The New Neighbor

Chapter 17

A Domestic Squabble

Moments after a senseless and infuriating dream about Karen, George awoke clenching his teeth in anger as hot knives twisted in his eye sockets, and in his mind he heard himself scream, Awww, hell, I might as well just break her fucking neck and get it over with before she wakes up!

He sat up, blinked his sticky eyes, and tried to massage the throbbing from his temples, thinking, My God, what's wrong with me, what am I thinking, what's happening to me?

Then: A dream…just a dream…

Pain rippled through his stiff body as he tried to pull himself from his stubbornly oppressive sleep. He was cold, chilled to the bone, and he realized, finally, that he was on the floor beside the bed.

Slowly, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed, still feeling irritated, close to anger. Looking across the room, he muttered, "What… in… the hell," when he saw that the window was gone. Not broken… gone.

George groaned and scrubbed his face, searching for some memory that would explain the gaping hole in his bedroom wall, but could remember nothing. Except… Lorelle… soft flesh and graceful shoulders… taut back muscles moving urgently… rhythmically… sighs and moans and then -

– George's hands jerked away from his face and he gasped at the memory.

An explosion of movement, something black shooting up toward him through two bloodless slits that had split open in Lorelle's back like misplaced vaginas and then -

– nothing. Not even dreams.

He walked naked to the torn-out window, puzzled by the absence of broken glass on the floor until he saw the window scattered in pieces on the grass outside.

It had been broken out, not in.

"Excuse me, sir," a sharply-dressed blonde woman called out, hurrying across the lawn from the sidewalk. She held a microphone attached to a cord that disappeared into the bulky black leather bag at her side. "Could I ask you a few questions?"

There were others behind her, another woman and three men, as well as two cameramen. They jogged across the lawn, microphones clutched, rattling cameras perched on their shoulders.

George stepped back, overwhelmed by a rush of paranoia that rivaled the worst of his pot-smoking days.

The questions came all at once:

"Do you know Ronald Prosky?"

"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"

"Can you explain the symbol on your front door?"

"Is there any truth to the rumors that Dylan Garry killed his parents in a satanic ritual?"

Prosky? Symbol? Satanic ritual? What were they talking about? George felt dizzy, disoriented, as if he'd awakened in the wrong house – the wrong life.

"Mr. Pritchard?" the blonde woman called. "Sir? Would you care to comment on any connection there might be between -"

"Please," George said hoarsely, moving toward the hole in the wall, "please, I answered questions yesterday. I'd rather not -"

"Do you know if your son had any interest in Satanism, Mr. Pritchard?"

A bubble of anger began to grow in George's stomach and he clenched his fists at his sides.

"Does your son listen to heavy metal? Ozzy Osbourne or Metal -"

"Is there any connection between the disappearance of Ronald Prosky and -"

"Is the symbol on your front door a Satanic -"

"Were you shocked to hear of the murder of -"

"Get off my lawn," George said, just loud enough to rise above their voices.

The blond woman stepped forward. "Mr. Pritchard, if you could just -"

"Get off my fucking lawn, lady," he shouted as he went to the large hole that had replaced his bedroom window. His knuckles turned white as he clutched its splintered edge, leaned out and, through clenched teeth, shouted even louder, "Get off my fucking lawn, do you understand? All of you! Get off my lawn!"

Their rapid-fire questions came to a staggering halt and they stared at him, mouths open, caught in mid-sentence.

The inside of George's skull felt… red. A bright, flaming red. He spotted others – two men, one wearing a suit and holding a microphone and the other with a television camera – scrambling out of a van with KCPM-24 painted on the side and he roared at them, "All of you! Stay away from my fucking house!"

The two men stopped, then backed away.

George wanted to slam the window shut and the fact that he couldn't made him even angrier. Instead, he turned and stalked across the bedroom for his robe but stopped, glanced down and found his penis jutting rigidly before him. He reached down to touch it and stopped when he saw the splinters of wood protruding from his palms and fingers, their tips embedded just beneath his skin.

Reporters, for God's sake, he thought, staring at his hands as he gritted his teeth together. I wake up and my fucking window's gone – just gone – and then I've gotta deal with reporters closing in like fucking scavengers and I get two handfuls of splinters and I'm sick on top of that, probably the damned flu everybody else in the house has given me, and she's sound asleep! Like a fucking baby! George stared at his wife, her head buried in her pillow, then looked at his hands again.

He bit his lip and fought back the urge to close his fist and drive the splinters in deep, just to feel the pain and have something real to scream about, because a scream was rolling inside him – a bright flaming red scream – building up, pressing at his throat from below, and he was opening his mouth to let it out when -

– Karen sat up in bed and croaked, "Whahappened? What's… why's it so cold in… the window… Monroe… did Monroe get out?"

"I hope so," he growled in a voice like two wet rocks being rubbed together hard. "And I hope his fur's lining somebody's fucking tires." He stormed out of the room, not bothering to don his robe. His erection was still pounding uncomfortably, almost painfully. In the bathroom, George found the tweezers and began to pick the splinters out one at a time, holding his hand close to his face, cursing and wincing with each biting tug, then tossing them into the toilet.

And his penis remained rock-hard.

He finished his left hand and started on the right, fingers trembling, lips moving rapidly and quietly as he breathed obscenities -

"… fucking splinters… like picking hairs from a goddamned caterpillar… shit-eating reporters with their fucking vans and fucking microphones… goddamned window, what the fuck happened to the goddamned window… "

– and grew steadily angrier, moving faster, as if he were pressed for time. He was, in a way; George knew that if he did not finish the tedious plucking soon, he was going to put his hand through the medicine cabinet mirror, just slam his fist through the glass, that ought to take care of the fucking splinters, that ought to cut the little fuckers out, by god, then he wouldn't have to -

"Want me to do that for you?"

The voice was so soft, it almost failed to penetrate George's intense concentration, and it was only when he realized he was no longer alone in the room that he knew he'd actually heard it, but he still wasn't sure what the voice had said, so he looked up, frowning.

Jen stood in the doorway smirking, wearing a tight blue crop-top and panties, her eyes half-closed, blonde hair a medusa-like tangle around her face.

"What?" George barked. "Oh, uh, yeah, I've just, um… got some… splinters, is all."

"Want me to do that for you?" she said again. She wasn't staring at his hand.

Suddenly, George became aware of his nakedness again, crushingly aware of it, and he dropped the tweezers into the sink to reach for a towel, but Jen stepped in front of him and took his hand.

"I promise I won't hurt you." Her eyes darted between his face and his cock, lingering below his waist a bit longer each time.

George said, "Just go on, okay? I'll do it, just go -"

She reached out casually and wrapped her fingers around his erection, "It's a lot bigger and harder than Robby's."

George blanched and slapped her hand away, stepped back abruptly and blurted, "Robby's? You've – you mean you've – Robby's been – what have you -" His fingers curled into hooks and his jaw worked, clacking this teeth together, "Oh, yeah," he hissed, thinking, There's a sickness in this house all right, but it ain't the fuckin' fluuu! "Get out!" he roared. "Go on, get out, I'll deal with you later. And Robby, too. Where's Robby? Where the hell is Robby?"

She stumbled backward, her eyes opening to their full size and a little beyond. "He's… in his ruh-room."

"Well you tell him to stay there because I'm gonna be coming for him in just a few minutes, you understand? Now get your ass out of here!"

Jen backed out of the bathroom and pulled the door closed.

“Son of a bitch!" George rasped, pacing the bathroom. "I've got a seventeen-year-old son who's – my god, what's happening? What the fuck is -"

He stopped. Stood in front of the mirror, his chest heaving. Stared at himself for a moment.

He was pale, thinner than usual, and the creases in his forehead seemed to be deeper than ever before.

And his cock was pounding…

… tingling…

… echoing the touch of Jen's cool hand…

"Sshhhit," he groaned, sitting on the toilet, his right hand stinging.

The tingling. It wouldn't go away.

He touched his cock, rubbed it as if he could wipe the feeling away, but he only leaned his head back, closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing it again. And again. And again, squeezing out its thick fluid and slicking it over the shaft as he thought about Jen’s hand… her smooth, cool hand…

"God," he whispered, and it sounded a little like a sob, a dry, sickened, miserable sob. "My… god."

When he came, George moaned behind closed lips and collapsed against the side of the sink, pressing his cheek to the cold surface of the counter and drawing long, deep breaths.

Robby sat on his bed in his robe, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clenched together. The local news station, KQMS, was playing on the radio and Robby rocked back and forth, tapping a knuckle to his pursed lips as he waited anxiously for the story. He'd heard a teaser earlier, but nothing more.

It would come soon enough, he was sure.

Pastor Quillerman had told him to leave Prosky's car parked at the curb outside -"It won't be the first abandoned car on this street," he'd said – then he'd driven Robby home and told him to get some sleep. But that had been impossible, so he'd just gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn. He had not even wanted to come home.

"You should be there, Robby," the pastor had said. "You should all be together now, you need one another."

Robby had been surprised by Pastor Quillerman's reaction to his story, by his immediate acceptance of it as truth.

After collapsing in Quillerman's doorway, Robby awoke several minutes later on the sofa with Quillerman kneeling beside him, waiting with a cup of hot tea and an encouraging smile.

"I think you're going to be okay, Robby," the pastor said. "But you look like you've been through one very unpleasant experience. Want to talk about it?"

Robby sat bolt upright, swung his legs off the side of the sofa and leaned toward Quillerman.

"Pastor, you've gotta help me, you've gotta help my family, all of them, my whole neighborhood, th-they're… something's wrong with them."

Quillerman frowned, handed Robby a tea and sat on the sofa beside him. "Exactly what is wrong with them?"

Robby didn't know how to tell him. "I don't know, they're all so… angry. Everyone is fighting or yelling all the time or not talking at all and… and… " Robby closed his eyes a moment, embarrassed. "There's a lot of, um, sex going on in my neighborhood these days."

"Do you know what's causing all this?"

Robby nodded. "The new neighbor."

Quillerman released a long, heavy sigh as he looked down at his maimed hand. "Tell me, Robby. Everything."

So Robby had done exactly that, although he choked on the word "succubus," certain the pastor would think he was on drugs. But Quillerman nodded slowly and listened. When Robby was finished, Quillerman was silent for a long time. Then he looked Robby in the eye and said, "You were right to come to me. You should have come sooner. You're sure your friend is dead?"

Robby nodded.

"Pity. Sounds like he's been on quite a crusade."

"You mean… well, you… you believe me?"

He stared at Robby thoughtfully a while, then held up his injured hand and said, "This -" and pointed to his glass eye, " – this -" and to the scar on his forehead, " – and this -" to his leg, " – and this… I got them all when I was just a little boy. I was… running from my parents, both of whom wanted to kill me." His voice trembled when he said it. Robby had never heard that voice falter before. "We had a new neighbor then, too, Robby. Right next door. So, yes. I believe you. I know exactly what you're talking about, I assure you. And I think I know what to do about it."

He'd listened to a brief outline of Quillerman's plan, then had followed the pastor's instructions to go home.

"In the morning, talk to them," Pastor Quillerman had said. “Tell them everything, whether they believe you or not. If you have to, tell them again and again. They may call you crazy, but deep inside, they'll know you're right. I'll get over there as soon as I possibly can.”

Robby heard the Cuisinart whir to life in the kitchen.

On the radio, a local chiropractor was listing the many benefits of making an appointment with him today.

The bedroom door burst open suddenly and Robby nearly fell off the bed as his dad rushed in and slammed the door behind him.

"What've you been doing with your sister, Robby?" he asked with quiet menace.

"What?"

"Your sister!" George moved in on him quickly and Robby flinched. "What've you been doing with her? Making out with her? Fucking her, maybe? Couldn't you go out and find yourself a real girlfriend?"

Robby stood and backed away from his dad, his face sagging with fear.

"Dad, you don't – I haven't – let me explain what's -"

"You'd fucking well better explain!" George shouted, rushing toward him until their noses were almost touching.

The doorbell rang.

"Well? I'm waiting, Robby. I'm serious, boy, I want to know what's -"

It rang again.

The Cuisinart did not stop.

"Son of a bitch," George hissed. He spun around, opened the door and leaned into the hall. "Karen! Get that!"

No response.

The doorbell rang again.

He murmured, "Me. Everything falls on me around here.” He turned to Robby and aimed a rigid forefinger at him. "I'll be right back. We are not dropping this." He pulled the door closed hard as he left.

Robby could hear him stomping down the hall. He waited a few moments, then quietly followed. He peered cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall and watched his dad go to the door.

George opened the front door to find the mail carrier smiling at him. He was a short, bearded man with thick glasses and a toothpick dangling from his lips. Behind him stood the reporters and cameramen he'd seen outside his bedroom. They rushed in as if attacking, stabbing their microphones toward George and vomiting questions all at once.

"I told you people to stay away from my house!" George barked, waving his arms toward the street. "Now get the hell out of here! I answered enough questions yesterday and I don't -"

The blonde woman stepped forward and asked quickly, "Could you explain the writing on your front door, Mr. Pritchard?"

"What writing on my -" He stopped and stared at the black circle with three odd names written inside. "I don't know what -"

"Did you know Ronald Prosky?" another reporter asked.

“Who?”

Robby's breath caught at the mention of the name.

As if on cue, the other reporters moved forward.

"Is it a religious symbol, Mr. Pritchard?"

"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"

"Do you think the murders were cult related?"

The mail carrier said, "Um, Mr. Prosky? You haven't been getting your mail for a few days. It's gotten pretty wet."

George stared at the stack of soggy mail in the man's hand while the reporters kept asking questions. He raised his arms and shouted, "Hold it, okay? Just hold it a second and let me get my mail."

The reporters were quiet, but did not move.

George frowned at the soaked mail as he took it. "Why'd you keep delivering our mail if it was getting wet?" he snapped.

The carrier shrugged and spread his arms. "Hey, if you're gonna be gone, or something, it's your responsibility to put a hold on it. Otherwise, you gotta walk to the box and get it, okay?"

George pointed to the circle on the door and asked, "Did you do this?"

'"Course not, jeez. Look, I gotta go." Annoyed, he turned and headed for his red, white and blue Jeep idling at the curb.

A moment after he left, the reporters began firing questions again. George interrupted them with a shout.

"Okay! Look, I don't know what this thing is -" He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the door. " – and I don't know who put it there, probably some neighbor kid, okay? I don't know who Ronald Whoever is, never heard of him, and I don't want to answer any more questions. I'm sure there are other people in the neighborhood who knew the Garrys a lot better than we did, so why don't you go bother them!"

He slammed the door. “Who drew on the door?" he growled, turning around. "Who the hell drew on the front -"

"I did." Robby stepped from the hall looking ill.

"You did? Well, what the hell is it?"

Robby looked over his shoulder, all around him, then gestured for George to follow him back to his bedroom. There, Robby told him everything.

Karen was making a stew.

She'd been up for nearly an hour and she still did not feel awake. She wasn't sure if what she'd seen when she first woke – the empty hole where the bedroom window used to be, covered by fluttering curtains – had been real or the lingering echo of a dream she'd been having, and she hadn't gone back into the bedroom to check. She didn't care. She didn't care that her family hadn't had breakfast yet, or that she was missing another day of work and Jen and Robby were missing school. She could not even make herself care much that an entire family that used to live down the street was now dead. All she cared about at the moment was making a stew that would last for a while so she wouldn't have to worry about cooking. And… Lorelle.

Since she woke, Karen had been unable to think a thought that did not involve Lorelle… the touch of her hand… her tongue… the hot moist brush of her breath on Karen's skin…

What they had done in bed beside George last night was as vivid in her mind as if it had happened minutes ago.

She stabbed a long carrot into the top of the Cuisinart and watched as the spinning blades sliced it into thin orange coins, feeling an undercurrent of satisfaction as the carrot danced a blade-spinning jig and its pieces clattered against the transparent plastic.

The window over the sink looked out on the long rectangular back yard where trees swayed in an icy wind and steel-gray clouds swept across the sky.

Beneath the whir of the Cuisinart the telephone rang, but it was white noise to Karen, unimportant. On the third ring, George shouted, "Answer the goddamned phone, Karen!"

She switched off the Cuisinart and stared blinking at the telephone as if she'd never seen it before. The six steps across the kitchen felt like a long journey with bricks tied to her ankles and, when she lifted it, the receiver felt heavy as lead.

"Hello?"

"Karen." The voice was warm honey oozing into Karen's ear and she leaned heavily against the wall and closed her eyes.

"Hello, Lorelle."

"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."

"No."

"I just noticed your car was home. Are you sick?"

"I'm feeling a little, you know, under the weather." She tried to keep her voice from trembling, but hearing Lorelle brought to life memories of last night when Lorelle woke her with a gentle kiss. The sensations and smells and tastes rushed back vividly as if she were experiencing them all again.

"Do you feel too bad to come over for a while?" Lorelle asked. "Just a little while. For a visit." There was a smile in her voice.

Karen suddenly felt self-conscious, clumsy. "Well, I'm ma-making some stew, but I could, you know, finish that later, or just finish it up ruh-really quick and cuh-come over, unless you want me to -"

"That would be fine. I'll be waiting." She replaced the receiver softly at her end.

Karen licked her dry lips and hung up the telephone, walked slowly back to the counter and quickly began feeding more vegetables into the spinning blades of the Cuisinart. She dumped the chopped vegetables into a pot, quickly chopped the meat she'd thawed in the microwave, slicing her thumb open in the process, then put it all on the stove.

It was three-forty.

Leaving her mess untouched and her bleeding thumb unbandaged, Karen got her coat from the hall closet and, trembling with anticipation, put it on over her baggy sweats and slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. As she passed the living room doorway, she saw Jen on the sofa, her knees curled up to her chest, hands tucked beneath her nightshirt, arms moving slightly. Karen started to tell Jen she was going across the street for a little while, but didn’t bother. The girl's eyes were closed anyway and she was oblivious even to the television.

Karen opened the front door and saw it. She frowned for a long moment, not sure what she was looking at, then realized it didn't matter what it was. Someone had defaced their front door, but it wasn’t important. She would clean it off when she got back. She wanted nothing to hold her up now. She stepped out onto the porch and started to pull the door shut when it was jerked from her hand.

“Where are you going?" Robby asked urgently. He stood in the doorway, eyes wide, leaning toward her as if he were about to tell her something horrible.

"Juh-just… I-I was just… " Think fast, Karen told herself. "I was just going across the street to get some seasonings from Lorelle. I'm making a stew."

George appeared behind him looking agitated, a little angry. "What now, Robby?" he grumbled.

"Don't go, Mom."

"Why?"

"Just don't go. You can get 'em at the store, can't you? You'll need more later anyway, won't you? Probably. I'll go with you."

Karen sighed, annoyed, and said, "I don't want to go to the store, Robby. That's why I'm getting some from her."

"Don't."

"What's wrong with you?"

George gripped Robby's shoulder and spun him around. "That's what I want to know. What's wrong with you, what are you on? Drugs? Have you been doing drugs?"

"No, Dad, really, I told you what's -"

"Okay, that's enough," George said in that tone he used when he was deciding how to discipline one of the kids. "Clean this shit off the door. Now. Then you and I are going to have a talk and this time you're going to listen."

"No, Dad, please don't -"

"You clean it off right now or there'll be hell to pay and you'll wish you'd -"

"No."

"What?" George's voice was soft, level. "What did you say?"

Robby looked and sounded near tears, his lips trembling as he whispered, "I won't clean it off."

Karen watched as George's face was overcome by a look of anger so powerful that it seemed to alter his features. He began shouting at Robby, using obscenities uncharacteristic of him, and Karen stepped toward them and snapped, "What is going on here?"

"Shut up!" George barked. "Just shut up and go get your fucking seasonings, okay, just go!" Then he turned to Robby again and continued shouting.

Karen imagined how they must look to the neighbors – the three of them shouting on their front porch on a damp cloudy day, George and Robby in their bathrobes, she in her sweats, all three of them looking deathly pale and exhausted; and for the first time that day she forgot about Lorelle and wanted to cry, wanted to scream.

"Stop it," she said tremulously, quietly at first, then louder. "Stop it." And louder still. "Please stop it!"

George stopped, glared at her, and started to speak, but someone from down the street spoke first.

"Take it inside, for crying out loud!" a voice called from across the street. "Somebody's trying to sleep!"

George looked down the street at the Weyland house. Paul Weyland's face was leaning close to the screen over the bedroom window.

"It's my fucking porch, Weyland," George roared, "and I'll yell on it if I want to! Keep your goddamned dog off my lawn and maybe I'll be quiet! How would you like it if I came over and shit in your yard"

The window slammed shut.

Karen began to feel nauseated and tears stung her eyes.

"George, please," she whispered, "Leave him alone and let's just go inside, okay? Let's go inside."

"What? You're not going over to Lorelle's?" George snapped. His mouth curled into a malignant grin. "According to Robby, here, you're going over there to fuck her. You want me to leave him alone? Fine. I will. I'll just let him go on thinking that you and I are fucking the neighbor. Okay? That’s okay with you?"

A clump of ice formed in Karen's gut, then shattered, its pieces tumbling through her veins.

They stood there for a small eternity, their eyes darting back and forth between one another. Then George's eyes held on her and he grinned.

"Welllll," he said, dragging the word out into a long whispery drawl, his head bobbing up and down slowly. "Maybe Robby's not on drugs after all. Are you? Fucking her?"

Karen tried to gather her thoughts but they only tumbled around noisily in her mind, words heaping one on top of another in an orgy of confusion.

This happened? How? Did? How happened this how did it my god how happened this Jesus Christ how did this happen my god Jesus Christ HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

Her tears spilled and her throat felt thick, as if something were oozing up from her stomach. She knew that nothing she could say would make any difference. She saw in George's eyes an anger that had reached such a height even words meant to comfort him would only serve to feed his fury. She had seen that look before – only a couple of times, because George seldom got angry – but never like this, never so fiery and dangerous.

Karen turned and walked back into the house, her vision a kaleidoscope of tear-blurred colors, picking up her pace when she heard George's heavy footsteps following her.

"So is it true?" he snapped, and she could hear a cold smile in his voice.

Karen could not respond. She headed for the bathroom.

"Answer me."

As she opened the bathroom door, he clutched her elbow and spun her around. She stiffened and stared at the floor.

"What the hell's going on here?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Robby's spouting some crap about demons and Jen's acting like-like-like I don't know what and now you're giving me this-this – what is this anyway, are you – is there something… going on… be… tween… "

She lifted her eyes to his and saw in his face – slack-jawed and drunk-looking – that he knew.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, then laughed coldly, hatefully. "So… how did Robby know, do you think? Huh? Maybe -" Another laugh, louder this time. " – maybe he's fucking her, too." His laughter grew louder still and more rapid-fire, like a machine gun. A strip of sweat glowed on his upper lip and a bead of it rolled slowly down his cheek. "Wouldn't that be a hoot? Huh? Wouldn't it?" He leaned back against the wall and shook his head vigorously and his laughter faded to quiet hiccups, then he sucked in a deep breath and released another booming round of laughs trying to speak at the same time. "I-I-I ha-haven't… slept well… need some sluh-sleep I g-guess.”

Karen backed into the bathroom a step, frightened. George's sickly pale face was turning a rosy red and his cheeks seemed to swell as he kept laughing… laughing and laughing… until he leaned forward and put his face in his hands and was silent. His shoulders jerked slightly, but the loud belly laughs were gone. His fingers curled, their tips pressing into his face.

Frowning, Karen wiped her teary eyes with a knuckle and stepped toward him. She pressed a fist into her abdomen where she was feeling a heavy churning sickness – a combination of dread and guilt and pity – and reached her other hand out, slowly placing it on his shoulder.

"Don't," George mumbled into his palms, then straightened and lowered his hands. His face was deep red and puffy and the laughter was gone. "Don't… duh-don't -" His fist moved like a striking snake, slicing the air between them and hitting the wall with a thunderous whump, rattling a collage frame on the wall and sending it crashing to the floor. " – touch me!"

George moved toward her suddenly, his bottom lip curling down past his lower gum and his shoulders hunched like a melodrama villain. Karen fell backwards into the bathroom with a sharp cry and slammed the door, fumbling with the lock until it clicked.

George pounded on the door with both fists and screamed, "You open this fucking door and open it right now, you hear me? Do you hear me, you fucking dyke?"

He stopped for just a moment to listen for a response, then began to slam himself against the door as -

Robby rushed back into the house.

He'd been standing on the porch, enjoying the cold and the quiet, staring at the three angels' names. Then he'd heard his dad shouting, followed by the pounding, and he'd hurried inside.

The noise had stopped by the time Robby reached the hall, which was empty. From the other end, he heard his dad's voice:

"Kitty-kitty… heeere kitty-kitty-kitty… c'mon, puss-puss-puss, kitty-kitty."

From the bathroom: "George don't you dare hurt that cat!"

"Come out and stop me." He came out of the master bedroom and went into the guest room. "Heeere kitty-kitty-kitty… "

“Mom?" Robby said quietly outside the bathroom.

"Robby? Robby, please, do me a favor. Take your sister and… and just go out for a while, okay? Will you do that for me?"

"No, Mom."

"Puss-puss-puss? Kitty-kitty-kitty?”

"Go to a movie, okay? There's money in the ceramic elephant in the kitchen. You can take the car."

“No, mom, I'm not leaving while he's like this."

"Oh, h-he-he's just up-upset." Her voice sounded thick with tears. "He'll be fine after while."

"C'mon, Monroe… where are ya, fella… kitty-kitty-kitty… "

"He's not just upset and he won't be fine." Robby hissed. "Nobody's gonna be fine. Mom, this is happening to everyone on Deerfield, I think. I think this is probably what happened to the Garry's."

“Robby," she gasped at him for suggesting such a thing. "Your father is just a little -"

"It's her, Mother, and you know it."

"I… Robby, you're… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come out and talk to me. Please."

"No."

"Because you're afraid of him. See? It's her, Mother, she's sucking the life out of all of us, sucking out everything that's good and -"

A piercing snarl sounded from the guest room.

"Gotcha!" George shouted with a laugh.

"Leave him alone!" Karen shouted from the bathroom.

George stepped out of the guest room carrying Monroe by the nape of the neck. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his broad grin.

“Dad?" Robby said.

He pushed Robby aside as he walked by briskly.

"Damn you, George!" The lock rattled, the door opened and she stepped into the hall. "Leave that cat alone!"

His laugh faded as he rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

She followed him.

Jen's door opened and she peeked out cautiously. "What's -"

"Just stay in there for a while, okay?" Robby said, then followed his parents. He was halfway to the kitchen when he heard the Cuisinart come on.

Karen screamed.

Robby stumbled to a halt in the kitchen as George backhanded Karen in the face, slamming her against the refrigerator. She slid to the floor as George removed the plastic top of the Cuisinart and held the squirming cat over the opening.

"Dad, stop it!" Robby shouted as he dove forward, wrapped his arms around George's waist and tried to pull him away from the counter.

George swung his elbow back hard and caught Robby's chin. Robby hit the floor hard and slid backward over the tile. His teeth had closed on the inside of his lip and he could already taste blood.

George pushed the cat's behind into the transparent plastic casing. Monroe was too fat, though, and stopped within an inch of the spinning blades.

Karen screamed incoherently, reaching out to George imploringly.

"You don't need it anymore!" George roared. "You've found another pussy!"

Robby got to his feet as Jen came in still wearing her crop-top and panties. She screamed shrilly, relentlessly.

Robby went for his dad's shoulders, screaming in his ear, "Dad, will you stop and look at what you're doing, think about what you're -"

George shook Robby off, turned and backhanded him with a fist. His knuckles hit Robby just below his left eye and returned him to the kitchen floor.

Turning his back on the others, George used both hands to push on the cat. The animal fought and clawed and spat and released a long, piercing yowl.

Karen and Jen continued to scream.

None of them heard the front door open, but they all heard the booming voice.

"George Pritchard!"

The screaming stopped.

All four heads turned to see Pastor Quillerman standing in the kitchen doorway.

None of them moved.

Pastor Quillerman crossed the kitchen and jerked the Cuisinart’s plug out of the wall, glaring at George.

"I think," he said, his voice a low rumble, "that we should talk."