January Cold
There were no people seen entering or leaving the empty house on Olive Lane during that cold Saturday night.
Neither was Alfie, the yorkshire terrier at No. 32, witnessed escaping his yard and chasing an invisible adversary down the road, and then into the empty house via the basement window.
The sun rises late indeed. Frost clings to the grass, and the windows; the pavement is slick with it.
Most people this morning are rising, and getting about their day, but not Genevieve and Tamworth, the little girl and boy who reside at No. 32.
They both contracted a virus from some children at school. They are to rest and sip at soup and water.
They are yet to hear about the dog.
Slowly, the shadows of the night retreat from the sun. Olive Lane is still and quiet, like a photograph.
The gate to No. 57 is found to be firmly latched when Mrs. Wensley leaves for town in the morning. She cannot decide what to make of it, and it sits with her all day.
The basement window remains open. Had Mrs. Wensley approached but a little beyond the gate before departing, she might have heard shrill barking.
In the basement of No. 57, all is dark, and silent, except for the single shaft of light piercing the window, and the faint sound of panting.
Alfie’s eyes twinkle as he searches the darkness, huddled in the corner under the light.
Slowly, a shape begins to form in the dark, but remains obscure. The shadow thickens and moves, but does not emerge. Alfie begins to feel its presence envelop him. Without speaking, it commands speech;
You understand language... You have learned from your humans... But, you cannot speak... I can sense your affirmation...
Alfie huddles even further, making himself as small as possible, looking for some way to run.
I’m not going to harm you... you don’t need to escape from me... I’m going to set you free...
Alfie hides still further away. The invisible person inherently unsettles him.
We shall make a deal... Because I know you will never tell a soul...
Alfie begins savagely to bark, and snarl, and salivate.
The shadow squeezes itself around him, CALM YOURSELF! You cannot hurt me... I am Nobody...
Jennifer finishes clearing away the soup bowls for Gen and Tam, and goes upstairs to shower and brush her teeth. She’s been using this different herbal toothpaste that the women at work introduced her to, Natu-Fresh.
It’s only available at this one store, or so they say.
But it’s great. It’s so much more refreshing than regular toothpaste.
But as she goes to load up her toothbrush, she realises with distaste that the tube has run empty. How had she not noticed? Darn.
Mouthwash it is, then.
She towels off, gets dressed, and tosses the spent tube into the recycling box.
Gen and Tam are peacefully asleep for now, so Jennifer lays down upstairs to read a book.
I will set you free, if...
She sits upright again, as the phone rings.
...you agree to...
“Hello? Who’s there?”
...come back to me with trinkets from your humans...
“Hello? Jennifer? Any news on Alfie?”
“No, not yet, Carol, we’re very worried as you know.”
...every day. The more, the better...
“Honey I’m sure it’s going to work out fine, you’ll see.”
“Thanks, Carol,”
Can you agree to that?
Jennifer hangs up the phone, and lays there with her book on her stomach, staring at the ceiling.
Alfie nods his head resignedly, or some canine equivalent of that gesture, and the shadow abates.
Oh, good. Well, off you go, then... and don’t forget our bargain...
A door opens, revealing an ascending stair.
Jennifer jumps out of bed and puts on her shoes.
The children are still asleep, so she takes her keys and goes out the door.
God only knows where she thinks she’ll look, but she’s got to try.
She runs out of her garden, leaving the gate wide open, and looks to her right, and then her left - and lo, and behold, there’s Alfie, running up the road towards her.
She screams and starts crying, picks him up, and takes him inside, babbling incoherently about how she thought he was dead, and how she’ll never let him outside again.
Day progresses, for some more quickly than others. The sun traces its low arc in the sky.
For Mr. Billingdon, it hardly progresses at all, since on Sundays he remains in bed until at least noon.
He loves a good Sunday afternoon drive, but only as long as the sun stays out of his eyes and mirrors, and as long as the drive avoids the highway.
Mr. Billingdon leaves his house at 1:37pm and finds that his car is unlocked.
He looks up and down the street, and sees no-one. He leans inside, and feels around in the glove compartment. His secret bottle of vintage whiskey is still hidden there. He reaches under the passenger seat and feels his box of cigars, safe and sound.
He lifts out the cup-holder and finds his spare cash still curled up inside.
He sighs with relief, and sits in the seat, remarking how inattentive he must have been not to have locked the car.
He decides he will have just one nip of whiskey before his drive. A cheeky one, as his wife would have said.
He pulls out the bottle to find it almost entirely drained. He feels his blood pressure rise. What a crime. He polishes off the remainder, savouring what he can, and reaches under the passenger seat for his cigars. Upon extracting the box, he becomes aware that only three cigars remain out of twenty-five.
Mr. Billingdon’s face flushes a deep red, and he begins to tremble with anger. Who has intruded into his property? Whom shall he blame?
His eyes snap to the cup-holder suspiciously. He lifts the thing out and seizes the cash, counts it in his hands. His eyes almost bulge out of his head as he comes to understand that over two-hundred has gone missing.
Mr. Billingdon decides he is no longer in the mood for a Sunday drive. He is no longer in the mood for anything unless it involves finding out who stole these things from him.
HEY!
Genevieve wakes suddenly in a shivering sweat. The curtains are drawn in the living room, and Tamworth is still fast asleep beside her.
She looks frantically about for the source of the voice that roused her. It was sharp, urgent; she can still feel the breath in her ear, but she and Tam are the only ones in the room.
Gen rises from her lethargy, coughing painfully, to turn off the living room heater. She peels off her wet gown, and goes upstairs to the shower to douse herself in hot water.
Time melts away in there, pouring down the plughole with the soap. The water is like liquid gold all over her, soothing and warm, and soon she cannot feel her swollen throat and sinuses, only the warmth.
Too soon, it’s over, and Gen steps out of the water. She dries off as quickly as she can, and dresses in two layers, to minimise exposure to the cold.
She opens the door, and jumps back in fright as, for a moment, she sees somebody standing right there.
The apparition disappears in the billowing steam.
Gen descends the stairs. She enters the living room and starts again in fright, seeing for an instant somebody standing in the corner, their breast pocket bulging with wrinkly brown crayons.
She can smell him faintly, the smell of smoke and whisky.
Tam remains fast asleep on the couch. She sits on the other end of it and wraps herself in a blanket, staring at the corner where she saw the figure, where there is only a table and a lamp.
Genevieve turns to reach for her water, but drops the glass - the figure is still standing there in the corner of her eye.
The smash of glass, her mother calling, they do not register.
She looks him dead-on, and he disappears.
She looks away again and there he is, in her periphery, watching her.
Suddenly her mother is holding her, saying, “what’s happened? Tell me what’s happened,”
Genevieve can’t help from crying for fear as she says the words, “there’s a man, standing over there, and he won’t go away... I can see him if I go like this,” she turns her head, and whimpers.
He watches her ever more intently.
The afternoon draws on, the shadows lengthen, and people who were not already at home return there.
Mrs. Wensley eyes the gate at 57 suspiciously as she parks her car.
She walks into her home and locks the door.
Mr. Billingdon would have returned home around now, had he gone on his Sunday drive. Instead he is asleep on an armchair in his room, dreaming vengeant dreams.
On the street, someone appears out of the shadow of a telephone pole, and approaches Mr. Billingdon’s door. They push, but it’s locked. They push again, and it opens.
Inside Mr. Billingdon’s house, some two-dozen people are already rummaging around in drawers and cupboards, and under beds and couches.
The stranger goes upstairs to the bedroom, finds Mr. Billingdon sleeping the fitful sleep of the angered, and begins to pick around in his room.