October 19th, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
9:42 P.M.
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The fog never lifted that day.
Thicker than smoke and twice as quiet, it enveloped the edges of Hollow Creek like a secret no one wanted to admit. Power cables vanished into it. Trees looked like figures holding their breath. And the streetlights on Pine Hollow Lane hung helplessly, casting cones of pale light that only went a few feet before giving way to the darkness.
Across the street, a small, worn green house slanted on its lot. Flaking paint clung to the siding like dry skin. Its porch light pulsed, fighting the fog. A window glowed—a fleck of golden yellow in the cold.
Inside: sounds. Life. A man. A woman. The sounds of a house still in use.
Thomas Bell was on the other side of the street, half-hidden behind a rusty sedan on cinder blocks. He did not blink.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting. Time no longer had form like it used to.
"..closer now.."
.
.
"..mask on.."
.
.
"..quiet hands.."
The voices were disappearing, growing more difficult to hear.
His patrol cap was sagging low on his forehead. His olive drab jacket, faded to a dull grayish hue, was buttoned up tight, the collar hard and crushed with dried sweat and grime. His face, half-hidden in river mud, was no longer camouflage-colored but war paint cracked and dried. It reeked of stagnant water and mud.
He crossed the street slowly. No one saw him. No one ever did. Not since he broke out of that asylum a night ago.
The back yard of the house was still, outlined by weathered wood and crackly chain-link. He moved along the edge, then slipped into the shed. The door crealed on its hinges when he pushed it and nearly all the way shut behind him.
Inside: wet air and moldy rot. Equipment against the walls—shovel, axe, wrench, hedge clippers—left behind. A bag of seeds old, mice now empty, torn open on the ground. He sat on the hard earth and closed his eyes.
His pulse had calmed down.
He listened.
Above him, the house whispered.
Voices, movement, a slamming of a door. A scrapping of a chair. The hum of a television or radio. These were rhythms of people who believed they were safe.
He knew that rhythm.
He once lived inside of it.
Now he watched from the sidelines.
"..soon..."
.
.
"..go now..."
He got up and crept out of the shed, moving with slowness, not caution—habit. His boots struck soft dirt and edged past the loose rock alongside the steps. He approached the back porch as if he'd done this a hunred times.
The screendoor was ajar. He entered.
The kitchen was silent. Drying plates in the rack. A half-full empty coffeee cup on the side of the sink. The smell of soap and cooked meat in the air.
He stepped into the living room. A coat carelessly flung over the couch. An open wallet on the table.
Daniel Briggs
A man. A family. Smiling faces in a photograph.
Thomas gazed at it like it was something distant. Familiar, yet out if his grasp. He did not harbor hatred. Or jealously.
He felt nothing.
He approached the stairs.
Top: two doors.
Right—closed. Line of light under it.
Left—open. Dark.
He ventured into the dark room first.
Child's bed. Toy car on the dresser. Empty.
He closed the door quietly and approached the light.
In the master bedroom, the man was atop of the bedcover, semi-sleeping, shirt off, book loose in one hand. The woman beside him was balled in a blanket, face pressed against the wall.
Thomas took up space in the doorway for a solid minute. Just breathing.
"...now..."
He stepped forward, gliding slowly. His hand dipped into the coat and produced a sliver of a broken mirror, tied in the corner of the scrap of cloth he'd torn from his field dressing. The edge wasn't as sharp as a knife—needn't to be.
He was silent.
He pressed his left hand hard across Daniel's mouth.
The man's eyes snapped open.
Thomas didn't flinch. The shard pierced his neck—not clean, but deep. Air in Daniel's throat stuck and bled out in gurgles. He trashed. Shuddered. His arms thrashed on Thomas's chest.
Thomas pushed hard, until the man's fight ended in little, pitifull twitches. His eyes rolled back. The bedsheets became dark, spreading a pool of blood, hot and heavy. The woman beside him stirs.
She rolled over witnessing the murder, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Thomas didn't hesitate. He leapt forward and pushed her onto the bed. She failed—twitching, desperate movements—but terror is not precision. Her scream was abruptly silenced as the shard entered her throat. More messy this time. Too rapid. Her blood splattered the nightstand and stained the lampshade in waves.
She stopped moving, her eyes open and rolled back.
The air was dense.
He scowled at the red oozing through the sheets, the black streak of blood on his sleeve, the splatter all the way on the wallpaper.
It didn't ring out as triumph. Or as pleasure.
He dropped the shard onto the floor. It landed in a spot of wetness. A muffled clink.
He walked out of the room.
Downstairs.
Outside through the backdoor.
The overhead light flickered once as he went back into the fog. He did not look back. He stepped into the street, and the house behind him grew quiet once more.
He vanished like smoke winding into the trees.
And for the first time in a while, the voices spoke not a word.