Horror - Novelette

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. The Things Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

THE THINGS

Sparks bounced and died, bounced and died as shovels clanged off rocks beneath the dirt. Twelve men carried on just as quick as possible. The Things in the sacks moved and moaned, as if waking.

Burying demons was night work. Night was when they came out, when the world closed its eyes and ears to rational, when the historians dozed and turned away from the action.

Torchlight surrounded the twelve men and six women busy at the task. The men shoveled and the women watched the bags, ready with flames and knives. Not that it was so simple against something like a demon.

“Deep enough,” Thomas Gray said, self-proclaimed leader of the party.

Those demons had climbed up out of the ground and be damned if they couldn’t stick those suckers back in. Be damned in the literal sense.

The men climbed from the hole and the time was upon them. A screech pierced from a bag, writhing like snakes, clawing like a soon to be drowned cat.

“Quick now,” Gray said.

Linus Crow scrambled for the bag, yanking it with fury.

“Go now. Let go. We need your grandfather,” Gray said.

Crow’s grandfather came to the new world with him, but didn’t forget a lick of the old ways.

Crow nodded and started off.

A claw poked and two more bags followed the first into the hole. The fingers followed the claw, tearing the burlap further.

“I need a torch!” Gray shouted and two flaming torches fell into the hole. He hopped in on top of the sacks. “Tip in the dirt, do it!” Gray forced torch to claws and fingers. The sacks seemed to dance at this.

Surrounding the hole, men and women shoveled and pushed dirt in around Gray and the damned things.

“More dirt, we need more dirt!” one man said. The ground was falling, slipping like a sinkhole.

Short of breath, Crow returned with his grandfather, a leathery man with long grey hair and a puffy swollen face. The old man slipped down the lip and knelt into the gentle dip of earth where Gray and the things remained.

“Wata dat spot,” he said, his voice gruff and tired. “Da sun grow patexuns. Keep way ebils.” Grandfather Crow wasn’t always called Crow, and his words hadn’t always come out in a slurry jumble. Truth was, he was too old for all this.

 Young Crow translated, “Water. We need a tree on there. Get water and a tree, that tree will keep down what needs kept down.”

The group broke away, all but the Crows and Gray. The others circled a small tree, skinny and less than a decade standing. They dug quickly, but not hastily.

“Hurry! Hurry!” Gray said swinging torches at movement.

Group effort put more dirt and that little tree right where Grandfather Crow said to put it. They watered it and Gray told everyone to go home, he’d spend the night, watching to be sure the spell took.

Gray fell asleep and awoke with the sun touching everything but him. The tree had grown huge while he was out. An ugly, gnarly thing and that seemed just about right, seemed safer than the little tree, safer by a ton. Still, for the next 20 years a body from the village called Tranquility kept watch over that tree. Day and night.

—

In 1967, Tranquility grew too big for its britches and a subdivision for wealthier residents formed around Gray Memorial Park. Four large and sophisticated homes rose like dandelions around the strange, stocky, old maple tree.

By 1987, Tranquility’s former wealthy subdivision became an area of older homes owned by everyday people. Gray Memorial Crescent, small park in the center, hosted family fun for the annual Hazy Days Festival, a weekend long party where hard-working folks brought their children—tire swings and plank-seat swings dangled from the limbs of the old maple tree—and set out blankets. Across town, a hay wagon bandstand provided entertainment next to the pork roaster. At the arena and community center, grandmothers sold pies and grandfathers sold shelves and model trains. Over at the fire hall, men displayed their waxed and chromed obsessions.

John tossed around dirty shirts looking for a clean one.

“Seems like fun, down there. What do you think?” Jessica asked, standing behind her husband gazing out the window to the families playing in the park.

“Seems the same as every year. We’ll have kids once we can afford them. I don’t want to be that dad that has to explain to his son—” John started.

“Or daughter.”

“Or daughter, that she doesn’t—”

“Or he.” Jessica smiled, having cheap fun at the expense of her husband—a right decreed once both parties signed the marriage certificate.

“I don’t want to be that dad who says, sorry, you gotta wear stuff from the swap-meet because the mortgage is already past due. Do I have any undershirts?”

Jessica took a breath, smiled, and walked to the laundry basket in the corner, full of clean clothes. “I don’t know why you need an undershirt on a day like this anyway.”

John didn’t answer. It was a touchy subject. He wore t-shirts every day because he feared becoming one of those overweight men with their belly dipping just below his shirt line or being one of those guys too big to corral his ass crack. He pulled the shirt over his head, the tail fell well below his waist, and he pulled up his Levi’s, tucking the tail under his belt line. He threw a Quebec Nordiques t-shirt over the undershirt and negotiated the button of his jeans.

Stress didn’t help, that’s what the doctor told him. Steadily, for almost two years, John gained a couple pounds per month. No matter which diet he attempted or which workout regimen he took on.

Jessica was sad for him, wanted her husband to take a break, a vacation; a month off ought to bring the stress back to zero.

The little company John and Malcolm started in the garage bloomed and continued to grow, but it wasn’t as it was at the beginning and it took twice as much work just to make a profit. Also, Malcolm was a terrible partner; he had a few key ideas and after the initial success, he offered nothing but a smile and a hand to accept checks. John’s best friend the snake, that’s what Jessica saw, but she zipped her lips and watched her husband take the bad end of every deal.

“Maybe I should just sell, let Malcolm piss away the company, what do you think?” John asked, joining her at the window and putting his arm around her shoulder.

It was a trap, an unintentional argument landmine. “You’ll do what you think is right,” Jessica said.

The din outside was a little unnerving and both momentarily reconsidered the idea of leaving the quiet home.

“Hey, buddy,” Malcolm said, one laneway over, sitting in a lawn chair drinking a bottle of Miller High Life. “You see these yet?” Malcolm grabbed a bottle from the cooler next to his chair and twisted the cap off with the bottom of another bottle.

“Yeah, I saw the commercials.” John was fairly certain Malcolm had been next to him the first time both of them saw the advertisement, also fairly certain that Malcolm made a big deal about it then.

“Where’s the family?” Jessica asked, stepping up behind John.

“Over there somewhere, doin’ something. They wanted me to come, but this is about as close as I feel like getting to all those screaming brats,” Malcolm said.

John stared at his friend, a little envious of his flat stomach and easy way. Malcolm had a trophy wife with a perfect body and a voice like honey. Malcolm and Nancy had four children, all girls.

“Sounds like a good idea. Well, shall we get moving?” Jessica said.

“Have fun.” John threw a half-salute.

“Take your umbrella, she’s gonna rain. I can feel it in my bones.” Malcolm smirked and then sucked back on the beer.

John and Jessica strolled hand in hand down the steep slope onto Logan Street from Gray Crescent. Located atop a hill, the view gave Tranquility a postcard feel. Green trees, greener lawns, children playing, cars rolling and stopping, empty homes, and brimming storefronts.

“I really love it here, you know?” John said.

“I can see that.” Jessica squeezed his hand.

A warm breeze smelling of meat and car exhaust blew into their faces as they made for the busy section of town. It was loud and Lionel Richie blared from the enormous stage speakers set out front of the arena. Next door was the fire hall and the car show

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It only means what I said.”

That was a lie, and both knew it. Jessica missed the city. Small farming communities had charm, but after a while, knitting circles, watching pee wee hockey, and drinking beer in the backyard went from quaint to boring to outright unbearable in short order.

“I’m getting sick of this guy, it’s like every day he’s got a new song on the radio,” Jessica said.

John thought, who doesn’t love Lionel Richie?

The cars shined in the sun and different music roared from the fire hall, played just loud enough to drown Lionel so long as the listening ears fell within the vast parking lot.

“That better?”

“Uh-huh.” Jessica planted a smile—Three Dog Night, something from when she was in the fifth grade. One of those great summer songs “These—” Jessica covered her mouth to hide an impending laugh.

“Johnny, John-boy, how are ya doin’? Stayin’ outta trouble?” A ridiculous man in a red polyester button up, wearing three fat, painted gold ropes around his neck, one of which had an gold crucifix fastened to it with a bent paperclip. Rings on all but two fingers, and a cheap costume fedora on his head.

“Jim,” John said, shaking the man’s hand.

Jim was a local wack job.

“Jessica, your eyes are beautiful like an ocean morning,” Jim said taking Jessica’s hand and kissing the knuckle of her middle finger.

Jessica burst out laughing. “I’ve got to use the can,” she said and hurried to the portable toilets just past a row of sparkly Mustangs and a Cadillac Ambulance painted blue.

She hadn’t really had to go, but Jim was equal parts absurd and disturbing. Like a big muscular kid, prone to temper tantrums. She composed herself in the plastic and solvent stinking little room. After two minutes, Jessica returned to her husband and the weirdo.

“I’m goin’ to Chicago for a Karate tournament. I think I can win. Only Kirk and Robbie ever score points on me at Master Ming’s and if I really wanted to, I could take them. One of Malcolm’s girls comes out to Master Ming’s too.” Jim was flexing his tits as he spoke.

“What?” Jessica burst into another bought of laughter. “You fight little girls?”

“No, I never hit women.” Jim became very serious, stopped flexing anything but his biceps. “I only fight men, some are a little younger, but I don’t hit women.” The man’s eyes had changed and seemed ready to burn fiery holes in Jessica’s blouse.

Jessica looked to John for help. He was leaning forward to appreciate the beautiful craftsmanship of the hood ornament sailing the nose of a 1946 Plymouth.

“Jesus is my Lord and Savior, only Satan hits women; anyone who hits a woman goes to Hell and I’ll send ‘em there myself. What, don’t believe me?” Jim looked about ready to hit a woman.

Jessica poked John in the side, he didn’t turn but spoke, “Hey, Jim, buddy, we’re gonna go check out some of these sweet rides. We’ll talk to you later. Good luck in Chicago.”

Jim’s mood changed, as if someone flicked a switch. “Thanks, but Chicago isn’t until October. You should come to Master Ming’s. Learn to fight.”

“See ya later,” John said ignoring the suggestion and pulling Jessica away without another glance at Jim.

“That guy’s crazy.” Jessica had leaned in to whisper over the Steve Miller Band.

“That’s not nice. He is crazy though, as in actually bonkers. Schizophrenic, certified.”

Jessica had heard something along the lines and had no problem believing it. Although, it sounded too much like bored smalltown fabrication. “Really, I thought maybe that was all…” she started but trailed. For some reason John liked Jim.

“Really. He also thinks he’s psychic. Once told me that someday soon the Catholic Church was going to fall, the Buffalo Bills were gonna win four Super Bowls in a row, and that he can pick lotto numbers, but if he buys a ticket or tells anybody, the numbers change.”

“Why isn’t he in a—”

“A home? Why? Come on, guy’s harmless, besides, last season he told me the Oilers would take it in seven. I won five bucks. I wish I followed his other tidbit, too.”

“What was that?”

“He told me Hextall was going to win the Conn Smythe, the MVP of the playoffs, but the Oilers would win the cup. Hextall won the MVP. A player from the losing team has only ever won the playoff MVP like a handful of times.”

“So what?”

“Jim told me all this two-weeks into the season, it’s eerie. He also told me six ways to catch a fox if I get lost in the woods with nothing to eat, and that Shih Tzu dogs are genetically closer to dolphins than they are to giraffes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, he’s bananas, but once in a while he hits the nail. Rest of the time what he says is so asinine you wonder if the doctors weren’t asleep when they set his dosage.”

“You said he’s Camilla and Gordon’s son?” Jessica was thinking if she and John had moved into their home only a few years earlier, they’d have been Jim’s neighbors. The thought ran a shiver up her back.

“Yeah-huh.” John looked up to the sky. “Seems like Jim has some psychic competition with Malcolm’s bones.” Big dark clouds rushed from two directions, meeting in a crash above Tranquility’s auto show.

John and Jessica raced back up the hill, drenched by the time they arrived. Malcolm had moved to just inside the garage, still drinking, the roll-down door open to let his cigar smoke float outside.

“Looks like you got some time for a beer now!” Malcolm shouted.

John looked to his wife. “I’ll go have one.”

—

From inside, Jessica watched the rain pour over the garbage riddled park, barren of the excitement prevalent only minutes earlier. With all the helpers gone, she wondered how many extra days she’d have to look at all the trash. It seemed nobody hit a barrel with their paper plates or soda cans. It made her feel dirty, so she took a shower. The hot water steamed the bathroom. Jessica opened the window a crack and lit a stale cigarette. She told her husband—told just about everyone—that she’d given them up for good, and for the most part, she had. She smoked once before work, once after supper, and then anytime she knew she’d get away with it.

Inhale, exhale; relaxing and even more so with the hot steam consuming her. She finished and tossed the butt into the toilet; a little wad of toilet paper weighed it down for the flush.

Before she got into the shower, she sprayed strawberry scented air freshener. Something about the way the steam mingled with the chemicals made the strawberries bloom on every surface.

Clean, shower off, John’s heavy footfalls approached. He knocked at the door. “I’ll be out in a minute,” Jessica said, taking a few deep sniffs, searching for tobacco scent. It seemed clean. She stepped out after a quick once-over swipe and then opened the door.

“Malcolm wants us to come over for supper. Gonna have a monsoon party. Have you looked outside?” John had the ruddy cheeks of more than one beer drank, he also smelled like cheap cigars.

“Were you smoking again?” she asked.

“What, no. Malcolm was smoking these Mexican cigars. They stink like old woodstove and rotten fruit. It’s weird, they’re kind of sweet smelling. So, I’ll tell him we’re coming? I’m just gonna grab some brews and head back over. Just come over whenever? Supper at six.”

His words spoken as questions didn’t necessarily make them feel like questions. Jessica didn’t get a chance to consider, didn’t have a choice. At least she wouldn’t have to cook anything.

She heard John race into the basement, the door on the old pill-shaped Maytag—an appliance they received when John’s parents finally got a new fridge—rattled and hummed as the beer bottles clanged together. Jessica wrapped the towel tight and hurried downstairs. “Hey, should I bring anything?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe a snack or some wine or something. Do we have any wine?”

Where John was and where Jessica was, they couldn’t see each other. She was leaning down the stairs and he was behind a wall.

 “No, but that’s okay. Wine and snacks, I can get. Tell them I’ll come over around quarter after five.”

“Do we have wine?”

“I said I’ll get some, red and white, maybe champagne, maybe tequila or scotch, should I bring some scotch?” Jessica asked, the idea really sinking. Nights at the neighbors’ never ended at supper or when the kids went to bed, they didn’t end until one of either Malcolm or John passed out.

“Just bring a bottle of wine, hell, just get some spritzer; it’s cheap and everybody likes it.”

“I don’t like—”

“See ya in a bit,” John said and darted away with his arms loaded.

For a moment, Jessica envisioned showing up at the neighbors’ with pork rinds and a bottle of butterscotch ripple liquor. She saw John shaking his head disappointedly and Nancy aghast. It felt good, but for no more than a moment.

—

Busy as it was only a couple hours prior made the sudden emptiness feel doubly empty. The Becker’s Convenience was barren, as was the liquor store.

“Crazy out there, huh?” a middle-aged woman asked, chewing gum behind puffy pink lips. “I’ve never seen one like this.”

“The rain’s so cold too,” Jessica said and took her bag from the counter.

“These must be good. I‘ve had only one other customer since the rain started and he bought four bottles, but he went with strawberry.” The woman blew a tiny bubble and then popped it.

“Wild. Everyone’s okay with them, even people that don’t like wine. The flavor’s like they decided to make booze taste like juice, just in case.”

“Teenagers drink ‘em. I get that too; if it doesn’t taste too boozy.”

“How do you know teenagers drink—?”

The woman grinned and cut off Jessica. “Old Bobby Nash buys a ton of the stuff, that and cheap gin. Teenyboppers show him a little skin and he takes their money and returns with booze. I’ve called the cops, but they said that can’t prove nothin’ ‘til they catch him in the act, but I guess he’s pretty tricky and it’s not against the law for Bobby to see a boob while he’s out on his daily route.”

“The mailman?”

“Yeah-huh.” The woman began cracking the knuckles of her right hand with her thumb as a lever. “Have a nice weekend.”

The rain fell harder and she had to put her foot to the floor to make it through the rolling waves coming down the hill. From behind, she heard a fantastic crash, but couldn’t turn to check the sound. The Ford Fiesta wasn’t great in any kind of weather, but the little car climbed the hill. She exhaled a thankful breath and eased off the gas.

Behind her, the world groaned and creaked and banged. Jessica glanced into the mirror and saw the road collapsing. A chasm collected unfortunate homes, cars, and property. The town sat dark and Jessica couldn’t move.

“Holy fuck,” she whispered, stuck at the crest of the hill, but not from rain. Shock had her. Then she thought about how close that had been. Tears began, and she remained stunned, unmoving.

A knock came at her window.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked a man in a yellow rain slicker, his hat looking very Paddington Bear.

His skin seemed corpse old, and wrinkled, unrecognizable, but her terror fell aside quickly and something clicked. “Oh, Gordon Roland!” He lived only two-doors down.

“What a mess, eh. You’re mighty lucky, I watched you come up, it looked like it was trying to catch up with ya for a few seconds there. You were just about toast.”

Jessica laughed a little and wiped at her eyes. “I’m supposed to head over…I think I’m going to go home and watch TV, actually.”

“Power’s out. My guess, we’ll just have to quietly hope for the best up here until they get those poor folks all fixed up. I wonder how many died.”

Jessica simply shook her head.

—

Jessica stepped into the garage and heard three male voices, she didn’t notice the old Dodge with the peeling paint and patches of rust parked in Malcolm’s driveway. Her mind was elsewhere.

“Do you know what’s happened? Did you see? I just about bit it!”

“It’s the end of the world,” Jim Roland said, a bottle of strawberry spritzer in his hand.

“Shush, Jim, none of that. It’s just a storm,” Camilla Roland said, she wore a hat to match her husband’s out on the street.

“I see a storm; how could I miss it?” Malcolm’s voice was slurred and snarky.

“The road fell away, there’s a big sinkhole cutting us off. It demolished a bunch of houses and the rain’s pooling like a moat. We won’t be able to get down for days.” Jessica wondered why she was the only one who seemed all that concerned.

“Wait, what?” John shot to his feet, kicking over a half-drank Miller.

“Explains the power being out,” Malcolm said.

“Didn’t you hear it?” Jessica shook her head in minute movements.

Nancy put her perfect hands to her mouth. Eyes huge.

“End of days. The Lord is cometh…like I said.” Jim had that fierce, certifiably nuts expression: cheeks red, eyes wide, and bugging, lips in a tight pucker. He stared into Jessica.

“Jim, stop it, some people don’t know that you’re joking,” Camilla said. “Did you see Gordon out there?”

“Huh. Oh.” Jessica tore her eyes away from Jim’s. “Yeah, he’s fine, he saw the whole thing. I was driving up the hill right before it happened, or I guess, while it happened.”

“Are you all right?” John asked but did not wait for a response. He touched Jessica’s arm with beer bottle cold hands a second before running out into the rain. Malcolm followed, but Jim stayed.

Jessica turned her eyes back to Jim after John and Malcolm slipped from view. Jim chugged back the entire bottle of spritzer and started on another.

“Is it really that bad?” Nancy asked.

“It’s bad, it’s the end of days, ucka raba coritha, mora tunga neuvella,” Jim said and began wagging his fat tongue around his lips and rolling his eyes.

“Stop it! Geez, Jim!” Nancy laughed nervously. “We don’t need that crap and if you keep it up, I’m putting you on ginger ale.”

“Ucka raba coitha, mora tunga neuvella, tordonden, tordindadada ucka,” Jim said and swallowed back the entire bottle of spritzer in three gulps.

“No more!” Camilla jumped to her feet. “Don’t worry, he can’t hold his liquor. He gets excited, drinks and passes out after about an hour.”

“Right and the government didn’t put that mole on your mother’s back so the Nazis would hear her plans. Ucka raba coitha, mort tunga, tordindadadada,” Jim said, slurring but dead serious, his eyes growing crazier with each irrational syllable.

“Actually, here, have something stronger and then pass out already,” Camilla said, handing over a Crown Royal bottle. Jim accepted it like a challenge. He took a mouthful and lit a cigarette. “You know you don’t have to act out every time you drink or just because something exciting happens. The doctor said—”

“Only God knows, the doctor’s trying to poison me, he’s trying to steal thoughts to sell them to the Russians.”

Unintentionally, Jessica took a deep breath at the cigarette smell. Nobody said anything, but Jim continued to watch her.

The women moved to the roll up garage door and looked out. From their angle, they couldn’t see anything but water moving. Jim belched from behind them and mumbled sounds that meant nothing.

“Mom,” an irritated voice said—Amber, the eldest child, “the power’s out again.”

“Your father’s playing in the rain, so once he gets back, he can look at the generator,” Nancy said.

“I’ll look.” Jim swayed as he spoke. “Don’t worry, God likes light.”

“The generator is in the shed.” Amber stood in front of her sisters. “And hurry, these babies are afraid of monsters in the storm.”

“Monsters are coming whether the generator works or not,” Jim mumbled as he walked out into the backyard.

“I’m gonna go get my emergency kit,” Nancy said. “Just to be ready and safe.”

Jessica gazed quietly into the darkening rainy sky.

“I never made them before I had kids, but once you have a kid you really think more clearly about things,” Nancy said as she stepped to the door. “I can’t even imagine my life before I had my babies.”

Jessica had heard that line before, about a thousand times, whenever someone she knew had a kid.

“I can and if I had a time machine, let me tell ya. I guess Gordon had a great uncle that was nuts, doctors think it has to do with a mixture of genes and, in Jim’s case, excessive drug use,” Camilla said. “He wasn’t born that way, but I guess his brain fell apart sometime after puberty. If only I had a time machine…”

From the backyard, the gentle rumble of the generator kicked. Three girls yelled happily, the fourth started crying. Nancy’s voice carried from inside as she cooed to the wailing baby.

Gordon waved from the driveway. Camilla looked to the backdoor where Jim was standing in the rain, cigarette in one hand, rye in the other. She said, “Sorry,” to Jessica and followed her husband away.

—

The generator stopped again. This time Malcolm was there to fix it. He went out to the shed with a jerry can and immediately fell into a fit of laughter.

“Hey, check this out,” he said, poking his head through the backdoor of the garage.

Already soaking, neither Jessica nor John minded stepping out. Malcolm swung open the shed door and there was Jim Roland passed out, a crusty dribble of vomit running down his cheek onto his shoulder, leading into a fat pile of soggy red regurgitated mystery.

The puke coated crucifix struck Jessica as especially funny and she returned to the garage, shaking her head, laughing a grim and unhappy laugh. The damage on the street was too much to hold any sense of humor.

Malcolm convinced his neighbors to stay a little longer. Nancy made too many kabobs for just the family and they’d go to waste. They ate, but quickly. After Jessica had three kabobs and John put away seven, they left Malcolm and his squad of girls.

The rain had slowed, but it still came down and lightning jumped through the sky. “We should’ve borrowed a flashlight,” John said.

“Have you ever seen a storm like this?” Jessica asked.

John didn’t answer and swung open the door. After crossing the threshold of the main landing, John instinctively ran his hand up the wall to flip the switch. “Duh,” he said.

The house was muggy. John and Jessica moved about, avoiding corners. Lightning flashes filled the living room. John walked quickly while the image remained fresh and found his way to the everything-drawer. Amid the jumble of elastic bands, nearly spent batteries, cereal box toys, and lidless pens, he found a small keychain flashlight.

“Success.” He hit the button. The dim yellow glow revealed the kitchen. “I think there’s another flashlight in the basement and one in the garage—that old blue and black one.”

Another flash of lightning lit the sky followed by a teeth-rattling boom. Both John and Jessica jumped.

“Jesus.” Jessica hugged her elbows tight.

“You coming or do you want to check the garage?”

Mention of the garage reminded Jessica of the pie melting on the front seat. “Oh damn, I have to go out to the car. I bought a pie for the, the supper.” Fear forgotten, she hurried down the carpeted stairs, feeling the familiarity as if she were seeing it. She pulled the garage door closed behind her.

She took the shady cement landscape around her car slowly. She felt for the rolling door’s handle, and once she had it, swung the door up. More light let her move faster. The keys remained in the ignition. She opened the door and flopped down inside.

A bright flash filled the air followed immediately by a loud snap and crack symphony. The rear view reflected the big gnarly maple tree in the tiny park aflame. Black smoke rose like there was crude oil at its core.

“Incredible,” Jessica said, pulled the light plunger and enlightened the garage.

They ate pie in the dark. Although not tired, they went to bed; nearly ten and without light or television time moved too slowly. Sleep came easier than expected for both.

—

Jim Roland rolled when lightning struck the tree but didn’t wake. Four hours later, he opened his eyes and looked upon three black shapes skulking the yard. He saw them through the cracked door and thought they must be the girls, the girls carrying large umbrellas and wearing long masks.

That idea didn’t fit. Jim’s eyes shot wide and he kicked open the shed door.

The three strange silhouettes paused before taking to the sky. Jim flattened himself out on the floor. “Ucka raba coritha, mora tunga neuvella,” he muttered and then yelled, “The Lord is my savior and the devil is not welcome here!”

Inside, Nancy lit a flashlight and pushed open her window. “Go home, Jim!”

“It’s the end,” Jim started, raising his hands to the sky, “the devil has sent his minions and the Lord will send His horsemen and war will wage. Take me, Lord, I am ready.”

He stood, arms pointed like a Y, but nothing happened and Nancy said from the window, “Jim, go home. Maybe the world will end tomorrow, but tonight, the girls are trying to sleep.”

Jim dropped his arms to his sides and scanned the dark sky. God didn’t take him, not yet and that meant He had a plan. Jim knew he was to be one of the chosen to stand when the time came.

Jim decided he’d watch the houses from the park. He walked through the garage—gathered his two remaining bottles of spritzer—onto the street. The rain fell in sporadic drips; Jim lit a cigarette and sat down on the curb, watching.

—

Malcolm snored like a buzz saw. Nancy hadn’t yet been able to fall back to sleep. She took her flashlight to check on the girls.

Susan came first, a tiny little ball of wrinkles and dark little eyes. Susan wasn’t yet a year-old. The cradle rocked with a light touch. Nancy was careful not to wake her.

—

Kelly and Tina were too scared to scream. There was a monster in the room. Dark all over and it smelled of dirt and rot. Saliva bubbled on the scaled, elongated jaws, very similar to a baby alligator, but much bigger and not on the Discovery Channel.

The way it moved suggested, even to the girls, that it could smell them, but couldn’t see them. Its long feet tinked and clicked claws against the wooden floor as it walked. The girls watched the window slide closed with a bang. They took their chance and dove under the bed to see feet and a short tail dragging behind the thing.

—

Nancy gave into temptation and poked at Susan’s side. The tiny girl awoke in tears. “Oh there, there, baby girl, Mama’s here,” she said as she scooped and rocked the baby. “Are ya hungry?” She produced a nipple and Susan latched on.

The thing in Kelly and Tina’s bedroom stopped moving to listen. It sniffed a few heavy snorts, as if weighing a choice meal against a buffet.

The approaching sound didn’t register, Nancy felt in heaven, nipple in her baby’s mouth. To her, that was life and if any woman lived anything but that, they missed out on something magical.

“Hungry girl,” she said.

The thing stepped into the doorway and snarled a low rumbling growl. Behind Nancy, a window let in a little light; she saw the strange silhouette and reached for the flashlight on the dresser. She shot a yellow beam out to get a better look. It didn’t work, the flashlight was too weak.

Another growl reverberated from the door. Nancy turned the light onto the thing just as it began running.

She screamed and put her back to it in an effort to save Susan. The baby, scared, bit down on the nipple before opening wide in a yowl. Claws tore into the flesh of Nancy’s back and she stepped to the wall, her only hope. She attempted to climb through the little window with Susan pinned to her chest—they were on the second floor, but only feet below, sat a wheelbarrow full of loose topsoil.

The thing leaned forward and nipped its long jaw over her ear and she dodged to the side. A secondary attack of claws drained a fantastic helping of blood onto the floor, taking with it most of her energy. The end was there and she acted without thinking, tossing Susan through the open window.

Susan fell into the wheelbarrow, began screaming.

The thing tore at Nancy, blood and breast milk splattered the floor and walls. Nancy fell into a heap.

—

Malcolm flew from his bed, slamming his toe on the dresser, crushing two tarsals. “Sonofabitch,” he whispered and hopped on one foot toward the sound he thought he heard.

Malcolm stopped in the doorway, looking to where the flashlight beam played over his wife’s destroyed face. “Honey?”

Pain forgotten, he ran to the window and found nothing but a quiet night.

—

“Ucka raba coitha, mora tunga neuvella, tordonden, tordindadada ucka,” Jim chanted as he ran toward the screams.

He stopped, backstepping when he saw a baby in a mound of dirt. Rather than picking up the infant, he wheeled the baby and the dirt into the shed. He slammed the door.

—

“John, John, wake up,” Jessica said as she shook her husband; he let out a loud, but otherwise inoffensive fart. “Wake up.”

“What?”

“Something’s happened. I heard yelling next door. Screaming!”

Jessica’s severity roused him and he rolled out of bed. His bladder ached and before he could say much either way, John shuffled to the can. His foot grazed something unfamiliar, he took two steps past it and then stopped, thinking about the feel. He turned to the far wall of the large bathroom. It was almost perfect black, but for a gentle glow coming from the smoky-glazed little window.

“Babe?” John said.

“Yeah?” Jessica called back, her voice much further than the strange silhouette in the bathroom. John took a step toward what touched his foot. He heard a heavy breath, a snort, and a click.

“Is somebody here?” he whispered and swung out an arm. He made contact.

A loud screech cried into the darkness and John flailed backward.

“John?” Jessica said—a screech wasn’t in her husband’s typical repertoire of toilet noises, not even when he sat through a really hot one.

The heated air of rotted breath wafted into John’s nostrils and he stood stark, his bladder ready to burst.

“Don’t,” John said.

“What’s going on?”

“Stay away—Ah!”

The thing leapt. John reached out and held the small leathery claws away from his throat and chest. It was strong and they fell backward, John’s spine bent awkwardly over the tub’s rim. He cried out and three sharp claws pierced the flesh of his stomach. His bladder released.

“Help, Jessica! Something’s in here!”

She chased the cries and once she got to the bathroom, she scanned but didn’t see much. She swung open the small cupboard under the sink and found her Kotex box. She flicked her lighter.

A fresh scream erupted as she backed up, ass connecting with the counter. She understood that she saw John then—bloody and incapacitated—and kicked her bare foot at the thing. In return, its small tail swung wildly. Two more claws pierced John’s flesh and he cried out again. Jessica looked around, thinking, thinking, thinking, time seemed to have sped, thinking, thinking, the world rolled along and her husband would die unless she…thinking…thinking… She turned the flame back under the sink and found an aerosol can. She let the light die for a second so she could reposition. The metal safety strip warmed her thumb as she flicked a new flame.

John screamed as the claws scratched deeper into his stomach. She sprayed. Flame danced upon the thing’s back. Suddenly the creature was screaming right along with John.

John was flailing fists as Jessica maneuvered the makeshift flamethrower over the cowering creature. With wild swings, John’s bloody fingers found the bath curtain and he attempted to pull himself upright. The curtain tore from the little rings and he fell back to the floor.

The thing spun and roared before it pushed from its knees, swinging a long stroke through the air. The aerosol sputtered and died. Jessica backstepped at this as the thing regained itself and approached, cocking its clawed hands, ready to strike. John leapt onto its winged-back, draping the shower curtain over the body.

“Quick! Get something!”

Jessica subconsciously ran through bathroom items.

Snapping a hole in the curtain came the thing’s long snout and jaw, threatening anew. Snap. Snap. Snap. Jessica flicked the lighter and looked under the sink, bypassing a hair dryer and hair curler to grab the hair crimper; a tool her mother gave her for Christmas, but she’d only used once.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“Come on, come on,” John said, wrestling to hold the shower curtain over active limbs and hungry teeth.

Jessica waited for the jaw to snap closed and then she began wrapping the power cord as the thing’s claws attempted to reach for her hand, but John’s strength and body weight kept it down. Around and around the cord tightened and the thing snorted.

Jessica thought further, the bathroom couldn’t help much. “I’ll be back,” she whispered as she ran.

She flicked the lighter every second to keep the layout in mind to move quickly. Still, she stumbled twice over forgotten ledges, but eventually reached the kitchen. With two large knives in hand, she raced back to the bathroom, tripping and scratching her neck with a blade. Up and moving. She banged her knee rounding the bathroom door.

John rolled and the thing freed an arm. Swinging the clawed fingers back over its shoulder at John, he dodged, but the sharp tips grazed his cheek. Jessica jabbed at the thing, sinking a blade. Another cry rose from the creature. She pulled out the knife and stabbed in and out three quick shots. It fell sideways and she continued to stab. After more than 20 strikes, Jessica, breathing like she’d just run the 100M dash, retrieved the lighter from her pocket. The thing wasn’t dead but gasping quick short breaths through the tiny nostrils on the end of its jaw and snout. John looked almost as bad, his white undershirt busy with blood and claw marks.

—

Malcolm found two of his daughters up and crouching just inside their bedroom door. “Get dressed, we have to uh, we have to go out to the neighbors’ house,” he said.

The girls did not argue, for once. Amber felt her way toward the sound of her father. “Dad…?”

“Get dressed, we have to go.”

“Is Mom okay?”

“Amber, now,” Malcolm said, a hangover threatening to settle. The situation demanded clear thoughts, but it was too much and he couldn’t focus as the veins mapping his grey matter seemed to shorten and tighten. “Hurry.” He then stumbled off to the washroom.

A box of matches and a fat red candle sat atop the toilet, his wife put everything out just hours earlier. Malcolm lit the candle and opened the lid of the toilet. He expelled the remaining beer he carried. After putting down the lid and pocketing the matches, he found a bottle of Tylenol, took six chalky pills, chewing them to let the residue pass through the flesh of his mouth, hoping that it might expedite the reaction time.

“Dad, where’s Mom,” Amber asked, coming into the washroom.

“Shush, she’s gone, gone with the baby.”

“But why would she—”

“Shut up! Go get your sisters, okay?” Malcolm was ready to smash the world. What he’d seen. Christ, he wanted to kill something.

Amber listened. Malcolm went to close the door to Susan’s room, hiding the traces of the death. He lifted the hallway telephone and, as expected, the lines were down.

The depleted family stepped from the house to the Astro van parked in the driveway. “I need you all to be big girls for me,” Malcolm said and strapped the girls in before pulling the sliding door closed.

Grunts and violent utterances escaped his lips nearly constantly as he thought about his wife and what he saw. What kind of sonofabitch…? And then, oh God, she’s gone. And then, where’s the fucking baby?

He opened the creaky driver’s door. A low hum and a gentle giggle from someplace else hit his ears and he flopped into the van, closing the door behind him and pushing the thought from his mind. He put his forehead against the steering wheel and turned the key.

A thought struck, powerful and undeniable. The van still running, Malcolm swung open the door and hurried to the backyard. The hum grew louder and Malcolm placed it: the generator. At first, he thought it was a voice, but it was so obvious. Nancy was always ready, she must’ve run around the house switching lights off.

The baby had to be out there somewhere…that giggle. Looking at the little shed, the reality hit him. Jim Roland was responsible. The goddamned nutcase murdered his wife and…what?

Malcolm took a breath, clenched his fists, and then swung open the heavy wooden door of the shed. Gentle light poured from the doorway.

“The Lord has called and I have answered. I am the chosen!”

“Give me my daughter, you cocksucking freak,” Malcolm said, grinding his teeth. He would’ve run over and nailed the man if he wasn’t so goddamned big—fat or not—and if he wasn’t so goddamned crazy about martial arts.

“Your daughter is with me. We are going to force the beasts from the pure souls, like mine and your daughter’s. Is the Lord your personal Lord, your Savior?” Jim lit a cigarette, still cradling the baby as he did so.

“Sure. I’m Catholic,” Malcolm said. His wife was Catholic, they got married in a Catholic Church—had to take some Catholic Sunday school classes for adults to do so. Though, he didn’t buy into much of any of that bullshit.

Maybe an eye for an eye. He could go for some of that here.

“The Catholic Church is doomed, they bugger kids and the devils line the skies, they want blood, pure blood to punish the ungrateful, those who don’t pray, those who don’t accept Jesus. Oh Jesus, take us now!” Jim yelled, holding Susan to the ceiling with one hand. He was clearly drunk in this act, swaying some, but managing not to drop the girl. “Jesus, my Lord, ucka raba coritha, mora tunga neuvella, I want you to take this child, ucka raba coritha, mora tunga neuvella, this child is of the pure and only You know best.”

“Goddamn you, Jim, give me the baby.” Malcolm took a step forward.

“It has come!” Jim lowered the baby to his chest, eyes wide and gazing over Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm didn’t hear the thing behind him and took two steps into the smallish shed. “You’ll pay for what you did to my wife. You crazy motherfu—”

“Faith in the Lord Jesus will save me!” Jim set the baby into the wheelbarrow then and got into a fighting stance.

The open door creaked at its hinges behind Malcolm and he turned. A creature with a horrible face and wings stretching its back, short arms dangling to its hips, legs standing wide as tree trunks atop long crooked feet…and that lizard’s head.

Malcolm rushed in reverse and Jim tried to push by to fight the thing but was too drunk and stepped on a watering can, pitched face first into the spot where cement foundation rose to meet lumber.

Malcolm registered none of this.

A great hot splash of blood covered the baby where she sat, wailing.

—

After washing up a little, Jessica dressed John’s wounds—mostly superficial—by the flickering flames from a few candles and the yellow beam from the flashlight. The thing lay on the floor behind them, beheaded. John didn’t ask and Jessica couldn’t explain why she’d gone so far.

Perhaps a bit of ingrained horror film forewarning.

A yell echoed around the quiet night and travelled into the bathroom. “Must be more,” John said, his voice exhausted and saddened, but not defeated.

“You don’t know that,” Jessica said, hopeful.

“We gotta help them.”

Jessica said nothing and began tossing things around beneath the sink. A loud tink clatter crash stole attention. John moved the light. Red blush and cream-colored foundation, as well as a mix of unbroken containers, covered the thing’s ugly head. A big swatch of foundation stood in a liquid mound over its eye, spatters of mascara freckled its jaw.

“Dammit,” Jessica said.

“What were you looking for?”

Jessica found the Kotex box. She slipped a cigarette between her lips. Lit the smoke on a candle flame. She’d tell John to shut up if me made so much as a peep about…

“Can I have one?” he asked.

They’d quit together four months earlier, both smoked in secret since.

—

A knock. Gordon was a light sleeper and got out of bed immediately. He looked through a window and saw three little girls at the door. He scooped up a flashlight and jogged.

Once in the hallway, Camilla called out, “Who is it?” They’d slept in separate rooms for the last eight years. Camilla snored.

“It’s Malcolm’s kids,” Gordon said and then as an afterthought, “Better get up.”

Camilla began rustling.

Gordon made it to the main floor. He swung open the door and Amber began a tirade, “Dad made us go out to the van then he just left us there, our mom is gone somewhere with Susan and I don’t know what to do, someone was watching us—”

“Hold up, come in. Who was watching you?” Gordon stepped aside and peeked out the door.

“I don’t know, I didn’t see them. I just knew they were there,” Amber said.

Gordon guided the girls to the living room. He lit the candles from earlier. Camilla came down the stairs in a long evening slip, grey and silky.

Gordon said to the girls, “Well, you’re safe now,” he then turned to Camilla, “I’m going to go out and see what’s going on. I think maybe there was an A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T.”

“I can spell,” Amber said, although not words that long.

“Be careful,” Camilla said.

“Yep.” Gordon donned his slicker and goofy rain hat in case the weather picked up again.

—

Jessica led her wounded husband outside, both had knives jutting from coat pockets and both had blunt beating tools in hands: Jessica a three wood and John a baseball bat.

A rumble came from Malcolm’s backyard. They trailed it, as insane as that was. Jessica wondered if John was really this brave or was this something macho, a last ditch reveal for the wife?

They reached the lip of the yard and stopped, a few feet beyond the shine coming through the open shed door.

One of the things was around the side of the shed and had someone—Malcolm by the look of it—on the ground in a tangled and bloody mess. Susan cried from the shed and John broke into a sprint.

Not toward the baby, toward the fight.

John swung. The bat connected with a loud thud, the thing’s head rocked forward. Malcolm groaned. The sound of his blood flowing onto the grass was eerily loud.

Jessica was slow coming, but there, and she pulled the knife from her pocket and began to jam into the thing’s neck with a busy rhythm: one jab, two jab, three jab, four jab, breathe, one jab, two jab…

John took another swing and the landing fell onto a motionless form. He pulled Jessica back a step, thinking they’d done what needed done. “It’s gotta be dead.”

“Thou slain the beast; you must be one of God’s army. Malcolm was impure, his daughter breathes, praise Jesus,” Jim said raising his arms to the sky. His forehead was bloody and his eyes were pink and wide. “The Lord is with us, we are safe here!” He waved them toward the shed door.

The creature began moving, sluggishly a first. John was staring at Malcolm’s drained body when he dropped the bat, withdrew his knife, and leapt onto the thing’s back. The fine teeth made quick work of the leathery neck flesh.

Jessica watched a few seconds, understood, and then turned to Jim in the shed doorway. “Give me Susan.”

“Blaspheme!” Jim shouted and slammed the door. “Beg for your souls, only the chosen go to Heaven.”

No time for muffled nonsense; Jessica ran for the shed and kicked open the door—the frame already splintered. “Try and stop me, you crazy motherfucker,” she said, sneering and holding out her bloody knife.

Jim sat on a bag of fertilizer with a cigarette between two fingers and the dregs of a spritzer bottle in his other hand. He mumbled nonsense sounds but didn’t try to stop her.

“What do you think, the car?” John said.

Jessica was fumbling with the baby in her arms. It was a tough choice. The things obviously got into homes—were there more?—but could they get into cars? It felt like a bad idea. The road resembled a small mountain face, there was no way they could drive or climb down. The best hope was to hunker and wait for rescue.

“I guess, until we find someplace better,” Jessica said and followed John along the property line to the front yard. She placed Susan on the shotgun seat and then dug into her pocket for her cigarettes.

“Just a second,” John said, “mine are fresher.” He jogged over to his LTD and took a pack of Player’s Filter from the glove box.

Jessica inhaled and exhaled, she said, “Nobody lives forever, huh?” She looked at the cigarette like it was a true curiosity.

“We’ll be lucky if we live through the night. I mean—”

John’s words were interrupted by a sound and a shadow swooping down toward Malcolm’s backyard.

—

Thump. Camilla was already up and looking at the door. Gordon stood there outside, just stood there, he didn’t motion and his face didn’t ask for entry, he was blank. The power was still out, so Camilla saw only his shape, but that was enough to open the door just a crack. “Gordon?” she whispered.

A growling sent Camilla reeling backward. Gordon’s dead body fell in through the door, and as she looked at her husband, something changed inside; she sat on the floor watching as a horrible creature crossed her shoe room and sniffed at the air. It turned to Camilla, its claws clicking on the cement doorstep.

The long gator-like, head leaned close to her face, she wouldn’t have minded so much if it wanted her—with Gordon dead, what was left?—but it only snorted and moved along. She remained placid and empty, listening to the thing smell its way through the home.

There was a scream and Camilla looked to the ceiling as footfalls paraded the upstairs bedrooms.

—

Tina and Kelly ran into the first bedroom, they were too young to know what to do when monsters chased, too young to have watched the movies. Amber continued to run down the hallway until she reached a set of steps leading to the back—crazy old house had multiple staircases—finding the door that led into the garage.

Once in the garage, she stopped to discuss a game plan with her sisters, but they weren’t there and she was alone.

Tina and Kelly had slid under a bed. The thing was in the room with them sniffing. Claws felt around the bedframe before clamping on the edge and reefing it upward. The girls screamed until their ribcages split and their hearts were removed for consumption.

Amber heard the screams and ran. It was pitch black in the garage. One, two, three, four steps and she found the far wall. Her head struck a low shelf and she fell back, the shelf fell above her. The objects on the upper levels teetered and dropped, a thick cool liquid poured over Ambers head and she rolled aside, but not before the liquid filled her mouth and eyes.

Panic set in and she ran, eyes closed, spitting the horrible tasting stuff. She made it outside, wiping at her eyes and making too much noise.

Quickly, a creature zeroed in on her location.

—

John watched as what appeared to be Amber, covered in bright orange paint, broke through the park toward her house. One of the things chased.

 “Oh God, how many more?” Jessica said from the driveway.

A door slammed.

There could be no mistake, makeup covered the thing’s face as it moved with swaying ginger steps.

“They don’t die even when you cut their—”

The creature tripped, made a gargling noise and its head rolled halfway between them and the house. The body stood and stumbled toward the head.

“Like hell,” Jessica said, seeing one chance and acting on it. She sprinted and only slowed a notch as she bent to scoop up the head.

It’s blood-slick jaws snapped at her. She pitched her arms out, like she was carrying a wick bomb from a Pink Panther movie.

“Help me!” she screamed, running toward her yard.

“Look out!” John yelled, not at his wife, but at Amber instead.

The girl went full speed into the green mailbox at the end of Malcolm’s driveway. She snapped backward in a horrid whipping motion. The thing caught up.

Jessica kept running, eyes bouncing from the head in her hands and the beast about to… “No!” she yelled as the thing plunged a claw into Amber’s chest. “Oh, Christ, no.”

It leaned back and dropped the heart into its maw. Jessica began sprinting for the feasting creature and once no more than 10 feet away, she threw the head—like chucking an oblong watermelon with teeth—and it landed with its mouth open. It clamped onto its brethren and the feasting creature howled to the sky. Jessica was on it then with her knife out, stabbing into the feasting thing’s neck; one, two, three, four, five… John joined the action thumping at its knee.

It let loose another great cry but was already down and all but finished.

—

Jim sat in the shed, speaking in tongues—what his deranged mind thought was speaking in tongues—and felt a sudden urge for a drink. He’d finished his spritzers and knew Malcolm always had beer.

In the garage, he flicked the switch and the lights powered on. The fridge was unplugged, but the beer was still cool. There was a choice and he went with Miller High life. He cracked, chugged its entirety, and then belched.

He took three more beers from the fridge and returned to the shed, he’d have to go out to his car soon, he had only five cigarettes left. But not yet. He closed the door and sat.

After lighting a cigarette, he downed another half beer. Something scratched at the door. It made him think of a cat.

On his feet—mostly steady—he swung the door. A thing stood their without its head. Jim shouted, “Devil! Ecartha, mena, notta, raba coitha, mora tunga neuvella, tordonden, tordindadada ucka,” and pushed the headless thing. It stumbled in reverse and fell over Malcolm’s dead body. Jim belched and slammed the door. “I am the general of His army, praise Jeeguus.” Jim began tipping as the influx of fresh beer slipped a coat over his sensibilities.

Another cigarette lit, he cracked a beer cap off and took a good swig.

—

Jessica and John carved the thing into five pieces and then moved onto the next, always looking over their shoulders for another that would drop from the sky, claws poised, but it didn’t come. They wore bloodbath gore from scalps to shoelaces.

“What’ll we do with the pieces?” Jessica asked.

“I guess we bury them. We’ll make a few holes and bury them, they won’t be able to move if they can’t get back together,” John said, looking around at their work.

The idea of having the things in their backyard creeped them out, so without discussion, they walked into the backyard of their dead neighbors.

A cry rang out and they pitched their eyes upward, both had harmless chunks of creature in their arms. The thing that killed Malcolm stood on the roof, its head in its clutches.

“My God,” John said. “It fucking found its head.”

It dive-bombed at them, but dropped its head into a stone birdbath, where it bobbed and attempted to call out. The body soared over John and Jessica and into the wall of the shed. From within a slurred voice yelled, “Jesus lobs Tibernanny! I true army! Expos in sevemehmn!”

“Go in there and get the wheelbarrow, huh?” Jessica said, nodding to the shed. “That fucking guy creeps me out.”

John dropped his payload to the grass. “Malcolm’s got some good shovels too.”

—

The sun rose and the emergency services made it up to the subdivision on the hill that had become an island in the sky. Days became weeks and nobody knew what to make of the grisly scene. Only Jim talked about devils and demons and creatures that he’d destroyed singlehandedly, but they’d return and he had to protect his mother.

Camilla was in shock but was ardent that Jim go back into care—she wasn’t about to have him move home to protect her.

Jessica and John—as godparents, a title both always assumed to be hokey and pointless—took Susan.

—

It took time, but John and Jessica found a buyer for their home and they moved as far south as they could.

Camilla died after two years alone and her house remained empty until the Conservative Party took hold of the province and cut spending all over. The mentally unstable were suddenly stable and booted from care.

—

For the first time in 12 years, Jim Roland walked the streets of Tranquility, Ontario, and did so without a babysitter. The world had changed and he looked at the old house, ready to resume life.

The other three houses on the crescent sat vacant. He’d moved in on a Saturday, spent the weekend lonely and depressed, but awoke Monday afternoon to the rumble of machinery.

Apparently, a small group of investors purchased the land around the old park and planned to demolish the homes and build apartment buildings. A bulldozer tore through Malcolm’s home and Jim watched, intrigued.

He’d gone to bed in his clothes and shoes, so he didn’t even need to dress to hurry over and say hello. A man leaned against a shovel smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, I’m Jim. I was in a mental institute for crazies half my life.” He held out his hand, a big grin on his face.

The man looked at Jim and then at the four rings on Jim’s outstretched hand. “Ah, you own that house.” He pointed across the empty park space.

Jim nodded. “What’s going on?”

“Low-income apartments. Excuse me,” he said and walked away.

Jim stood at the fence smoking, occasionally returning home for a can of Pepsi or a cup of coffee. He watched the excavator dig the foundations and the backyard; he watched as a dump truck took the debris away, collected the dirt and all the pieces, the things.

They wouldn’t get them all, he knew that, just how he knew the Sharks would win the Stanley Cup and the score of the Super Bowl was going to be 49 to 11—which teams, he couldn’t quite make out. Those evil creatures, they’d be back, someday, once they smelled something good to eat. Jim rubbed his belly and headed for home.

XX