Eric Dimbleby - White Out

“Good morning, sweetie pie.”

Sitting in the easy chair that, Tony had once lounged on as he commanded her around, was the little imp she’d come to think of as The Midget Man. He had been the first to put his evil inside of her, where it did not belong, and so there was a particularly nasty voltage inside of her vocal cords. She wanted to holler at him, to tell him what a shit heel he was and how he was destined for hell, but as she opened her mouth she felt that pain resume, all the way from her privates up to her eyes.

“The boys stepped out for a bit. Just a little supply run at the Pepper place,” he said, his face glowing in the tiny fire that still survived inside the fireplace. He looked devilish sitting there, and now she could see that one of his eyes was lazy, drifting off to his right as if he was a hunting dog getting ready to hop on a squirrel.

She could no longer smell his repugnant aftershave, but her nasal memory would always be there, ready for her whenever she thought about what he did to her. His penetration was the moment where her entire being had shut down altogether, when she went into a distant barn of her mind, pulling the lofty doors closed behind her. The last thing she could remember was his lowly stench, of cheap aftershave that smelled like something a ten year old might wear to his first school dance.

“When is it?”

“Morning.”

“No. The date.” It was an odd request, but she couldn’t get control of her mind. Not yet.

The Midget Man couldn’t contain the snarky giggle that escaped him. He said, “The date? Fuck if I know. What the hell does that matter anyway? Dates don’t mean shit anymore, case you haven’t noticed.”

Annie groaned, reaching out her hand to push herself up.

“Hey now,” said The Midget Man, fidgeting in his chair just enough to show he’d make a move if she tried to run, and with that Annie flopped back to the chilly floor. The fire was just about extinguished, so the euphoric warmth that once blanketed her ravaged body was pulling back into its shell.

“Rapist,” she managed to say, though it hurt to say anything at all.

A switch inside of him flipped. His giddy persona was replaced by a virulent man, one with a scowling face and blazing eyes.

“Sure enough. Say what you will, but I’m not the one bleeding out my shoo-shoo. You go back to sleep,” he said. “You’re going to need to save up your energy for when the boys get back. For the time bein’, I’m all tapped out,” he said, grabbing his crotch and snarling comically.

He was the most evil thing she’d ever encountered, right behind The Shiny Bald One.

She pressed her eyelids together, listening to his breathing. He said something quiet, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

Annie snored, but she didn’t sleep. Ever since she was a child, she had been a true night owl, so the feigned snore and sleepy eyes (to trick her parents) was no stranger to her. There was a theory that went like this: when you yawn, everybody else around you yawns by proxy. When you snore, so happens the same. Annie was banking on that, combined with the fact that The Midget Man had been up all night with his deviant cronies, plotting the next day’s apocalyptic ventures, furthering their plot to turn the world into their own form of hell.

Sinking deep into a fake snore, Annie realized that she hadn’t lost that skill.

She had an advantage over them.

Though broken and torn, Annie was well rested.

Sanford Pepper slammed his liver-spotted hands against the closet door, wincing with pain as he pushed forward, praying to an invisible God that they wouldn’t breach the door, but knowing deep down inside that they would. They were brutish monsters, every last one of them. He didn’t have much fight in him, but Sanford promised himself that he’d give them whatever he had left.

The biggest of the bunch had cracked him in the jaw with the butt of a rifle, knocking a few teeth loose. That was the last thing on Sanford’s mind. He wouldn’t even bother replacing them if he survived the morning.

He’d awoken only twenty minutes earlier to the sound of gunshots in his yard. By the time he’d grabbed his shotgun and made his way to the front door, they were already in his house, scampering about in circular motions, surrounding him. There were three of them. He didn’t recognize the one that kept laughing like a drug-addled hyena, and the big goofy looking one was recognizable from Tootsie’s corner store. He’d seen the man in there on a few occasions, always buying the greasy foods from the rotating “Grub On The Go” display case.

The third one, though—the third one he recognized.

Marcus Davis.

Rumor had it that during Marcus’ sister’s funeral (she had died three years ago, thereabouts, from a horrific head on collision) he demanded the funeral home director to remove the stitching that held his sister’s lips together. He had refused, stating that it was unorthodox and there was no reason to leave her for all to see, with her mouth hanging open. By the end of the week, all of the director’s tires had been slashed, though he didn’t dare to call the police, for fear of what the chaotic and angry Marcus might do. He was well known in the Saint Mary’s Hospital drunk tank to be discharged with bloody fists and liquor on his breath, even on a Monday night.

While Marcus was giving his final goodbye to his older sister, it soon became clear to the funeral director why he’d asked for the stitches to be removed. Marcus had—according to local legend—bent over into the coffin, cuddling his dead sister’s body. Soon after, he proceeded to kiss her on the mouth in the most inappropriate way, something that none of the other mourners had ever seen, and would never see again.

The slimy bastard had tried to cram his tongue down her throat, to give her one final French-style kiss. The onlookers also swore (rather, those who dared to speak his name in an ill tone publicly) that he would have gone much further with the post-mortem rendezvous if he was allowed to. Freddie Williams, who worked at the local post office, told Sanford that, “He would have fucked her if nobody else was there. That’s just the kind of look he had in his eyes.”

Now this man—this monster—was inside of Sanford’s house, looking for something to quench that same sickly set of desires. “Tell me where they are and we’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Pepper. We won’t ask twice.”

“What are you talking about?” Pepper asked, feeling that his mouth was in far worse shape than he originally thought. Aside from his dismantled teeth, he’d need further surgery to correct the damage that had been done. It felt like his lower lip had detached from his face, right by the corner of his mouth.

“The guns, Pepper. We’re looking for the guns.”

“I don’t have any guns.”

Marcus laughed from the other side of the door, pounding his fist three times in repetition. “Kinda looked like you were holding a gun when we first came into the house. You know what they say about men with guns… that they hardly ever have just one of ’em. Where are they, Pepper?” Sanford noticed that he had dropped the “Mister” from his addressing. The politeness, just as quickly as it had come, was gone.

“That was my only gun.”

“Not what I hear, Pepper. I hear you got enough weapons to fend off the whole damn Army. I hear you’re a real paranoid fuck in your old age.”

It was true. His paranoia amplified with every year that passed, especially since his house had been robbed a year ago. They’d only taken his gold watch and his television set, but he vowed never to feel so violated ever again. Lot of good that did. He never took into account the fact that he was a deep sleeper, even though he kept his shotgun right by his bedside. It hadn’t done a lick of good. He was only glad that all his kids were fully grown, with kids of their own, and that his wife had died in the late nineties, of breast cancer. At least they wouldn’t be here to see what happened to their home, and what was surely about to happen to their father.