The ranch-styled house with the stone facade sat in an emerald-green clearing, encircled by acres of towering pines, magnolias, live oaks and the occasional requisite palm tree. On the front porch, an antique rocker creaked and tipped in the breeze; white smoke puffed from the chimney into an ink-black sky scattered with diamonds and conspicuously missing a moon. An overnight frost warning had brought all the flowering baskets that normally hung from the porch trellis inside for the night. A long dirt driveway rambled down through the trees from the main road, running alongside the house and finally ending in front of a small, four-stall stable. Two beaten horse trails wound back into the woods behind the house, past a rusted metal swing set and a Little Tikes plastic playhouse.
Nestled in the black shadows of the pines less than fifty feet away, a man stood silently watching the postcard-perfect cottage. At least a half-mile from the nearest neighbor, it was secluded enough to be considered ‘country’, but still only a quick hop in the car would bring you to the local 7-Eleven and nearest Wal-Mart Supercenter. Perfectly charming, it was, like out of a perfectly charming fairytale. Maybe Grimms’ Hansel & Gretel, the man thought, his cold eyes once again falling on the swing set. Yes. A perfectly charming, unassuming house in the woods with tasty sugar-frosted windows and stone walls the color of gingerbread. From the outside all looked too good to be true. Too delicious to resist. But tomorrow, when the sun rose on the clearing and the first police car gently rolled down the dirt driveway, like poor, hungry Hansel and his sweet sister, it would be a house of horrors that the shocked policeman would find awaited him when he turned the knob and stepped inside.
The night air was refreshingly cool and crisp; it tasted of burning wood and smelled of rich compost and sickly-sweet night-blooming jasmine. And, of course, pine. Above him, the towering treetops blocked out even the starlight; their leaves rustling and swaying in the wind like the pompoms of a cheerleader. Strangely enough, though, other than the soft whispers of the trees, not a sound could be heard in the pure black woods. Not the hoot of an owl, or the croak of a frog. Even the two stabled mares were settled and quiet. It was as if everything living had picked up and wisely left for the night.
Framed like a pretty picture in the warm kitchen lights, she washed dishes at the sink, her honey-colored hair pulled back into a soft pony. The window was cracked open and he could hear the running of water, the clinking of dishes, the soft hum of her voice as she attempted Elvis’s ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ It excited him.
The man had watched her for what felt like hours now, as she made dinner and drank a glass of wine and, finally, put the kids to bed after reading them each a story. Now the night was coming to an end. He fought off the flock of anxious butterflies that made his heart pump like it had been shot up with adrenaline. The anticipation was the best part and the worst part of the night; as any hunter worth his weight could tell you, it’s the thrill of the hunt that makes the game taste so sweet. She shut the window against the unusual cold that had news shows all over the state of Florida talking, and snapped out the kitchen light. The chimney stopped puffing and the porch went black. Less than a minute later, the bedroom lights came on.
She didn’t bother to close the blinds. There was no one around for miles. There was no one who could see in. He watched as she unbuttoned her shirt right in front of him, unhooked her bra and showed him her big, beautiful breasts. She slid off her jeans and folded them neatly, placing them on a bench at the foot of the bed. Wearing only a pair of silky red panties, she lingered for a moment at the window before pulling on a T-shirt and heading into the bathroom.
Poor Charlene. Charley, as she liked to be called. Still wearing her sexy, fire-engine red undies even though there was no one to wear them for anymore. She’d gotten the house in the country; he took the condo in downtown. Heading full speed ahead into the dark middle ages with a few lumps around the tummy and no one but her two little kids to kiss goodnight. No one around to protect her when the forest came alive.
So vulnerable. So lonely.
What she needed was a little company to ring in the New Year with.
It wasn’t long before the lights went out in the perfectly charming little cottage. Then the devil emerged from the pitch-black shadows of the woods and crossed the lush lawn, passing the swing set and playhouse, careful not to disturb the nice horses as they slept. At the back door he simply turned the knob and quietly stepped inside.
Of course she hadn’t locked it, because it was safe out here in the pretty countryside, where no one was around for miles.
Anxiety:
like metal on metal in my brain
Paranoia: it is making me run
away, away, away
and back again quickly
to see if I’ve been caught
or lied to
or laughed at
Ha ha ha. The Ferris wheel
in Looney Land is not so funny.
A paranoid schizophrenic
patient