Please enjoy the opening to my first full-length novel, a darkly comic paranormal thriller.
Forrest Avenue was a nothing street slicing like a thin blade through the middle of a nowhere suburb. Not rich, not poor, just nowhere.
Tree-lined and barely wide enough for two cars to squeeze past each other, it was the start of a shortcut imparted to him by an in-the-know traffic cop from his station some months prior which shaved close to ten minutes off his journey home compared to the expressway, even though said shortcut was made up of a number of these narrow streets which forced him to stay well under the speed limit to allow for pets, kids and old folks popping out from behind trees and parked cars, an especially hazardous phenomenon in the evening twilight. On the radio, Elvis belted out "Suspicious Minds" and Owen Hoath thrummed his fingers along on the steering wheel to the last song of his life.
When sudden movement snagged at the corner of his eye, he slowed his car to a crawl. He turned to look but there was only a house like any of the others around it and nothing seemed amiss. He wondered why something that had likely been a pulled curtain or a closing door had caught his eye so forcefully, was about to drive on and put it down to "over-copping", what his sister called his professional paranoia, when it happened again.
A single window was set into the house's redbrick base, next to steps leading to the front door. Something had been placed inside this basement window to block the glass but a corner had been pulled back and light shone out in the dusk. By the time his eyes confirmed that what at first appeared to be a trapped bird was in fact a hand slapping against the glass, it had disappeared.
He brought the car to a complete stop as he stared at the large triangle of exposed light and waited, catching renewed movement just before the glass broke outwards.
The hand reappeared immediately, fingers now jutting out through the newly made hole. Even in the half-light and with a sizeable front lawn between him and the house, he could see that the hand was small and was ripping itself bloody on the jagged glass.
A part of him was still on his way home, looking forward to seeing his wife and to the small pleasures of a weekday evening; dinner, TV and maybe sex if one of them didn't fall asleep first. That part of him was still hoping that the mints and soap he had used liberally before leaving the station would be enough to cover any traces of his illicit lunch time cigarette. That part of him had put down whatever he was seeing to an unsupervised child in their parents' basement, one who would soon be dripping tears and blood onto the kitchen floor while a grown-up grabbed antiseptic ointment and bandages. So, he was almost surprised to find he was already pulling over to the curb, already picking up his radio handset, turning off Elvis who was trying to warn him that they were caught in a trap, can't walk out.
He radioed in and established who and where he was before requesting an additional unit to assist with a possible domestic disturbance. When the dispatcher told him a patrol car was on its way, ETA ten minutes, he responded that he would hold position in his car and keep eyes on the house. Even though he'd identified himself as a detective, he still mentioned that he was in plain clothes and driving an unmarked car because he didn't need some itchy-fingered rookie yelling threats while he tried to calm them down and pull out his badge without getting shot for his troubles.
The hand had disappeared while he was on the radio, the window now a small and unremarkable black rectangle, so someone had either turned off the basement light or replaced the covering. The other windows had the curtains or blinds drawn and he didn't detect light escaping anywhere, not even a crack around the front door. He wanted very badly to look stupid when he and his back-up knocked and bothered an already harried parent, busily bandaging their adventurous child's hand, but something inside him gnawed at that prospect with increasing ferocity.
He sat and waited for his back-up because smart, well trained law enforcement professionals didn't enter unknown situations alone. When a hoarse scream issued from the house and was cut off just as abruptly, he transferred his standard issue revolver from the glove compartment back to his belt holster. As a smart, well trained law enforcement professional, he knew he should stay put or failing that, at least call in that he couldn't wait for back-up, but he was already out of his car and running across the street while telling himself all this.
He crossed the yard and ran up the front steps, hammering with his fist on the door and yelling "Police" before backing as far to the side as the little porch allowed, crouching against the wall.
No response.
He beat on the door again, commanding anyone inside to open up.
Despite the adrenalin, he could still feel the potential for embarrassment bubbling, could foresee the hell he'd catch when the innocent homeowners went on TV to complain about crazed wannabe heroes who should go and bother the real criminals and use their taxes for something worthwhile etc. etc. But if he was wrong, he'd take his licks and it would be fixed. If he was right, and he waited for his back-up, maybe it couldn't.
Besides, innocent homeowners would be opening up by now or at least twitching curtains. Even less than innocent ones would usually be yelling belligerently through their door to ask what he wanted.
This house stayed still and sullen.
The handle didn't budge when he tried it. The door was sturdy and the steps offered too limited a run-up for him to get it open with his shoulder or foot. In the movies, the hero cop takes down the door with one kick and then each of the bad guys a bullet a piece without losing stride. In reality, one man without a battering ram or back-up is more likely to give himself a fractured ankle or a dislocated shoulder while giving the person on the other side of the door plenty of time to line up their shot.
Moving around the side, going low and quick past the darkened windows in case someone threw one open and started blasting, he heard a door slam somewhere inside the house.
The back door was older and less substantial than the front, a diamond-shaped glass panel set at head-height which, like the neighbouring window, gave a view of floral curtain and nothing else.
The knob moved freely but the door wouldn't open. He pushed harder and found that the resistance was located at the top alone. He pulled out his gun, took a breath, and drove the handle through the glass.
He reached in with his free hand, avoiding the shards of glass sticking from the frame, and grabbed at the material covering the little opening, pulling out a tangled mess of curtain, black plastic and electrical tape, an inexplicable decorative arrangement that upgraded his alarm bells from ringing to screaming. He threw it aside and reached back in, all too aware of how vulnerable his groping hand was to a knife or a meat skewer or biting teeth. He finally found the bolt at the top of the door and fumbled it open.
Now there was no resistance when he turned the knob. Allowing the door to swing open gently, he stepped aside, using the wall for cover.
When no shots came flying at him from inside, he stood before the doorway, peering into a space so untouched by the last throes of evening twilight that as he held his gun before him, it disappeared into a blackness so absolute, he might have been facing a room full of unseen attackers.
He stepped inside and felt along the wall until he found the light switch which revealed that for now, all he was facing was an empty kitchen.
Small with worn but clean linoleum flooring, cream-coloured cabinets and no place for someone to hide. The large window over the sink was covered with black material thicker than the plastic used to cover the door panel and which was nailed instead of taped to the window frame. The garish floral curtains on show from the outside were just set dressing, no-one would ever look through these windows.
He moved across the kitchen to the single open doorway that must lead to the rest of the house. He strained his eyes, but the kitchen light only went far enough to create an army of shapes and shadows in the adjoining room. He registered a chemical smell and a stronger organic one beneath it but instead of dwelling on the implications he laid a finger on his gun's safety and flicked it off, marvelling at how his eyes and weapon seemed to move in perfect unison, as if attached on a pulley system. Considering how little he'd had occasion to handle his gun, he took this as a comforting sign that somewhere in his lizard brain, his academy training was doing its work.
Stepping into the darkness, he felt for another switch on the wall but this time wasn't so lucky. He swore under his breath and gripped his weapon in both hands, squinting at the murk in front of him; trying to catch any movement but seeing none.
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