Devil Hills

By Matthew McCain

After a series of bizarre and horrific killings, that resemble ones committed years’ prior, thrusts the town of Devil Hills into anarchy, residents of the isolated community soon realize the only way to survive the night is to band together and face the sins of the past…or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669824442

Matthew McCain

Matthew McCain is the author of a dozen books including The Hunting, Scribbles: A Drug Story and Just Under Nine. He lives in Hooksett, NH.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by: Matthew McCain.

Edited by: Frank DiLuzio

Author Photo taken by: Michael Triminio

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/09/2022

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Contents

1: A Shadows Falls

2: Night Changes

3: Daybreak

4: Piece of Mind

5: Live From The Crime Scene

6: Missing Pieces

7: The Secrets We Keep

8: Suspicions

9: Intruders

10: Madness

11: Panic

12: A Change of Hands

13: Coming Together and Splitting Apart

14: Spiraling Out

15: Phantoms

16: We Are Chaos

17: Night Crawling

18: World Without End

19: The Hills We Die On

20: Someday

For Cody

1: A Shadows Falls

The evening was calm and collective on that brisk October in the town of Devil Hills, New Hampshire. The temperature had only cracked the lower fifties, which suggested to the low number of residents in the town—it wouldn’t take much to get into the forties by dawn.

Despite only being ten miles outside Manchester, the largest metropolitan area of the state, Devil Hills was the remotest town in the county. With a population of around five thousand, a drastic decline from the twelve thousand housed in the late sixties, when the town was at its prime. Many attributed this rural flight thanks to high property taxes. At the same time, most of the children that called Devil Hills home, myself included, believed it was due to the questionable past the townlet attempted to bury over the years. But whatever the case may be, the rural community was quiet and peaceful. That late fall night was no exception.

By the time the sun drifted past the horizon, the sky had mimicked something out of a postcard. Invigorating light blues, cherubic pinks, and even a touch of scarlet red gloriously filled the autumn sky. Many residents, particularly those on Mountain View Road at the far end of town, had an incredible view of the light show from above. One of those residents was Elizabeth Kilroy.

Elizabeth, or Liz as most knew her by, had a strong head on her shoulders for only twenty-six. Her past decisions were questionable—ranging from substance abuse to adultery of the worst kind. Nevertheless, Liz learned from those experiences and did what she could to mend her ways.

But, it was motherhood that had given her a new lease on life.

In the years after the birth of her daughter, Elizabeth fought hard to build a career for herself so she could provide a good quality of life and be able to live comfortably as a single mother, a quality she never had as a child herself. Her hard work paid off; she became a Senior Vice President of Viking Bank and earned a six-figure salary by her second year on the job. The promotion allowed her to do many things, including purchasing a gorgeous house on Mountain View Road. Because she was on vacation for the week, she had all the time in the world to gaze up at the exquisite sight in the sky.

Wow, look at that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier sunset, at least not here. I bet it looks even better at the top of the road, she thought to herself as she cleared the kitchen table of dishes.

Because Elizabeth had the final say of the house—one of the perks of being a single parent, she decided to place the dinner table in the sunroom located directly behind the kitchen so she and her daughter, Emily, could have a view of the stars every night. Large trees loomed in the back of the house, some even tilting toward the home, which congested the view during the summer, but she was hesitant to have them cut due to her neighbors, The McLeod’s, being close enough to see the entire yard.

Don’t need those weirdos looking in, thank you very much. Maybe if they move, I’ll get them cut, Elizabeth would always say to her mother when she would come to visit.

Using the restaurant skills, she developed at a young age, Elizabeth managed to balance every dish and carefully walked them to the kitchen sink as the T.V. blared from the front living room.

Emily, turn that down, please.

Awe, come on, mommy. I won’t be able to hear it when the dishwasher is on, the young child moaned.

It doesn’t need to be that loud. Turn it down, please.

But, Mommy—

Now, young lady!

Puckering her lower lip in standard childish fashion, Emily grabbed the remote control for the T.V. and turned it down. That’s not fair, Mommy! Now I can’t hear it!

Keep it up, and I’ll shut it off and send you to bed, young lady, Elizabeth warned, opening the dishwasher and started loading the plates inside.

Annoyed, Emily flung the clicker to the opposite side of the comfortable couch and jumped to her feet. You’re so mean!

Elizabeth chuckled as she listened to the sound of her daughter stomping off into her room at the end of the hall. "Oh, this kid—"

It was a tight fit, but with a bit of cramming and shoving, she managed to fit every plate and utensil inside the dishwasher, saving herself from having to wash it by hand. She closed the door and started it up. A deep rumble came from inside. Loud thumps began rumbling from inside the machine.

Okay, maybe she’s right. This damn thing is a little loud.

Being the neat freak she’d become since buying the house, she didn’t rest until everything was spotless. But, once she was satisfied, Elizabeth shut the kitchen light off and entered the hallway to make amends with Emily. She offered a big bowl of her favorite ice cream, Hey, Em? How about you come out, and I’ll let you have—

A knock came from the front door.

Elizabeth stopped.

Was that a knock? No, it couldn’t have been. It’s too late for someone to be here.

Elizabeth looked over at the oversized clock hanging on the wall beside the front door. Yeah, it’s 7:30. Nobodies gonna be out at 7:30 at night. Besides, if it was somebody, the porch light would come on"

There was another knock, this time much louder and intimidating.

Any skepticism vanished. Apprehension took its rightful place as Elizabeth’s breathing intensified.

Even though she knew about the town’s past history, Elizabeth was the type of woman who enjoyed independence; she was a strong, capable woman. Sure, there were times when she’d get scared, but she met those fears with determination. She’d done that with many things in her life. The knocks on the door that evening were no different.

She approached the front entry.

Another knock.

I’m coming! Elizabeth finally acknowledged; the exasperation in her voice front and center.

If this is the McLeod’s, I’m going to snap!

She grabbed the brilliant gold doorknob, twisted it, and pulled the door open.

A dark figure loomed at the door, drenched in darkness. Because of the poor lighting, Elizabeth was forced to open the door all the way, hoping the glare from inside the house would light up the person’s face.

Keeping her calm, waiting for the outline of Fred McLeod to appear—

Can I help y—

A knife stuck her neck, instantly slicing through her delicate skin and jugular vein. A rush of pain sept into Elizabeth’s body, followed by intense lightheadedness like she’d never experienced before. Blood started gushing from the large fissure across her throat like a water fountain at an amusement park, leaving the single mother unable to utter a sound, let alone a plea for help. Clutching her throat, Elizabeth dropped to her knees and began weeping as the pain in her neck started expanding.

She raised her eyes to the tall figure, still unable to make out who—or what—it was. Blood filled the back of her throat, causing her to choke. She opened her mouth with the hopes of alerting the neighbors and her daughter—

The knife swung back down, striking her in the left cornea and killing her instantly.

*

Resting comfortably on the recliner her son-in-law bought her last Christmas, seventy-three-year-old Dawn-Renee Carbonneau reached for the can of crème soda resting on the corner table. She took a big swig, finishing the last warm mouthful left in the can. The desire to grab another was there, but Dawn kept her attention on the paperback novel clutched in her hands, hoping to make it to the end.

As she closed in on the final third of the book, she found herself intrigued despite her skepticism about it when she discovered its horror genre. Dawn never bothered with the book aisle in any store she was in. But she just happened to be walking by a large container of old bargain books at the grocery store, and the cover caught her eye. It was also in better condition than most of the others.

Despite being a homebody, Dawn wasn’t much of a reader. She certainly enjoyed sitting in her recliner overlooking the front yard and admiring the weather outside, specifically in the wintertime during a gentle snowstorm. But, she preferred knitting over watching T.V. and reading.

The paperback was entitled Blood Run with nothing more than a picture of a two-story house with a lightning bolt on the front cover. The house on the cover mirrored the house she grew up in, which is most likely the reason she picked the book up in the first place. The story was about a young girl trying to find the intruder who broke into her house and killed her family in the middle of the night. It started off abruptly and violently, leaving Dawn in a questionable state of mind as to whether or not she would finish it.

Surprisingly though, as she got further into it, she found herself engaged, despite the novel never being a best seller. Over time, she had grown fond of the characters, epically the protagonist named Mary Ellen. If this ending sucks, I’m going to be so pissed! I’ll have wasted all this time reading when I could’ve been cleaning and rearranging.

Dawn had the freedom to do what she wanted since her husband, John, passed, including organizing the house. Her late husband was always against rearranging because he would complain she would eventually just move it back to where it originally was. She also had the freedom to live comfortably with no intention to move into a gated community, despite the mounting pressure from her daughter and stepson to do so. Secretly, her daughter had been hoping it would get to the point where Dawn would be unable to keep up with the bills, so she’d be forced out of the house. But between John’s pension and her Medicare check every month, she was well off.

She and her husband were the ultimate love story: High school sweethearts, married at nineteen, started a family early on, and spent decades together. When John died, the ground and view of life shifted beneath Dawn’s feet. She, like the rest of us, were guilty of taking the time for granted. And it wasn’t until she started living alone that the thought of dying plagued her mind. Dawn found herself staring at the ceiling late at night, her mind fixated on those deep thoughts. Over time, those fears dwindled, but they still lingered enough to dwell. I’m seventy now. Not many people get to see eighty.

With only the lamp beside her, the rest of the house was ingrained with shadows. Silence surrounded her throughout the two-story home. Dawn wasn’t the type who liked the T.V. on endlessly; she preferred peace and quiet. She let out a slight yawn and glanced up at the old grandfather clock on the other side of the room. It was getting late; annoyance filled her bones from not completing her novel. Dawn was adamant: she wasn’t leaving that recliner until she finished it. About a third of the book remained, but since her cellphone was beside her, her blanket was keeping her warm, and her bladder was partly empty, she was ready to try and make it to the end.

The ambiance of her electric fireplace provided a warm atmosphere in the living room, making her feel safe despite the lingering shadows that controlled the rest of the house. Alright, let’s finish this damn thing—

A knock came from the front door.

Her eyes rose from the book.

The rest of the house was utterly silent; no doubt the noise came from the front door. The way the recliner was positioned, Dawn could not see the door’s entrance. She could see the stairs that led up to the door, but that was all.

Who the hell would be at the door at this time of night—

There was another knock.

She slammed the book closed, pushed down the leg handle on the recliner, and slowly started getting up, huffing and puffing as she did so. Oh, for Christ’s sake.

Dawn was mentally young for her age, but arthritis destroyed her knees and hands years ago, forcing her to slow down considerably, especially the past few months. It took her a bit to get on her feet. Her body snapped, crackled and popped as she slowly approached the door—

Another knock.

I’m coming! she shouted, clearly annoyed. Good lord, I’m an old lady. Give me a second, will ya?

Deciding she would give whoever was at the door an earful for being an impatient asshole, Dawn pushed herself to get to the door faster than she typically would’ve. The front door was just next to the living room, but the light from the lamp wasn’t strong enough to make it to the entrance, forcing Dawn to step into the darkness, but it didn’t faze her. Her annoyance to the unexpected visitor was front and center.

She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and pulled open the door.

The sun had set far enough to the point where nothing but darkness surrounded the outline of the doorway, leaving Dawn unable to see anything. What the hell? Nobody is here? How can that be—oh so help me, God, if it’s Richard Stewart again, I’m gonna ream that boy’s neck!

Dawn turned to the wall beside her and started grasping for the light switch for the front porch. It had been in the same spot for thirty years, but the darkness made it hard for her to find without looking. Finally, once she found it, she flipped the switch up.

The light didn’t come on.

She flipped the switch down and then back up. Still nothing.

Oh, come on! She turned back to the porch. Hello, is anyone there—

A knife plunged into her, entered the gap between her ribs, and struck the center of her heart.

A horrific gasp exited her fragile body as pain tore through her chest. She lowered her head slowly, spotting blood oozing out of the hole where the knife had entered. Her body shook as nothing, but a painful gag came from her. When the blade started scrapping against her chest cavity and began to twist, she found her voice and screamed.

Her knees buckled.

The knife ripped out, sending blood flying out of the wound and onto the steps of the front porch.

She let out a terrible cry, hoping the nearby neighbors would hear—the knife plunged forward again, the entire blade entering her right temple and piercing her brain.

*

Steam billowed out of the shower as eighteen-year-old Brittney Johnson and nineteen-year-old Dylan Billow started having sex. Because Brittney’s parents were on a business trip for the weekend, she had the house all to herself, and the moment her mom called and said they were boarding the plane, she called Dylan over.

The two were in study hall when Brittney was a junior and Dylan was a senior. At first, there was no attraction; Brittney hadn’t acted on her feelings at that point. When Dylan and the other football players were rowdy, specifically the mornings after a big football game win, their voices carried, and Mrs. Rainville—one of the most disliked teachers in the school district—would always tell them to pipe down. It was there, during one of those frequent moments when Brittney and Dylan first noticed each other. It started off with a smile—like it always does—and eventually turned into a love affair.

Brittney had just turned sixteen when they first met, and Dylan was two months’ shy of his eighteenth birthday. Math was not on their side by any means, but the desire for each other was far too overbearing for them to ignore. Dylan took Brittney’s virginity the night he turned eighteen. But, everything changed after that night, not because it was a one-time fling, but because Dylan knew the consequences of his actions now that he was officially an adult.

Their friendship at school all but faded. When they would pass in the hall, they would smile, but that was the extent of their social interactions.

At least, when people were watching.

It reached the point where their desires became too much to bear. Because they still had study hall together; Dylan and Brittney would leave and head for the bathroom simultaneously and meet up, typically in the janitor’s closet on the second floor.

On the surface, it mimicked the standard teen fling when in reality, true love was blooming. The two teenagers effectively kept their secret to themselves. Nobody at school had any suspicion that something was going on between them. Dylan’s parents were heavy drug users and paid very little attention to their four children. Brittney’s parents were physically present in her life but, to put it politely, there was an abscess on the mentally aspect of their parenting.

Brittney gently moaned and wrapped her arms around Dylan’s ropes of muscle that were his shoulders as he carefully entered her like a recently married couple on the first night of their honeymoon. Each wore a glowing smile as the idea of having the rest of their lives together took center stage. They kissed.

The master bathroom filled with steam in a matter of minutes. It fogged up the large mirror with ease and finally closed in on the shower. Dylan’s thrusting picked up until the steam became so overbearing he could hardly see Britney’s face. She opened her eyes when she felt him slowing down.

You wanna move this to the bedroom? It’s getting a little hot in here, he asked.

Britney smiled. Or we could move this to the living room, too. The couch down there is very comfortable.

Dylan smiled. Oh, yeah?

Yeah, Brittney giggled.

They kissed before Dylan pulled himself out and shut the scolding hot showerhead. He wiped the water off his rosy red face that matched his back and buttock. Wow, was that water hot!

Britney smirked and stepped out of the shower. Dylan followed close behind, keeping his eyes on Britney’s butt as his erection hung large and hard. Britney opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall, keeping her smile. Steam exited through the bathroom doorway like a fog bank rolling in off the ocean. It covered the surrounding hardwood floor and extended far enough to the staircase leading down to the living room.

Britney headed down the stairs, taking Dylan by surprise. You’re not going to stop and get some clothes first?

She chuckled. Why would I do that?

Smiling as he watched droplets of water leave a trail behind Britney’s naked body, Dylan struggled with the urge to rush down after her and take her in the stairwell, but the idea of her parents coming home and finding both of them naked lingered in the back of his mind. But, it didn’t stop him. He stepped back in the bathroom, grabbed the white towel hanging up on the hook behind the door, and followed her down.

Opening her legs as her back sank in the soft white cushion of the couch, Britney giggled as she showed off her naked body. Her smile grew more prominent when she saw the outline of Dylan’s erection as he passed by the opened windows of the living room, coming straight at her—there was a knock on the door.

Britney gasped as she closed her legs and jumped to her feet.

Dylan wrapped the towel around his waist, losing the erection immediately. Ah, shit!

Ducking down, Brittney sprinted to the front window and peered out through the paper-thin curtain, trying to see who it was at the front door while keeping her naked body in the dark. Dylan watched from the staircase, preparing himself for the sound of Brittney’s father to come charging through the door and lunge at him.

Brittney? Who is it? he whispered loud enough for her to hear across the room.

I can’t tell. The porch light is off, she answered, keeping her hazel brown eyes out the window. It’s not my dad, though.

Dylan stepped onto the hardwood floor with his right foot while the left one dangled on the last step of the staircase. Well, how can you tell?

The outline isn’t the same. My Dad is much taller.

They looked at each other, both clearly nervous.

Dylan shrugged. So, what do we do?

There was another knock.

Dylan leaned up against the wall beside the door and started limiting the breaths he took as he waited for a response from Brittney.

Continuing to peer through the front window, she started mulling what to do. At first, she was in favor of the idea of just ignoring the person at the door. If we don’t answer, they’ll assume no one is home and leave…unless it’s Mrs. Carrol. Shit, if it’s her and I don’t answer, she’ll tell Dad, and the first thing he’ll assume is that I didn’t answer because I was out. But the outline doesn’t look like her….

You answer it, Brittney broke the silence.

The sudden answer caught Dylan by surprise. What?

Answer it and tell whoever it is that you’re not interested and don’t have time to chat.

What if it’s your Dad? He’ll kill me!

Brittney kept her eyes out the front window. I told you, it’s not him. Now, answer it.

Soughing, Dylan grabbed the knot of the bath towel and tightened it as much as he could, then turned to the front door, mumbling to himself as he did so. This is a bad idea.

The front door of the Johnson residence was all wood with no window, which left the element of surprise for anyone who happened to be on the other side. Brittney’s father had been planning on getting a new door for years, but because he was always out traveling for work, he hadn’t gotten to it yet. The lack of a window also allowed the door to cast a hefty shadow, making it difficult for Dylan to find the door handle.

Water that glistened his chest from the shower was being overrun with sweat; Dylan trembled as he grabbed the doorknob, closed his eyes, and pulled open the door. Brittney turned and looked toward the entrance when she heard the door squeak open. She kept still.

Grunting from the weight of the door, Dylan grabbed it with both hands and yanked it open until it couldn’t go any further. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up—

Hello?

No one was there.

The sky was nearly overrun with the blackness of space above, and seeing more than four feet in front of him was a challenge, but as he stood in the doorway to the Johnson home, Dylan was positive nobody was there.

Brittney watched as Dylan turned his head back and forth from behind, trying to figure out what was going on. Who’s there?

Dylan shrugged. Nobody.

What do you mean, nobody? We just heard knocking. Brittney winced.

Well, nobodies out here.

Brittney clutched the curtain and pulled it back so she could get a look at the front steps. Because she didn’t want to make her action known, she tugged the curtain back just enough for her eye to peep through. She didn’t see anything, either.

Dylan took a step outside, the coldness of the front steps chilling the bottom of his bare feet. Should I go check?

No! Brittney whispered. No, just close the door and lock it.

Dylan smiled, making light of the situation; he got a chuckle out of the sound of dread in Brittney’s voice. He went back inside and closed the door, locking it as he did so. Awe, what’s wrong? You scared?

Brittney turned to him and jerked her head. No.

He chuckled, keeping the cute grin on his face as the door closed shut. Then, he untightened the white towel and let it fall to the floor. He stepped toward her, Now, where were we?

She raised her finger to the door. Make sure you locked it!

It’s locked.

Well, make sure, she insisted.

Annoyed, Dylan turned back to the entrance, grabbed the doorknob, and jiggled it loud enough for her to hear.

See? It’s locked.

The shadows among the living room gave off a somewhat uncomfortable atmosphere, preventing Britney from shaking off the jitters and accompanying goosebumps plaguing her. Okay, everything’s good. Obviously, we must’ve been hearing things. That or it was fucking Richard Stewart again—

An ax swung through the window and struck her in the back of the skull. Shards of glass hurtled across the room like a bad car accident, with some striking Dylan in the leg. A painful gasp dribbled out of Brittney as an indescribable pressure consumed the back of her head. The ax then ripped out of her exposed cranium and disappeared through the window sill. Her body plunged to the ground in a lifeless flop.

Dylan bolted toward her in a panic. Brittney!

Pieces of glass stuck to his foot and penetrated the thinnest parts of his skin, but with adrenaline rushing through him, he didn’t feel the glass slicing the bottom of his feet. He cried out her name again, his voice cracking as he did so.

Blood dribbled out of the back of Brittney’s head, appearing black from the natural light coming in from outside. Dylan dropped to his knees and took hold of her by the shoulders. His breathing became uncontrollable as he tried to process what just happened. Suddenly, the ax swung through the window again and struck him in the forehead, splitting his face in two with a single swing.

*

Goddamn it! Fifty-seven-year-old Billy Simmons shouted in his garage after banging his hand against the undercarriage of his 1964 mustang.

Demoralized because of the difficult time he was having trying to take off the latches that held the exhaust in place, he threw the large wrench across the floor and stood up, swearing under his breath from the challenge the car presented. Bill decided to call it a night after realizing how late it was getting; he had to be back at the auto body shop before dawn.

Sweat dripped down the blue-collar worker’s aging cheeks, forcing him to wipe it off with his once white t-shirt now forever tainted with dirty oil and antifreeze stains; Bill had several plain white shirts that he ruined over forty years in the body shop business. And with the amount of work he had left on the old GTO, many more shirts would likely suffer the same fate. Thoughts of retirement rippled in every now and then—mostly when he was alone, but as each day passed and he closed in on that ripe old retirement age, he knew the days to keep avoiding it were all but numbered.

Bill walked over to the other side of the spacious yet cluttered garage, pulled open the small refrigerator, and seized the first bottle of beer his fingertips touched. A coolness rushed into the palm of his warm hand while the other twisted off the bottle cap with ease. He then pressed the cold glass stem to his chapped lips and took a giant swig. A loud burp erupted from him the second the alcoholic liquid reached his belly. After a long-ass day, it tasted like honey going down.

This goddamn car…somedays I wonder why I even bothered.

His regret made him finish the beer almost as if his life depended on it, and once the bottle was empty, he spun around, opened the fridge again, and reached in for his second. Despite gulping nearly half of the bottle in his first sip, he wasn’t as far in as he typically would be; usually, he’d be on his fourth or fifth—one shy of being labeled an official alcoholic. Between staying at the shop late, the traffic on Main Street, plus working on the car, the evening had gotten away from him.

For years, Bill kept his eyes out for a good deal on an older car to tinker with; sometimes, he even went out of his way and started looking in the paper to see if anything was around, but nothing caught his eye at first until, one Sunday back in the Spring of 2008. He just so happened to be up in Litchfield helping his brother Bobby, trying to fix his water softener, when he spotted the Mustang parked out front of an old rundown house.

He stopped instantly.

Its condition was by far from fair to say the least—rusted frame, flat tires, and a shattered windshield. Yet, Bill saw the potential the car contained. He wrote a check and towed it home the next day. On the entire ride back, a grin comforted his face; the ideas he had planned with the car kept him company the whole way home. But, it wasn’t all smiles; he knew his wife Maura wouldn’t be pleased in the least when she saw it.

By the time he pulled it into the driveway, Maura had already been in the car crash that ended up taking her life, therefore denying her the opportunity to see it for herself. Once Bill got the news about his wife’s death, plans to fix the old Mustang all but withered away like everything else in life. Then, the recession hit not long after, sending Bill’s financial situation into turmoil. That’s when he started hitting the bottle.

Because Maura did most—if not all the bills they had, Bill was lost at first. But, when he found out that Maura was secretly saving up money for what she called a rainy day, Bill was able to maintain the house and his lifestyle despite his questionable spending habits from time to time. He viewed it as a last gift from his wife of twenty years and was forever grateful.

Since then, the car remained tucked away in the garage with nothing more than a white car cover on top of it, keeping it hidden from the outside world, much like its owner. It was only recently that he even took the tarp off, let alone start thinking about fixing it up. In the beginning, he planned on changing everything from the red paint on the outside to the ripped leather seats internally. But, time had gotten away from him, and at this point, he figured just fixing the windshield and rust on the sides would be sufficient enough.

It wasn’t just time that had gotten away from Bill, either. His youth also was starting to fade in the rearview mirror. He still was in his fifties, by no means an old man, but years on the body shop floor had done a number to the joints in his knees. And the paint fumes also wreaked havoc on his lungs; he was diagnosed with COPD two months shy of his fifty-sixth birthday. On the surface, he appeared fine, but inside he was starting to feel the effects of old age. Many of the younger guys at the shop gave him shit about it, but he took it all in good fun.

The cool air coming in from the opened garage bay was refreshing as it struck against Bill’s thick beard; he’d been meaning to trim it for a while, just never got around to doing it. Maura would always be on his case when it was too long for her liking. But, even though she didn’t care for men with facial hair, never once did she ask Bill to completely shave it because she knew the scars it hid, and Bill preferred to keep the wounds of the past hidden in plain sight.

Bill finished the last of his second beer and tossed the can in the nearly full trash barrel beside him. Another belch wailed from deep within his gut. He then glanced up at the dust-lathered clock ticking away on the wall behind him. Naw, it’s too late for another. Besides, I need to be at the shop early; I might as well call it a night now.

Bill picked up the wrench he had thrown in his fit of rage and tossed it onto the top of his disorganized workstation. The metal tool banged against the others scattered about in all shapes and sizes, missing the chrome exhaust Bill planned on putting on the Mustang by inches. Paying no attention to the noise, Bill walked over to the hood of his dream car and pulled it down with ease as the autumn air crashed against his thigh—there was a knock.

Bill spun around.

Huh? Hello? Bill thought to himself though not saying the words directly.

Keeping still, he kept his eyes forward, peering out into the darkness just beyond the outskirts of where the light coming from the garage ended. He managed to see the long narrow cracks that slithered straight up his driveway to where the pavement ended, and the floor to the garage began, and he could make out the front of his parked truck, but that was all. The sun had drifted behind the mountain that loomed on the far horizon; darkness had taken its place.

The longer he stood there waiting, the more Bill started to question if what he heard hadn’t come from the Mustang when he closed the hood. Maybe it was the car; perhaps something fell off it. That’s not out of the question…damn thing—

There was another knock.

Bill straightened his posture. His face deflated.

Hello?

No response.

Nothing appeared out of the darkness, either.

Bill called out again, only to be met with the same silence as last time.

Bill looked down and spotted a handful of tools he’d left by the noise of the car. He slowly bent down and picked up the closest one to him: an old rusty screwdriver.

He refocused his attention to the entrance of the garage.

Hello?

No response.

Bill tightened his grip on the Phillips screwdriver and approached the garage door.

Thanks to the dark sky, Bill was powerless to see just beyond the outskirts of the overhanging lights above him. He could hear crickets and a couple of sporadic leaves fluttering around in the distance, but not much else. While not out of the ordinary, the sounds slowed his pace the closer Bill approached the doorway.

Oh, shit! I should’ve grabbed the goddamn flashlight! He turned toward the Mustang, spotting the flashlight resting peacefully beside the front tire, the bulb inside still illuminated. Might as well—

A knife swung from the darkness and hit his