by Tim Waggoner
He opened the passenger door.
“Hop in. Let’s go for a ride.”
Michael shook his head, tried to say no, but his mouth refused to form even so simple a word.
Chester continued to smile, but his eyes flashed, and unspeakable images slid across their dark, wet surfaces.
“Don’t you want to know? To be free?” A mocking tone to this last word.
Michael hesitated for a moment, two, and then before he realized it, he was stepping toward the car.
* * *
“The loving uncle who finds his fingers straying too close to his niece’s bottom as they play tickle-torture one sunny afternoon in the back yard. The former honor student who is no longer satisfied to make due with mere fantasies of raping cheerleaders. The devoted mother who wakes up one morning and decides that, instead of giving her kids a bath, she’ll drown them instead.…These are all my children, Mikey. My sweet, sweet fruit.
“Did you ever wonder why, when reporters interview family members and neighbors, they always say the same thing? ‘He was such a quiet man…so sweet. We just can’t believe he’d ever do such a thing.’ It’s because of me, Mikey, and others of my kind. We travel the world, borrowing children, showing them the wondrous dark potential that exists inside them, encouraging it to grow. And when our teaching is done, we release them. They become our seeds, Mikey. Seeds of darkness. Sometimes they sprout weeks later, sometimes months, sometimes years. But eventually they all blossom.
“It’s your time to blossom now, Mikey. But you’re not going to do anything so mundane as poison a neighbor’s dog or go into work with a loaded gun. I’ve got something much more special in mind for you.”
* * *
“Well, what do you think?”
The woman frowned. “It’s a little out of our price range.”
The man gave Michael a “don’t-listen-to-her-we-can-afford-it” smile. “I think we can manage it, hon. If we want to buy it, that is.”
“It’s up to you, of course,” Michael said. “But it’s a great house for the money, and it’s in a good neighborhood. A safe neighborhood.”
The woman gave her husband a glance that said We Need To Talk. Michael had been in real estate now for four years, more than long enough to know he should make himself scarce.
“I’ll just step outside for a minute.” He left them in the living room, walked into the kitchen, opened the patio door and stepped into the yard. The couple’s twelve-year-old daughter was doing cartwheels on the grass.
He closed the patio door and walked toward her.
“What do you think about the house?”
The girl finished her cartwheel and came to rest on her feet. She looked at Michael and shrugged. “It’s okay. I like the house we have now better, but Dad says we have to move because of his new job.” She cocked her head, as if she’d just thought of something. “Do you like your job?”
Michael smiled. “Yes, very much. I enjoy getting out and meeting people. But do you know what I like best about my job?”
“No, what?” She was already beginning to sound disinterested, but Michael didn’t mind. That was just the way children were.
He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, and darkness moved across the surface of his eyes.
He smiled. “Planting apple seeds.”
OPEN HOUSE
Smell of burnt, blackened flesh clogging his nostrils. Charcoal-dry voice whispering a question in his ear.
“Truth or dare, Carl? Truth or dare?”
* * *
Carl Lockhart was looking out the window, trying to decide whether his driveway needed shoveling, when he noticed that the door of the house across the street stood open. Not wide open, hardly more than a crack, really. But open.
It was the first week of February, and it had snowed last night, only an inch or two, but enough to cover the lawns, driveways, and sidewalks with white. It had been unseasonably warm lately, and Carl was hoping that when the sun came out, the snow would melt on its own and save him some work. He’d been about to go turn the TV to The Weather Channel and check the local forecast when he happened to glance across the street—not that he was nosy; Carl was the kind of man who made a virtue of minding his own business, but the house was directly across the street so how could he not look at it?—and saw the open door.
Cracked door, he mentally amended. Open only three inches, five at the most. Then again, how far open did a door have to be to qualify as being truly open? Ten inches? Halfway? Three quarters? He scratched a stubbly cheek as he thought.
He knew that he was partly putting off getting his day started. Kate had taken the kids to visit her mother in Akron this weekend, and he’d slept in for a change. It was five after ten—late for him to get up, even for a Saturday—and while he would’ve loved to lounge around the house in his T-shirt and sweats all day, unshaven, sleep-matted hair unwashed, just enjoying being a grubby bachelor again for the first time in nearly seventeen years, he had work to do. Work that had nothing to do with shoveling snow.
Bright and early Monday morning, he was scheduled to deliver a presentation to a major new client about Pro-Tech’s latest security system. Not only did he need to bone up on the technical details of the system this weekend, he was supposed to meet his supervisor for dinner tonight and go over the selling points in detail. And, if Carl knew Anderson well enough, he’d have to give a practice presentation during the meal.
Carl hated working on the weekends, so much that he’d almost rather have gone to visit his mother-in-law in Akron. Almost. But he was angling for a raise, and if his boss wanted him to work this weekend, then work he would. But that didn’t mean he was eager to get started.
But there was another reason why he stood before his picture window, looking at the house across the street and trying to decide on a suitable definition of open. While Carl wasn’t particularly close to any of his neighbors, he was familiar with their habits. For example, the guy who lived next door on the right fancied himself a weekend Hell’s Angel, even though he was an accountant the rest of the week. Every Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting, he’d don his leather jacket and sunglasses (no helmet, of course), hop on his bike and roar off to God knows where, returning only at sunset. Carl hadn’t heard the motorcycle engine revving this morning, so he supposed the snow was too much for Hell’s Accountant to brave today.
And across the street, to the left of the house with the door open, lived an overweight single mother who stepped out onto the porch a half dozen times a day and sat in a plastic lawn chair to smoke. She was always barefoot, no matter the time of year.
But it was a different story for the house directly across the street from Carl’s. In the four years he had lived here, he had never—not once—seen anyone go in or come out of the house. He’d never seen a car parked in the driveway or in front alongside the curb. He had noticed lights on sometimes at night, shining behind closed blinds, but not often, and he’d never seen a silhouette pass a window. He assumed someone lived there, of course. Somebody had to pay the light bill, and the lawn was always kept trimmed in spring and summer, leaves raked in fall, snow shoveled off the driveway in winter (though not today, he noticed). But he’d never seen anyone doing these chores. They just…got done.
Once, he’d asked Kate if she’d ever caught a glimpse of the neighbors across the street, but his wife had only cocked her head, grinned, and said, “Since when did you become the neighborhood busy-body?” He’d never asked her again.
So seeing the door of the house across the street open (cracked?), even if only a few inches, was a major development. How could it fail to fascinate? And looking out the window at it sure beat the hell out of starting work on his presentation.
But as he watched, he heard a voice in his mind. An angry, disappointed voice.
No son of mine is going to be a goddamned peeping Tom! Your mother and I raised you better’n that, boy! You hear me?
“Yessir,” Carl whispered,
unaware that he’d spoken aloud. He turned away from the window and headed for the bathroom and a shower. He’d put off starting his day long enough.
* * *
Even though it was winter, Carl ran the water slightly cold. After the night he’d had, he needed help waking all the way up—more help than the two cups of coffee he’d already had could provide. There was a reason he’d slept in so late, a reason beyond the absence of his family. Last night, he’d had the dream again.
It started the way it always did: Carl was ten, and sitting cross-legged on the front lawn of his parents’ house with his sister, Judy, and her best friend, Marta. Carl always thought of where they lived as “out in the country,” though in truth it was only a couple miles outside town. Judy and Marta—who had ridden her bike from her home in town—were both twelve and, while they often invited Carl to play with them, it was usually so they could play some sort of trick on him. Carl knew this, but he played anyway. He had no friends that lived close by, and none in town that were old enough to ride their bikes here. Besides, though he’d have rather died a thousand times than admit it, he thought Marta was kind of cute.
They sat on the grass in the shade of an oak tree, Judy and Marta next to each other, Carl across from them. It was late summer, hot and muggy, the heavy air thrumming with the sound of cicadas.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” Judy said.
Marta giggled at the suggestion, her small, freckled nose crinkling in a way that made Carl feel weird inside, but a good weird. He’d never heard of this game, but he’d played with Judy and Marta often enough to be suspicious.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Marta explained. “We take turns asking each other questions. And you either answer the question—”
“You have to give a true answer,” Judy put in. “No lying is allowed.”
Marta nodded. “Or you take a dare.”
“And if you choose a dare, then you have to do the dare,” Judy said, “no matter what it is.”
Carl wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this. “Who picks the dare?”
“The same person who asked the question,” Marta said. “Who else?”
That would mean that when it was his time to answer a question, either Marta or Judy would ask it. And if he didn’t want to answer it, then one of them would come up with a dare for him to do. He wasn’t too worried about Marta. She liked to tease him, but always in gentle ways. But Judy could be awfully mean to him when she wanted to. And if she was the one asking him the question…
“I don’t think I want to play,” he said.
“C’mon!” Judy slugged him on the arm. “Don’t be such a baby!”
“Please?” Marta added. “It’s not much fun with only two.”
That please was all it took. Carl smiled and said, “Okay.”
Judy clapped her hands. “Good! I’ll go first.” She turned to Marta. “Truth or dare: did Ben Sanders kiss you behind the concession stand at the park last week?”
Marta giggled. “He tried, but I didn’t let him.”
“Truth, now,” Judy warned.
“I swear!”
Judy looked doubtful, but she let it pass. “Okay, now you ask Carl a question.”
Carl relaxed. If they kept going around in a circle, that meant Judy would never get to ask him a question, only Marta. And better yet, he’d be the one asking his sister questions—and making up dares for her when she refused to answer. Maybe this game was going to turn out all right after all!
Marta thought for a moment. “All right, Carl. Truth or dare: do you have a girlfriend?”
Carl felt his insides go cold. He didn’t sense any malice on Marta’s part—her eyes weren’t narrowed and her mouth wasn’t twisted into a mean half-smile, as happened with Judy—but of all the people in the world to be asking that question! He supposed that technically she wasn’t his girlfriend. He just kind of liked her, but on the other hand, that might be close enough to qualify for this game. And he knew he couldn’t lie. Every time he tried to lie, he smiled, and the bigger the lie, the bigger the smile. Marta night not know that, but Judy did. If she even so much as saw his lips twitch, she’d know he was lying.
But if he answered the question truthfully…No, there was no way he could do that.
“I guess I’ll take the dare,” he said in small voice.
Judy laughed. “That means you do have a girlfriend! Fess up, who is it?”
Marta came to his defense. “He doesn’t have to tell. That’s the way the game works.”
Judy made a face like she’d just bitten into a big, juicy bug, but she said, “Oh, all right. What’s his dare?”
Marta thought again, longer than last time. So long that Carl began to get nervous, began to wonder if maybe he should’ve answered her question truthfully regardless of the consequences.
Finally, Marta said, “Go and peek in the neighbors’ window.”
Carl felt a stab of fear that was almost as bad as when Marta had asked if he had a girlfriend. He turned to look at the neighbors’. A one-story red brick ranch that looked pretty much like his parents’ house, except the neighbor’s had white shutters and a green roof, while Carl’s folks had black shutters and a black roof. Despite this being “out in the country,” the two houses were only twenty or so feet apart, no farther apart then they might be in a suburb. There were two windows on the nearest side of the neighbors’ house, both with their curtains drawn back and windows open to let in what little breeze there was.
“You have to do it, Carl,” Judy said, voice full of sadistic delight. “Unless, of course, you want to change your mind and answer the question.”
Carl thought about it. His parents weren’t really friends with the neighbors, so all he knew about them was that the husband was named Kenny, and the wife was named Jane. He couldn’t remember their last name. They didn’t have any kids (which was too bad), and while they waved whenever the two families happened to be outside at the same time, they didn’t come over to talk, and neither did Carl’s parents go over there.
So he had no real reason to be afraid of them, but they’d never been especially friendly toward him, either. And he’d never set foot on their property before.
He looked at Judy. He knew that she’d never let him quit at this point. He looked at Marta. No, he couldn’t tell. Not in a million-billion years.
So, swallowing to build up his courage (not that it helped), he stood and started walking toward the neighbors’ house. He hesitated as he came to the property line, but he crossed it and kept going. He chose the nearest of the two windows and headed for it. He was within five feet. Four…three…he could almost see inside…
“Don’t you dare!”
Carl nearly wet himself at the sound of the voice—a woman’s voice, harsh and scolding—that came from the other side of the window. He turned and ran, saw Judy and Marta were on their feet and running too, and he hurried after them. He had no idea where they were headed, but it didn’t matter, just so long as they got away from that woman, from that voice.
And then, because this was a dream and not a memory, not exactly, Carl skipped over the next few weeks, moved past the phone call Jane made to his parents’ that night, past the lectures from his father and the disappointed looks from his mother, past the no TV for a month and the extra chores that he and Judy had to suffer through. He skipped all the way to an afternoon in mid-September when he got off the school bus at the end of their long gravel driveway. Judy had gymnastics practice after school, so he was by himself. His dad was at work, and his mom’s car was gone. She (he would find out later) had gone to the grocery before stopping to pick up Judy from practice.
So he was the only one there to notice the thin curl of black smoke that rose from behind Kenny and Jane’s house. He felt a tingling at the base of his neck and a cold flutter in his stomach as an awful word whispered through his mind: fire.
He paused for moment, frozen, unsure what to do. Then he remembered wh
at his father had said that night after Jane called to tell him about their little game of Truth or Dare. From now on I expect you to mind your own business, boy. You got that? Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. And then, for the first time since Carl had been little, his dad had started to remove his belt.
Carl looked at the smoke again. It wasn’t that much smoke. It could be coming from a grill. Kenny liked to grill, did it often, and it was still warm enough out. He was probably just cooking burgers or some steaks and the fire got away from him for a moment, that’s all. Flames shooting up, a puff of smoke, slamming the grill cover shut, some curse words at ruining the meat, and it’s over. Nothing more than that.
Smoke’s awful black for a grill fire, a voice inside his head pointed out. And is it thicker than it was a minute ago?
Carl was torn. Should he run inside and call 911? Go over to the neighbors’, knock on their door and see if they were all right? Or should he do as his father commanded, and mind his own business?
Another voice spoke up inside him then, a petty, mean little voice. All you were doing was playing a stupid game. And you never did look inside their window—she stopped you. So why’d she have to go and call your mom and dad? You got punished for something that you never did—all because of her, the old bitch.
Carl’s lips curled into a tiny smile. He knew what he was going to do now: just what his father had told him. He was going to be a good boy and mind his own business.
He continued toward his house, walking at a leisurely pace, and he didn’t look over at the neighbors’ again.
* * *
Carl got out of the shower and began toweling himself dry. The dream usually ended with him inside his parents’ house, sitting on the couch and watching TV, hearing Jane and Kenny’s screams as they burnt to death. In reality, there had been no screams. According to the firefighters, the two of them had succumbed to smoke inhalation before the flames reached them. They never did find out how the fire started, or what Kenny was doing home from work early. Carl wasn’t even sure what work the man did. But he was home that day, and both he and his wife perished in the fire.
