laughing as Colbert, a big-city woman, struggled with country life.
Midway through the movie, she was more awake than ever.
“Time for a smoke,” she said to Irene, her white, orange, and black calico cat. Irene liked to lie along the top of the love seat and sleep twenty-two hours a day. It was an enviable life.
Margie plucked a pack of Kools and a lighter from the kitchen table and went out the kitchen door. Their house had central cooling, and it felt good to get some fresh air, even if it was slightly warmer and about to be laced with cigarette smoke.
The first cigarette disappeared like it was a prop in a magic act. She lit another with the dying stub of the first and took a long drag. Insomnia and chain-smoking weren’t ingredients for a long, healthy life, but they were her crosses to bear. On nights like this, three or four coffin nails put her in the frame of mind to get a few more hours’ sleep.
A blazing white moon hung large and heavy in the sky. The soft, steady night wind carried the smell of mint from the patch she’d planted in the back of the yard.
“I have to make mojitos tomorrow when Les comes home,” she said, tapping her ashes into the dented tray they got from a long-ago trip to the Catskills. It was sad knowing the ashtray outlived the resort.
She walked around the yard, enjoying the quiet of the night, eventually finding herself in the front yard. Every house along both sides of the street was dark. More than one of her neighbors had told her they slept better knowing she had an eye on the block. Her inability to sleep made her the unofficial neighborhood watch. In no small way, it made her embrace her condition. Everything happened for a reason.
Margie jumped when something crashed in the backyard. Flicking her cigarette into the street, she dashed along the side of the house. She pulled up short when she entered the yard.
“What the—”
Her patio table was turned over on its side. The folded umbrella had snapped in half from the fall.
It would have taken a hell of a breeze to knock that over. She sighed with relief when she got close enough to see that the glass top hadn’t cracked. Les would have a fit when she told him they needed to buy a new umbrella.
She thought about waking him up to help her right the table. It was lighter than she thought and she was able to do it on her own.
“Unbelievable,” she said, inspecting the break in the umbrella stand.
Snap!
Margie whipped her head around to see what had made the noise. It had come from the impenetrably dark strip under their dogwood tree.
Stupid kids , she thought. Late-night pool hopping was common in July, and her yard was part of the route between the aboveground pools to the left and right of her house.
“You’re going to pay for a new umbrella,” she called out. “I know you’re there. Swimming’s over for tonight.”
Something moved in the dark. There was no muffled teen laughter. She felt whoever was under the dogwood tree was watching her, waiting to see what she would do next.
Margie’s chest turned to ice.
She stood motionless, her hands atop the table. Try as she might, she couldn’t see a thing back there.
Scritch!
It was the sound of something sharp dragging across the bark of the tree.
There was more movement than ever now; the sound of shuffling feet amidst her rhododendrons.
She slowly reached into her pocket. Running her thumb over the wheel of her lighter, Margie hoped the flame would discourage any strange, stray animals from getting any closer.
Whatever was in her yard brought a palpable weight of menace.
The night breeze shifted, blowing from the dogwood’s direction. A sharp, terrible odor bit into her. She recoiled, and the light went out.
A large paw emerged from the shadows, followed by another.
Margie’s heart thudded into overdrive when its hideous face emerged.
And it was not happy.
Dalton pulled his car around the plaza in Montauk, the grassy roundabout that
Midway through the movie, she was more awake than ever.
“Time for a smoke,” she said to Irene, her white, orange, and black calico cat. Irene liked to lie along the top of the love seat and sleep twenty-two hours a day. It was an enviable life.
Margie plucked a pack of Kools and a lighter from the kitchen table and went out the kitchen door. Their house had central cooling, and it felt good to get some fresh air, even if it was slightly warmer and about to be laced with cigarette smoke.
The first cigarette disappeared like it was a prop in a magic act. She lit another with the dying stub of the first and took a long drag. Insomnia and chain-smoking weren’t ingredients for a long, healthy life, but they were her crosses to bear. On nights like this, three or four coffin nails put her in the frame of mind to get a few more hours’ sleep.
A blazing white moon hung large and heavy in the sky. The soft, steady night wind carried the smell of mint from the patch she’d planted in the back of the yard.
“I have to make mojitos tomorrow when Les comes home,” she said, tapping her ashes into the dented tray they got from a long-ago trip to the Catskills. It was sad knowing the ashtray outlived the resort.
She walked around the yard, enjoying the quiet of the night, eventually finding herself in the front yard. Every house along both sides of the street was dark. More than one of her neighbors had told her they slept better knowing she had an eye on the block. Her inability to sleep made her the unofficial neighborhood watch. In no small way, it made her embrace her condition. Everything happened for a reason.
Margie jumped when something crashed in the backyard. Flicking her cigarette into the street, she dashed along the side of the house. She pulled up short when she entered the yard.
“What the—”
Her patio table was turned over on its side. The folded umbrella had snapped in half from the fall.
It would have taken a hell of a breeze to knock that over. She sighed with relief when she got close enough to see that the glass top hadn’t cracked. Les would have a fit when she told him they needed to buy a new umbrella.
She thought about waking him up to help her right the table. It was lighter than she thought and she was able to do it on her own.
“Unbelievable,” she said, inspecting the break in the umbrella stand.
Snap!
Margie whipped her head around to see what had made the noise. It had come from the impenetrably dark strip under their dogwood tree.
Stupid kids , she thought. Late-night pool hopping was common in July, and her yard was part of the route between the aboveground pools to the left and right of her house.
“You’re going to pay for a new umbrella,” she called out. “I know you’re there. Swimming’s over for tonight.”
Something moved in the dark. There was no muffled teen laughter. She felt whoever was under the dogwood tree was watching her, waiting to see what she would do next.
Margie’s chest turned to ice.
She stood motionless, her hands atop the table. Try as she might, she couldn’t see a thing back there.
Scritch!
It was the sound of something sharp dragging across the bark of the tree.
There was more movement than ever now; the sound of shuffling feet amidst her rhododendrons.
She slowly reached into her pocket. Running her thumb over the wheel of her lighter, Margie hoped the flame would discourage any strange, stray animals from getting any closer.
Whatever was in her yard brought a palpable weight of menace.
The night breeze shifted, blowing from the dogwood’s direction. A sharp, terrible odor bit into her. She recoiled, and the light went out.
A large paw emerged from the shadows, followed by another.
Margie’s heart thudded into overdrive when its hideous face emerged.
And it was not happy.
Dalton pulled his car around the plaza in Montauk, the grassy roundabout that
Similar Books
