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Behind me, the windowsill creaked. Backed by moonlight, a man’s silhouette shadowed the far wall. A low, mellow voice called, “Good evening, Marcy.”
“Keith?” I whirled around toward the open window. Hairy knuckles gripped the pane as something green-eyed and rotting pulled itself through the torn screen.
The thing that both was and wasn’t Keith curled its thin lips back over jagged, sharp teeth. “Hope it’s not too late for a midnight snack.”
???
A distant, feminine screech wrenched me from the nightmare.
I woke on the floor beneath the window. Robins sang; sunlight streamed through air warm with fog.
Another scream. I rushed to the landing. Below, Lisa stood beside the open front door, one sneaker lifted and its edge dripping red pearls.
Crimson shaded the porch beyond her. Blood clung dewy to the web-ridden sidelight; glossed the bottom half of our door and smothered the weathered floorboards and stairs.
“What the fuck?” With nowhere to put her foot, Lisa returned it to the blood. As she struggled to pull her phone from her purse, her keys slipped from her shaking hand and landed with a goopy plop. “What the fuck is this?”
In the midst of the horrid spread, giving our home a white-carpet entrance, lay a ragged pelt. The animal’s head and paws had been removed. Crude fingerpaintings of anatomical hearts and arcane symbols adorned the fur with an almost ritualistic devotion given the medium. On the walkway, a tail larger than any German shepherd’s pointed north toward the Vilkas orchard.
Voice lost somewhere between nightmare and reality, I ran down, helped Lisa remove her shoes without disturbing the scene much further, and passed her the sheriff’s business card.
She shoved it back. “This is sick, Marcy. I don't know who the fuck this 'sheriff' is, but you need to give his number to the real cops.”
Sirens blaring, a pair of cruisers turned into the cul-de-sac followed by three vans and a black truck. A second from dialing 911, Lisa grabbed my arm. We edged around the blood and reached the dry side of the porch to lean over the rail.
All six vehicles stopped at the bottom of our driveway.
A series of men and women exited, toting cameras, containers, crime scene tape and parts of a tent. The truck’s door opened last.
The sheriff shook out the stetson and set it on his head. He started up our driveway, stopped, reeled a few steps backward with his gaze focused down street, and waved the driver of the second cruiser over. The officer, a pretty woman of medium complexion and dark hair, was arms-crossed and frowning before she even spotted Tammy. My neighbor stood gaping in the road, poodle in one hand, cell in the other. The teacup pup strained against her chest, ready to jump her shoulder and bolt home.
Much as I wanted to watch fire meet brimstone, the sheriff had rounded the walkway and come to a stop a few inches from the sawed-off tail.
“Miss Davins.” He tipped his hat beside bloody fragments of tail bone. “Ma’am.”
“Sheriff.” To Lisa, I whispered, “See? Real cop.”
“A real man.” Lisa elbowed me. “Oh, I would’ve ditched Keith so fast.”
If he’d heard the comment, to my relief the sheriff ignored it and flashed his badge. “You must be the housemate. I’m Sheriff Caelan Harlowe, acting on behalf of the Connecticut State Marshall’s Department.”
“You mean Sheriff ‘Hello.’” With a nervous laugh, Lisa leaned over the rail and stuck out her trembling hand. “I was thinking you were a creep.”
I gave her a sideways look. “Blank business cards are kinda creepy, Lisa.”
She shrugged.
Lisa had tended countless severe and horrific sports injuries; it was shocking to see her so flustered and unprofessional. Not that I could blame her. This, whatever the hell this was, was a different animal.
Literally.
While Lisa focused on the sheriff, my gaze lingered on the pelt. Death—sunken chest, cloudy eyes, constricted muscles, and, in this case, fur shorn of flesh—had a way of rendering even the largest of animals small.
Even accounting for death’s deception, the pelt suggested the mass of this creature rivaled a polar bear.
“My apologies,” the sheriff was saying. “Ain’t got much else. I offer my number to a fair few different folk in a fair few hair-rising situations. Can’t be toting the law’s business card into certain circles of hell, but Miss Davins you did verify my badge. I’m sorry for any alarm I’ve caused, however, I assure you both I am quite professional and my team more so. Behind me, you’ll observe the finest forensics team in the state setting up shop on your lawn.”
“Have you caught the sicko?” Lisa asked.
