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Authors: Susan Lynn Solomon
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small industrial sites, a smattering of private residences are set back in stands of trees. One of those residences is mine.
As I rounded a curve on River Road, my headlights lit a four-by-four parked behind the snow heaped near my driveway. Smeared with road salt, the pickup looked abandoned, ghostly. Late on a winter night, nobody parks on a dark winding road. Not if they expect to find their vehicle in one piece when they return. Examining the pickup as I drew near, I again felt a tingle at the nape of my neck. This time I had no need to think about the cause: fear was the spider crawling up my spine. My imagination constructing the image of a shadowy mass murderer who skulked in my backyard, my first instinct was to race into Roger’s driveway, jump from my car, and pound on his door. I would have done just that if a single light burned in his house.
He’s probably out trying to track down whoever killed Jimmy, I thought.
I cursed him for disobeying his boss when I needed him here to keep Jack the Ripper from making me his next victim. Yeah, Jack was long dead. So what? Maybe his ghost hid in the snow. Muttering every invective I could think of, I parked as close to my garage as I could get, and ran the fifteen yards from my car to the front door. I left the headlights on.
What? Everyone knows murderers won’t strike when lights are on. It’s an unwritten rule—sort of like wearing a necklace of garlic to ward off vampires.
Okay, this was my vivid imagination gone haywire. But after all, if witches and magic spells actually exist, it’s entirely logical to believe vampires and killers lurk behind the trees in my yard—
God, sometimes imagination is a royal pain!
My key held out in front of me like a Bowie knife with which I might slash at anything that dared to cross my path, I slammed through my front door. The racket I made would have wakened the dead or maybe chased off a few zombies.
Elvira’s reaction was to flop over the arm of my wingback chair and glare at me with an expression that said, Hey, how about a little quiet! Can’t you see I’m sleeping in here?
“Couldn’t you at least pretend to be an attack dog?” I said.
She yawned. I was boring her.
With my hands on my hips, I glared at the oversized animal that had made a comfortable nest in my home and my life. Just when I opened my mouth to shoot a scathing remark in her direction, I heard knocking on the French doors. The killer was in my backyard. He wanted me to let him in.
The thought, Ohmigod, I really am being stalked, blew though my mind like a winter gale. Terrified, I froze.
Elvira cowered in the chair, her eyes wide. If I weren’t trembling, I would have enjoyed the sight—the big coward.
There was another knock, so hard this time a pane of glass rattled.
My eyes rapidly flicked from the door to Elvira.
A high-pitched screech came from the cat. It was as if she screamed, Board up the house! Dump all the books from the bookcases and build a barricade in front of the door!
Garnering a very foolish courage, I took a step forward (a killer on the loose, someone pounding on my door late at night, and not immediately phoning the police smacks of foolishness). Over my shoulder, I whispered, “Be quiet while I see who’s there.” My only explanation for doing this is that my boggled brain figured someone who intended to kill me wouldn’t knock and asked if I would let him inside to do it.
Elvira didn’t look at all certain about my logic. Her eyes flicked as if she were ready to scramble under my desk.
I tiptoed across the room. I don’t know why I did. It wasn’t as if I were going to surprise whoever lurked out there. As I hesitantly reached to pull the mini-blind aside, I glanced back at the wingback chair. My fraidy cat was nowhere to be seen.
I turned again to the French doors, leaned over.
There was another knock.
I dropped the blind, jumped back. My voice trembling, I said, “Go away!”
“C’mon, Emlyn,”
As I rounded a curve on River Road, my headlights lit a four-by-four parked behind the snow heaped near my driveway. Smeared with road salt, the pickup looked abandoned, ghostly. Late on a winter night, nobody parks on a dark winding road. Not if they expect to find their vehicle in one piece when they return. Examining the pickup as I drew near, I again felt a tingle at the nape of my neck. This time I had no need to think about the cause: fear was the spider crawling up my spine. My imagination constructing the image of a shadowy mass murderer who skulked in my backyard, my first instinct was to race into Roger’s driveway, jump from my car, and pound on his door. I would have done just that if a single light burned in his house.
He’s probably out trying to track down whoever killed Jimmy, I thought.
I cursed him for disobeying his boss when I needed him here to keep Jack the Ripper from making me his next victim. Yeah, Jack was long dead. So what? Maybe his ghost hid in the snow. Muttering every invective I could think of, I parked as close to my garage as I could get, and ran the fifteen yards from my car to the front door. I left the headlights on.
What? Everyone knows murderers won’t strike when lights are on. It’s an unwritten rule—sort of like wearing a necklace of garlic to ward off vampires.
Okay, this was my vivid imagination gone haywire. But after all, if witches and magic spells actually exist, it’s entirely logical to believe vampires and killers lurk behind the trees in my yard—
God, sometimes imagination is a royal pain!
My key held out in front of me like a Bowie knife with which I might slash at anything that dared to cross my path, I slammed through my front door. The racket I made would have wakened the dead or maybe chased off a few zombies.
Elvira’s reaction was to flop over the arm of my wingback chair and glare at me with an expression that said, Hey, how about a little quiet! Can’t you see I’m sleeping in here?
“Couldn’t you at least pretend to be an attack dog?” I said.
She yawned. I was boring her.
With my hands on my hips, I glared at the oversized animal that had made a comfortable nest in my home and my life. Just when I opened my mouth to shoot a scathing remark in her direction, I heard knocking on the French doors. The killer was in my backyard. He wanted me to let him in.
The thought, Ohmigod, I really am being stalked, blew though my mind like a winter gale. Terrified, I froze.
Elvira cowered in the chair, her eyes wide. If I weren’t trembling, I would have enjoyed the sight—the big coward.
There was another knock, so hard this time a pane of glass rattled.
My eyes rapidly flicked from the door to Elvira.
A high-pitched screech came from the cat. It was as if she screamed, Board up the house! Dump all the books from the bookcases and build a barricade in front of the door!
Garnering a very foolish courage, I took a step forward (a killer on the loose, someone pounding on my door late at night, and not immediately phoning the police smacks of foolishness). Over my shoulder, I whispered, “Be quiet while I see who’s there.” My only explanation for doing this is that my boggled brain figured someone who intended to kill me wouldn’t knock and asked if I would let him inside to do it.
Elvira didn’t look at all certain about my logic. Her eyes flicked as if she were ready to scramble under my desk.
I tiptoed across the room. I don’t know why I did. It wasn’t as if I were going to surprise whoever lurked out there. As I hesitantly reached to pull the mini-blind aside, I glanced back at the wingback chair. My fraidy cat was nowhere to be seen.
I turned again to the French doors, leaned over.
There was another knock.
I dropped the blind, jumped back. My voice trembling, I said, “Go away!”
“C’mon, Emlyn,”
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