It was too hot to be outside, even in the shade of the patio’s awning, even with the overhead fan going. But the baby was in her kiddie pool, and the boy was whacking the overgrown Texas sage with one of its own branches, severed during another such beating. These were decidedly outdoor activities, ones which required adult supervision, so I was supervising.

Summer vacation arrived two weeks ago for OJ and me—I taught high school and he had just finished second grade.

“Hey, OJ!” I whistled shrilly to get his attention. It didn’t work. Peeling myself out of the plastic chair, scooting my flip-flopped feet across the stamped concrete, I squinted, emerging into full sun. I “HEY”‘d at him again to no avail before interceding on the plant’s behalf, relieving the boy of his switch.

“Hey!”

“Hey yourself. Give it a rest. This guy’s alive, you know. Probably doesn’t appreciate you tearing him up.”

But OJ was already gone, running through the sprinkler and splashing through the kiddie pool. Clementine—Champ—squealed with laughter as she was nearly trampled by her stampeding brother.

I took that as my cue to sit back down. But before I could complete my slump into my chair, I heard a scary scream.

Both of my kids scream all the time; it’s the soundtrack to my life. Neither has ever made a sound like this, somehow high pitched and guttural at once. Our neighborhood is line upon line of two-story houses and high fences, so sound careens around like crazy anyway, but this scream filled the world: came from over the roof, across the alley, bounced around our covered patio, and vibrated the sliding glass door, the fillings in my teeth.

It lasted several seconds that stretched out interminably until finally dying away.

My heart thundered, my stomach a knot I could feel in my throat. Through the anxiety and nausea, I registered Champ crying, and when I looked for OJ, I found he was crouching behind my chair, eyes goggling, hands covering his ears.

I gathered everyone and retreated into the house. That was enough outside time for today.

                                                                             * * *

Tara got home from work a few hours later and I mentioned the strange occurrence to her as being the highlight of an otherwise typical day of barely-controlled chaos.

We fell into our evening routine: we ate, watched some Bluey, then settled the children down for bedtime. Clementine was easy: she got put into her crib with a sippy cup of milk to nurse as she succumbed to the exhaustion of a toddler who fights the good fight against naptime all day. OJ had to be coerced and bribed and threatened to take his vitamins, brush his teeth, and change into his pajamas. It all went as smoothly as it ever did, and soon enough, it was just Tara and me collapsed on the couch.

Then, I heard a scary scream.

Tara heard it too, evidenced by her rigid posture and wide eyes.

Just as before, it didn’t last long, though it seemed to linger, echo in my head and throb throughout my insides. It came from outside the house and still had a pervasiveness that sounded from the front door, the back door, the big picture window in the kitchen.

When it finally cut off, other screams persisted, coming from the children’s bedrooms. We jettisoned ourselves from the couch. I went to OJ’s room, Tara to Champ’s.

                                                                             * * *

“The fuck?”

“I know, I told you.”

We sat at the kitchen table. Tara cradled Champ; her little face blotched from crying for the past hour—she still hiccup-sobbed in the shallow sleep that finally descended only minutes ago.

“Should you . . . go look outside?” Tara’s pallor was nearly as bad as the baby’s.

“Yeah—I know I’m such a rough and tumble man usually—” rolling my eyes—”but no way I’m going out there.”

We sat in silence. Tara looked about to cry.

“Fuck!” I got up and walked into our bedroom, the bathroom, my closet, and pulled on my shoes.

“Fuck!” I barked as I came back out and crossed to the front door.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I repeated as I stepped down off the porch onto the front walk and looked up and down the street. It was dark and silent.

I had shuffled down to the intersecting sidewalk and, through my terrified stupor, realized I hadn’t been breathing for about the last minute, just little gulps of air able to make it past my paralyzed lips. I breathed in now, deeply, attempting to calm myself—and succeeded marginally. I turned my head to the right to check the street was clear, then to the left, and immediately stopped breathing again.

Something—someone?—was standing on the other side of the street.

The “fuck”s resumed as I started backing my way up towards the house. I didn’t take my eyes off it. I’ve seen enough scary movies, played enough horror video games to know if you keep an eye on the thing, it can’t move.

FUCK, it started moving! Stalking down the sidewalk across the street, moving in my direction. My heart slamming against my ribcage, my skin crawling, I turned to run back inside and tripped over my own feet, falling hard.

“Whoa, watch that last step, hyuck-hyuck” Lee Gross chortled from across the street.

I pulled myself up, still panicked, and stared at the dim figure I now recognized as my neighbor—yep, there was his floofy white dog. I made to wave at him, but couldn’t quite pull off the complex maneuver.

He raised his own hand and started away, dragging the dog straining against its lead.

Feeling wrung out by the pure shit-ass-crazy fuckery, I turned and started back to the house.

I saw Tara standing in the front window still holding Champ.

I saw the gaunt woman with the slack, gaping mouth behind them.

I saw the lights of the house go out.

Then, I heard a scary scream.