut job for a bit. Sometimes you just need your distance, as this guy can get into your head.
Anyway, I’m not sure if I saw something or not. But as he walked away, I could’ve sworn the pack moved in multiple directions, like something was in it. Maybe I’m tired, and my eyes are playing tricks on me. But before he entered his house, the porch light went out. Barb opened the door, kissed him on the cheek, and checked the content of the pack. Weird, I know. But what’s even more odd, I noticed what looked like a trail of liquid dripping from his back when he entered the house.
Whatever it was, I’m keeping my distance for now.