Riverwatch

Chapter Ten: A Death in the Night

"Bring me another piece of that cake, would ya, honey?"

In the kitchen, Martha Cummings looked out through the interior window that connected to the next room. Her husband George was seated in his favorite recliner in front of the television. Her gaze was full of affection as she took in his slightly overweight body and the little round bald-spot on the top of his head. She shook her head in mock derision at his request, but happily complied with it nonetheless.

Martha was in her late sixties and quite happy with her lot in life. Time had been good to her. A large, buxom woman, not particularly pretty by today’s standards, but filled with an inordinate amount of kindness, she had married her present husband, after two unsuccessful marriages, at the age of thirty-five. She had a nice home, an affectionate husband, and enough money to keep the two of them happy for the rest of their lives. That was more than most could say, and for that she was thankful.

Of course, there were her cats, too.

Martha’s pride and joy, the cats had proven to be an acceptable substitute for her inability to have children. She lavished them with all the care and love and attention she might have given her own children. They were a constant nuisance to her husband, although he was sweetly tolerant for her sake. The felines had free roam of the house. She had lost track of how many of them there actually were, having stopped counting somewhere after sixteen. Originally there had been only five, each with a separate name, but before long she’d given up trying to keep them all straight, referring to them all now simply as Kitty. They didn’t seem to mind and it was much easier that way.

She brought the cake to her husband, along with a tall glass of milk. "Here you are, dear," she said, giving him a quick peck on his bald spot. He flustered a little at that, being self-conscious about the loss of his hair, but his eyes let her know that it was all right.

Back in the kitchen she decided to bake an apple pie and was deep into the process when George announced he was going up to bed.

"Are you going to stay down here all night or will you be joining me?" he asked, a suggestive leer on his face.

She blushed. Despite their advanced age, the two of them enjoyed a good grope in the dark more than once a week, as if they were a couple of hormone-crazed teenagers. It didn’t matter that nine times out of ten the machinery didn’t work. It was the desire that counted, and lately it seemed to be increasing. It made her feel wickedly sinful to know that her husband still wanted her after all these years, and that alone was worth all the trouble.

She leered back at him. "I’ll be up in just a few minutes. If you’re still awake when I get there, old timer, maybe we can find something to keep us awake awhile longer." She waved her hands at him. "Now shoo and let me finish or I’ll just sleep on the couch for the night and you won’t get anything."

George gave her a quick kiss and disappeared up the stairs in a hurry, muttering to himself about domineering women as he went. Martha turned back to her baking.

Her pace was quicker now than it had been a few moments before.

Half an hour later, just as she was placing the pie into the refrigerator, where it would stay until she had a chance to slip it into the oven in the morning, she heard a long, thin wail coming from the front yard.

Martha stopped in mid-motion, bent over in front of the open refrigerator door, pie in hand, her head cocked to one side.

The house around her was silent, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.

After a few moments of intent listening, she decided the noise had only been in her mind. A product of the late hour and her restless imagination.

You’ve been watching too many of those horror films, Martha old girl, she told herself good-naturedly, and slid the pie onto the shelf. She straightened up and closed the fridge, turning back to the sink to get a sponge to wash the counter-tops.

That was when the scream came again, a high-pitched shriek that reflexively made her pull her head down into the crook of her shoulders in response.

She took a step towards the window above the sink that overlooked the front yard, but then hesitated, the action uncompleted. What was out there? she thought, frightened, visions of axe-wielding psychopaths swimming through her mind. She suddenly wasn’t certain she wanted to discover the origin of that cry. What if it was just a trick to get her near the window?

What if I look out, only to find someone looking in?

As soon as that particular thought crossed her mind, she was struck with the uncanny feeling that someone was out there, watching her.

Watching.

And waiting.

Martha turned and quickly made her way to the staircase, wanting to be anywhere but alone in that room. She intended on going upstairs and waking George. He’d know how to handle the situation. He’d know just what to do.

She was halfway up the stairs when another cry reached her ears and this time there was no mistaking its animal origin.

The image of a blood-smeared feline loomed, and in the rush of motherly affection that accompanied it, her fear dissipated.

One of her babies needed her.

Boosted by her concern for her feline charges, Martha got herself under control. Go on old girl, she said to herself. March right out there and see what’s going on. No need to stand cowering in the kitchen. After all, when was the last time the police actually had to work to earn their pay in this sleepy little town? The crime rate was so low that the town council had considered tearing down the auxiliary police station to make room for a new supermarket a few months ago, and had only decided against it when a better location was discovered.

Axe-wielding psychopaths? Not in Harrington Falls.

Reassured by her logic, Martha calmly crossed to the hall closet, glancing down at her housecoat and slippers as she went. It wouldn’t do to have the neighbors see her snooping around the front lawn like that, so she drew on a long trench coat and searched for her shoes. After a moment, she remembered she’d left them by the bed upstairs. In order to retrieve them, she’d risk waking George.

"Slippers will just have to do," she said to the pink bunnies on her feet, and wiggled her toes inside their confines, giggling at the thought of how silly she would feel if any of her neighbors caught sight of her.

She withdrew a broom with a thick wooden handle from the rack on the closet door. Holding it aloft like a baseball bat, she moved to the entryway.

"Don’t worry, Kitty," she said softly, "Mommy’s on her way."

Outside, the beast dropped the cat’s corpse to the ground, then licked the blood from his claws, savoring the bittersweet taste.

Suddenly, a noise caught his attention.

He stopped his grooming and peered through the branches. From where he was seated in the large, old elm that dominated the front yard, he had a clear view of the house. He watched as the front door opened and a woman stepped into view on the porch that extended the length of the house. She was holding something long and slender over one shoulder.

The beast’s eyes widened in anticipation.

Now that the appetizer was out of the way, the main course rightfully made its appearance.

Deciding he wanted to have a little fun before indulging himself, the beast slowly lowered himself to the ground.

In the darkness, Moloch smiled.

Martha stood on the front porch, peering into the darkness before her. The night was quiet. A soft wind was blowing, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees in a whispering chorus. The moon had set much earlier, and now the darkness around her seemed thick and total.

She didn’t like it.

She reached back inside the doorway and flicked the switch to turn on the porch light, but nothing happened. She tried again, with the same result.

Bulb must have blown, she thought. What a time for it, too! Her thoughts turned to the idea of waking her husband, but she quickly stifled them.

She could handle this herself.

"Here, Kitty. Here, Kitty, Kitty," she called softly as she took a few steps farther out onto the deck.

The old wood beneath her feet groaned weakly.

"Here, Kitty, Kitty. Come to Momma."

Only the wind answered her.

Martha crossed the porch until she stood at the top of the steps. The front lawn spread out before her, a giant carpet of green cloaked in dark shadows.

The night was oddly silent, the usual symphony of tree frogs and crickets absent. The fact that she could no longer hear that earlier shrieking only served to heighten her anxiety.

She peered into the gloom ahead of her.

Lights from the neighboring homes occasionally pierced the thick foliage, causing shadows to dance on the edge of her sight. Several times she thought she saw movement, but when she looked directly at that spot, nothing was there.

As she descended the few steps to the stone walkway that led to the drive, a low, furtive rustling reached her ears. She stood still, listening.

After a moment she heard it again. It was coming from a stand of bushes off to her left.

Cautiously, she moved a few steps closer.

"Here, Kitty," she called softly.

The bushes rustled again.

She stepped closer, now just a foot or two away, feeling the cool moisture from the dew-laden grass that had soaked through the material of her slippers onto the soles of her feet.

The rustling came again, this time accompanied by a plaintive meow.

The sound made Martha smile, and she lowered the broomstick in response as relief surged through her system. It had been one of her cats, after all.

Poor baby’s probably trapped in the hedges and can’t get out, she thought. Laying the broom down on the lawn, she softly crept forward the last few feet, not wanting to scare the little darling, and reached out with both hands.

"Easy, baby," she said. "Momma’s here to help you."

Very gently, she parted the bushes and pushed her head into the space she’d created.

She didn’t even have time to scream.

When Moloch was finished, he hefted what was left of the corpse under one arm and turned toward the house.

His meal was not yet complete.

There was another human inside. He could hear the loud thumping heartbeat in his mind, and from its resonance could tell it was a male.

The sound made him eager.

As he started walking slowly toward the still-open front door, his body hunched so that the corpse’s heels dragged along the lawn after him and he began to laugh.

A low, chilling laugh.

A laugh that would’ve sounded only partially human, had anyone been around to hear it.