Michael Collings - The Slab

But by the end of January, it was pretty evident. The construction truck disappeared, replaced the next day by a landscaping truck. Over the next weeks, a deep-pile green lawn appeared, along with a line of yew trees along the eastern edge of the property and a similar row of hibiscus along the western. The sidewalk leading from the drive to the front door was bordered with annuals that by the middle of May would become a solid bed of scarlet and pink and purple and yellow and blue-petunias, pansies, puffs of sky-blue ageratum, masses of purple and white Royal alyssum.

“Alyssum,” the woman next door snorted when a weekend visitor from San Francisco later commented on the vibrant white mounds blooming in the yard at the top of the hill.

“Alyssum! That’s called madwort where I come from-and rightly so!” And then she invited her visitor to share a cup of tea and began telling the story of the Murder House.

By April, shiny new cars with magnetized realtors’ signs on the doors began parking on the drive. Couples, occasionally accompanied by a child or two, would get out, survey the view from the top of Oleander, then disappear into the house. It might have seemed unusual that none of the families were ever outside without a realtor hovering around as well…that none of the prospective buyers ever actually talked to the neighbors on either side.

It might have seemed unusual, except for the fact that no one really wanted the house left empty. Things happened in empty houses. So the neighbors peeped from behind drawn curtains at bright shiny faces that entered the house. The realtors spoke persuasively of increasing property values and spectacular views and convenient schools and the brand-new shopping center going up not half a mile away.

And on a bright sunny day during the first week in May, 1992, almost three years after the house at 1066 Oleander was begun, the For Sale sign stuck in the front lawn was plastered over with another sign that simply read “Sold.”

From the Tamarind Valley Times, 1 November 1991:

SAFE HALLOWEEN REPORTED

Tamarind Valley safety officials announced today that yesterday a long-standing record was not just broken but shattered-Halloween, 1991, was the safest in Valley history.

At a time when pranks can sometimes get out of hand, when so many little ghosties and beasties are on the streets, when parents are urged to accompany their children as they Trick-or-Treat just to be on the safe side, last night was exceptional in the few number of incidents responded to by the TVPD.

No injuries, other than tummy-aches from too much candy, were reported, and no significant property damage resulting from over-enthusiastic revelers…

The Huntleys, January 2010

Settling In (Cont’d.)

It took more than an hour for everyone to settle down. By the time Willard looked at the children with his unmistakable “time to get to bed” expression, even Will, Jr., was red-eyed and nodding. Sams had fallen asleep curled against his mother’s shoulder. Willard roused the older children and herded them shuffling and sleepy down the hall, waiting to tuck in Will and Burt in spite of Will’s muffled objections that he was too old for baby things like that. Suze was already asleep when Willard slipped into her darkened room and looked down at her. He returned to the living room and picked Sams up out of Catherine’s lap. He grunted at the sudden weight.

“He’s growing up, isn’t he,” Willard said quietly as he shouldered his youngest son and made a second trip down the hallway to deposit Sams on his bed.

By then the other two boys were fast asleep also. Willard paused for a second outside Suze’s door, his hand poised over the switch for the hall light. His first inclination was to turn the light out; even Sams was used to sleeping without a night light, and there was enough filtered light from the full moon and cloudless skies should any of them wake.

Then he dropped his hand without shutting off the light. The kids had been startled from sleep once tonight. Best not to take any chances.

His shadow preceding him like a sentry, he headed out for the living room. Catherine was almost asleep as well. For a second time, he was tempted to leave things as they were, to cover her with an additional blanket or two and let her finish the night on the couch. It was comfortable, she would be warm enough, and she really needed the rest she was already getting.

But after a couple moments of thought, Willard crossed the room and gently shook her shoulder.

“What!” she yelped as she startled awake. Her voice was midway between normal tone and scream, and Willard immediately took her in his arms to calm her. “Hey, hon, it’s okay. The kids are in bed. Everything’s all.”

“The bugs!” Catherine’s eyes were wide open and darting around the living room as if they could penetrate the solid patches of darkness behind and beneath furniture. “There were thousands…”

Willard patted her shoulder. His back ached from the awkward position he found himself in, neither standing nor kneeling but halfway between, his arm around Catherine’s shoulder and supporting much of her weight. He dropped to one knee and shifted his arm. “They’re gone, too. Don’t worry.”

She sat upright and turned her glance on him. He was startled by the depth of fear in her eyes.

“But…”

“Shhhh. Don’t think about it.”

She relaxed against his arm.

“I was so frightened, Willard,” she said finally. Her voice sounded hollow and lonely in the echoing room. A moment later, the furnace flicked on with its usual low whuump. He felt her body tense beneath him. Her breathing stopped, held, then finally resumed-ragged, shallow, and much faster than normal.

“Look,” he said, “give me a minute and I’ll take care of things.” He got up, aware of her hand trailing along his arm, as if unwilling to relinquish his physical presence. He turned on the light over the kitchen table, waiting in the living room until the glare flooded through the open kitchen door. He thrust his head into the kitchen and made a clear show of looking it over.

“Nothing here now,” he said over his shoulder. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. “Just to be on the safe side, though,” he continued, “I’ll give the place a shot of Raid.”

He crossed to the pantry and took down an aerosol can from the top shelf-carefully stored out of reach of the children, and as far away from foodstuffs as possible. Chattering all the time-not saying much of anything but fully aware of how important it was to Catherine that she hear his voice-he sprayed the baseboards in the kitchen.

He glanced around. A body or two remained on the tile floor, and a couple more were squashed on the counter where Catherine had apparently pressed her hand down on them. He shuddered, knowing the intensity of her fear of roaches and how she must have felt when she realized that she had actually crushed several beneath her bare hand and feet.

“No wonder she freaked out,” he said under his breath. “A few would seem like a hundred to her under those conditions.”

He ran hot water over a cloth and washed down the counters and the table, then threw the cloth in the garbage.

“Okay, now for in here” he said, returning to the living room with the can of Raid. As much as a precaution as to further reassure Catherine, he sprayed around the baseboards there as well.

By the time he was finished, Catherine looked more her normal self. Her color was better. She was sitting up, her feet squarely on the carpet. Still, Willard was taken by the sheer magnitude of her terror and horror and, doing something he had not even though of trying since the first year of their marriage, he leaned over and gently picked her up. She curled her arms around his shoulder and allowed him to carry her down the hall toward their bedroom.