Read Online People of the Dark by T.M. Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: T.M. Wright
Tags: Horror
Ads: Link
mountain. "I live there. My name's Martin. And this"—he nodded toward his feet to indicate the path we were on—"is private property."
I shrugged. "Then I'll leave," I said.
"It's not that I'm trying to be unfriendly," he said, and his thin smile reappeared, "but we really do like our privacy, Mr. Harris."
"How'd you know my name?"
He pointed at my mailbox across the road. "Easy enough," he said.
"Oh." I paused, added, "Who's 'we'?"
"'We'?"
"You said, 'We like our privacy.' Who's 'we'?"
He nodded a couple of times, as if to indicate that he understood. "Yes. That's me and my family, Mr. Harris. There are quite a few of us—"
"I know. I heard you last night."
His thin smile broadened. "Did we disturb you? I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. "I'll try to see that it doesn't happen again."
"Thanks. I don't mean to complain, it's just that my wife—"
"Of course you don't mean to complain, Mr. Harris. And I don't mean to sound unfriendly, either." He paused, smiled very broadly, then said, "But our privacy really is very important to us."
"As is mine."
"Of course. But for different reasons, I'm sure." It was clearly a spontaneous remark. And from his quick and short-lived frown, I got the idea that he regretted it at once. He nodded toward my house, smiled a dismissal. "Good day, Mr. Harris."
I said nothing; I turned and walked back to the house.
W e had trouble with moles early in March. Spring seemed to have arrived early; we had little snow, and what snow there was melted quickly in temperatures that were in the forties and fifties. So the moles appeared, and our cats had a field day with them. They killed them, skinned them, and left the bloody carcasses in spots inside the house where we'd be sure to find them and, I assume, see what wonderful hunters they were. The moles were of varying sizes. Some were as small as a man's thumb, others much larger, and they apparently numbered in the hundreds around the house.
The killing of the moles had a strange effect on Erika. At first she didn't seem to care much, beyond the fact that neither of us enjoyed finding tiny corpses in the house every morning (our cats came and went through a small pet door I'd installed in the laundry room). But after a week or so I found her weeping over one.
"It's only a mole, Erika," I said.
"Of course it's only a mole," she said, and it was clear from her tone that she wanted the subject dropped.
Several mornings later I found her weeping over another one; the cats had left it at the bottom of the stairway.
"Erika," I said, "you're beginning to worry me."
"I don't mean to," she said, swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, and sniffled, "I'm sorry."
I got several paper towels, and scooped up what remained of the mole. "I'll go and toss it into the woods, Erika." It was what I'd been doing with the other animals the cats had killed.
She shook her head. "No. I want you to bury it, Jack."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. "I'd rather not."
"It came from the earth, Jack." She hesitated, turned back one of the folds of paper towel to reveal the tiny red body within, stared at it a moment, then looked earnestly at me. "So put it back into the earth."
I grinned again, nervously this time, because I could hear a strange kind of tension in her voice. "Sure, Erika," I said. "If that's what you'd like." And I buried the mole in our backyard, close to where what we liberally referred to as "our lawn" blended with the weeds and thickets that were the beginning of the woods.
S everal days later I set out on a solo trip into Cohocton for dessert fixings. Erika wanted sundaes; she liked hot fudge on H
ä
agen-Dazs vanilla, with chopped nuts and real whipped cream; I liked everything but the chopped nuts. On the way I happened upon the jogger I'd seen earlier in the year. He was sitting on the edge of the road—his head down, his knees up, as if he'd gotten dizzy and was trying to correct it—in front of an open field that had
I shrugged. "Then I'll leave," I said.
"It's not that I'm trying to be unfriendly," he said, and his thin smile reappeared, "but we really do like our privacy, Mr. Harris."
"How'd you know my name?"
He pointed at my mailbox across the road. "Easy enough," he said.
"Oh." I paused, added, "Who's 'we'?"
"'We'?"
"You said, 'We like our privacy.' Who's 'we'?"
He nodded a couple of times, as if to indicate that he understood. "Yes. That's me and my family, Mr. Harris. There are quite a few of us—"
"I know. I heard you last night."
His thin smile broadened. "Did we disturb you? I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. "I'll try to see that it doesn't happen again."
"Thanks. I don't mean to complain, it's just that my wife—"
"Of course you don't mean to complain, Mr. Harris. And I don't mean to sound unfriendly, either." He paused, smiled very broadly, then said, "But our privacy really is very important to us."
"As is mine."
"Of course. But for different reasons, I'm sure." It was clearly a spontaneous remark. And from his quick and short-lived frown, I got the idea that he regretted it at once. He nodded toward my house, smiled a dismissal. "Good day, Mr. Harris."
I said nothing; I turned and walked back to the house.
W e had trouble with moles early in March. Spring seemed to have arrived early; we had little snow, and what snow there was melted quickly in temperatures that were in the forties and fifties. So the moles appeared, and our cats had a field day with them. They killed them, skinned them, and left the bloody carcasses in spots inside the house where we'd be sure to find them and, I assume, see what wonderful hunters they were. The moles were of varying sizes. Some were as small as a man's thumb, others much larger, and they apparently numbered in the hundreds around the house.
The killing of the moles had a strange effect on Erika. At first she didn't seem to care much, beyond the fact that neither of us enjoyed finding tiny corpses in the house every morning (our cats came and went through a small pet door I'd installed in the laundry room). But after a week or so I found her weeping over one.
"It's only a mole, Erika," I said.
"Of course it's only a mole," she said, and it was clear from her tone that she wanted the subject dropped.
Several mornings later I found her weeping over another one; the cats had left it at the bottom of the stairway.
"Erika," I said, "you're beginning to worry me."
"I don't mean to," she said, swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, and sniffled, "I'm sorry."
I got several paper towels, and scooped up what remained of the mole. "I'll go and toss it into the woods, Erika." It was what I'd been doing with the other animals the cats had killed.
She shook her head. "No. I want you to bury it, Jack."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. "I'd rather not."
"It came from the earth, Jack." She hesitated, turned back one of the folds of paper towel to reveal the tiny red body within, stared at it a moment, then looked earnestly at me. "So put it back into the earth."
I grinned again, nervously this time, because I could hear a strange kind of tension in her voice. "Sure, Erika," I said. "If that's what you'd like." And I buried the mole in our backyard, close to where what we liberally referred to as "our lawn" blended with the weeds and thickets that were the beginning of the woods.
S everal days later I set out on a solo trip into Cohocton for dessert fixings. Erika wanted sundaes; she liked hot fudge on H
ä
agen-Dazs vanilla, with chopped nuts and real whipped cream; I liked everything but the chopped nuts. On the way I happened upon the jogger I'd seen earlier in the year. He was sitting on the edge of the road—his head down, his knees up, as if he'd gotten dizzy and was trying to correct it—in front of an open field that had
Similar Books
