Tim Curran - The Devil Next Door

Susan opened her mouth to speak and as she did so, Angie swung the baseball bat with a smooth muscular grace. It hit Susan in the mouth and she in turn hit the floor, her teeth scattering like dice. She was barely conscious, just gagging on her own blood. She was barely aware of the two men that stepped into the room and ripped her clothes off beneath the full approving glare of Angie Preen.

Susan came awake to the sharp stab of penetration between her legs, a heavy man that stank of sweat and shit pumping away on her. The horror of this floored her: the invasion, the brutality, the violation of the act. She let out a wild, whooping scream as those hips pistoned and the man’s greasy, hot flesh pressed into her own. His breath blew in her face and stank like meat green with rot, like blood and vomit and boiling fevers. His face was a mask of dried blood, just that grinning mouth and gnashing yellow teeth, the stupid bovine staring eyes, unblinking.

The woman named Angie looked on with amusement. She licked her lips. Her free hand went down to her crotch. Gasping, she slid a finger into herself as Susan was raped.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, please please please no no no Then there was a keening cry and another man, a heavy, bulky man, kicked her attacker off and then mounted her himself. Then the first man pulled him free and the two of them were fighting, rolling through the shit-stained papers in the living room, kicking and biting, snarling and scratching.

Angie squatted down by Susan, she grabbed her by the hair and brought her contorted, tearful face to her own. As Susan trembled, Angie sniffed her like a dog. Her throat. Her breasts. Her hair. Then she threw her down.

“When you’re done,” Angie told the fighting men in a low grating voice that was practically a growl, “bring the cunt along. We’ll need her…”

When they got outside, Macy said, “Well, Mrs. Brackenbury said she hasn’t seen mom. It was worth a shot, I guess.”

“Did she say anything odd to you?”

Macy shook her head. “No…well, I mean, she’s always a little flaky, isn’t she? Her and those cats? I told her to be careful, to lock her door, but she wouldn’t listen. I don’t even think she knew what I was talking about. She’s in her own little world or something.”

Louis had to smile. “Well, she’s getting on in years, you know,” he said, trying to be diplomatic.

“Tell me about it. She calls me ‘Nancy’ half the time.”

Louis suppressed a giggle and led Macy over to his Dodge. There was still a smear of blood on the handle from when he’d jumped in there after his encounter with those wigged-out cops. But the driver’s side rear door was open. He hadn’t left it open. He was sure of it. Without alerting Macy to his concern, he casually closed it, but not before noticing that his bag with the steaks in it was gone. Just…gone. Somebody came and stole raw steaks, Louis. What do you think about that? He was not very surprised. He looked down the street. Nobody was around. Not a soul. Was that good or bad? The smell of smoke was heavier in the air now and he wondered what was burning out there. A house or was it maybe a block of them?

“Hey, Louis!” a voice called.

He paused at the car, craned his head back, wondering what it could be now. It was just Earl Gould from next door. Earl was okay. A retired anthropology professor from Indiana U with far too much time on his hands these days, he just liked to talk. Sometimes Louis could barely get out of the yard without a lengthy chat over Earl’s meticulously trimmed hedges.

“I better talk to him,” Louis said. He checked his pockets. “Do me a favor, Macy, will you? Run inside and grab my wallet. It’s up in my room on the dresser. I won’t be a minute.”

Macy strolled away and Louis went over to the hedges. Earl was there with a pair of trimmers and Louis approached him very cautiously. It didn’t look like he was crazy, but then it hadn’t looked like the mailman was either…not at first. Louis wasn’t really too concerned about driving without his wallet, but he thought it might be a good idea to get Macy out of there in case Earl snapped.

“How’s things?” Earl said.

Louis shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. Pretty weird things going on today.”

Earl nodded, peering up at Louis over the rims of his glasses. “That’s what I’m hearing. Goddamn country is flipping its wig.”

“Whole world, Earl.”

“You know what I say, Louis? Screw the world. Let’s worry about this place.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“ Small towns can be very funny places, Louis. On the surface they’re boring and ordinary and even serene, but deep down you can never truly say what might be boiling, you know?”

“Sure.”

“Just one day, things happen. Not just one thing, but many. A chain of circumstances that seem to have no common root. At least, not one that you can see. Take Greenlawn for example. No, just humor me. From what I’ve been hearing we suddenly find ourselves faced with what seems to be a wave of random violence. It’s disturbing, isn’t it? Certainly, but it’ll play itself out given time…won’t it?”

“I hope so, Earl.”

“Violence. It’s the core of the human beast. It’s what we are and where we came from and what we descend into with the slightest provocation. It’s true, Louis. We carry within us the animal aggression of our simian and proto-human ancestors. Every beating, every rape, every witch hunt and mass murder is evidence of that. Even a child threatening another with a stick or a gangbanger with a switchblade in an alley is an expression of animal legacy in its purest form. The armed predator. Everything we do-from our urge to find and maintain territory, or real estate, to pecking orders and hostility to those outside our social grouping, the competition for females or males, race hatred and fear of strangers-all of it based on ancient animal patterns, like it or not.”

Louis licked his lips. They were very dry. “But it’ll stop. It has to.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Louis absently looked at his watch. “I don’t know.”

“This town is a perfect microcosm for the world. People don’t see it as such, of course. Because they’re too close, too involved, that’s why.” Earl worked his clippers, taking out a stray twig. “You need a bird’s eye view of this town to understand what ails it. The people who live here can no more examine their lives objectively than you or I can study the tops of our heads.”

Louis just stood there, not in the mood for it.

Earl Gould was a nice old guy and he was very smart, but he had the sometimes annoying tendency to over-analyze and over-intellectualize things. Louis figured it was the fact that he no longer had a classroom to occupy or students to lecture. So he grabbed anybody that happened by-a neighbor, the meter-reader, the guy from the gas company-and discoursed at length on anything from politics to world economy to small town culture to that patch of weeds growing under the elm in the front yard. Louis would have liked to tell him what he’d seen and experienced, but that would mean sacrificing another hour or two that he just did not have. Because Earl would have to minutely examine each shred of evidence and then play devil’s advocate for a time before finally rendering his hypothesis.

He was a smart guy, sure, but now was not the time for such things.

“Look at it this way, Louis. There is reason and cause if we can only open our minds to see them. And the people of Greenlawn cannot see beyond the ends of their noses, God bless ‘em, each and every one.” Earl leaned closer over the hedges. “I think, though, if they were able to what they would find would scare them. Because small communities like this are often quite scary to an outsider, eh? Isolated, inbred, insular, paranoid even. Tribal. Oh yes, very tribal. Places like this always have one or two episodes of explosive violence in their pasts. Mostly you don’t hear about them because small towns know how to keep their secrets and to lock their closets most securely so that the skeletons do not get out where they can be seen by shocked eyes.”