Frank Cavanaugh jolted awake on his recliner in front of a blaring big-box television. For an instant, he felt a mild tremor as if an eighteen-wheeler had gone by, however, he couldn’t recall having actually heard one. This wasn’t a surprise, as his hearing wasn’t quite what it used to be. Over the New York Giants in the background, even a ringing phone would likely go unnoticed. His wife, Estelle, would attest to that. Since the game still appeared to be at half-time, he knew he had only dozed a few minutes.
The game, exciting as it was, did very little to warrant his attention despite the nail-biting score-tying play against the Monsters of Midway (Da Bears). And he knew it was only a matter of time; his eyelids would eventually shut him out.
What Frank didn’t know is he would not survive the outcome of the game. That, in an hour from now, Estelle would find his body. Lifeless. Shortly thereafter, his forever home would be destroyed. And before long, the neighborhood. The town. The shoreline.
We’ll get to that.
This Monday evening began the same as any other—with Frank, lounging, putting back can after can of light beer, eating marshmallows, watching whatever relevant sporting event happened to be airing that night. The marshmallow binging was something developed as a replacement for cigarettes, which he successfully quit fifteen years earlier—triple bypass surgery made sure of that. The side table and floor around him were cluttered with empty cans, junk food bags, finished crossword puzzles; it was a natural occurrence when Estelle was out for the evening.
It was the first unconditionally clear night in weeks following a streak of unfavorable weather. And although the moon was out full and bright, the neighborhood was anything but peaceful. The crickets were especially loud, their deafening chirping rivaled only by the critters rustling through the foliage and a great horned owl casually hooting in the near distance. The moon’s reflection shimmered across the undulating surface of the river that stretched behind Frank’s house. He noticed this from the sliding glass door on his way through the kitchen to get another drink. After a long, concerning hunt through leftovers and an endless supply of condiments—mostly expired—he unearthed a solitary can in the fridge.
He slipped on thick, round prescription specs and walked out to the back deck while turning off the light to admire the view, but mainly to satiate his curiosity as to what was happening on the island across the water. What was usually a quiet and mostly reserved area of town, was becoming increasingly uninhibited in recent weeks, bustling with activity. Frank identified it as some development underway but had a hard time delineating with his poor vision further hindered by a desperate need for a prescription update.
There was a cool breeze off the current that whisked through the grayish hair around the side of his shiny, bald scalp. Frank savored it as he sampled his newly cracked beer. The evening activity was quite unusual, but it was getting late, and he thought he might have to call in a favor with a few old friends to file a complaint if it continued. The racket across the way was ruining the beautiful, picturesque view of the Yantic and Thames confluence, which he had often marveled over since purchasing the property more than fifty years ago.
He turned back toward the house, stopping short, heart almost leaping from his chest. Frank winced, a flash across his face, as he gasped out loud, dropping the can, spilling it over the deck. It took him a few seconds to refocus—to evaluate what just happened and why his last beer was draining down the crack of sun-damaged cedar. A cat had leaped from the roof, landing in front of him. Its large, piercing, yellow eyes and dilated pupils caught Frank’s gaze, letting out a long, penetrating hiss.
Confused and a bit startled, he took a step back, not breaking eye contact with the fierce creature, whose ears were flat back, baring teeth, carefully eyeing Frank’s every move. Its coat puffed out with spiked fur along its raised spine, crouching low on high defense. After a brief standoff, Frank slowly sidestepped left, the cat mimicking the move, as two anxious gunslingers would, watching one another, anticipating who’ll draw first.
The wind gently picked up, setting off Estelle’s Corinthian windchimes, which hung from a metal hook on the edge of the house; the soft ping of each aluminum tube struck a multitude of long, mellow bells resonating amid the tension. A low grumble reverberated from the animal with each step Frank took across the chafing floorboard. As he neared the door and finally regaining some confidence, he became immediately irritated by the situation, ignoring the cat as he pulled open the slider. Another cat trotted along from around the corner, up the steps, as Frank squeezed through, closed, and locked it.
The orange tabby skipped over and stood up on hind legs, tapping vehemently on the glass with its golden, fur-tufted paws. A third made an appearance, followed by a fourth, then a fifth. Frank backed up slowly, bewildered, watching as the strange phenomena commenced.
What in the name of good Christ is going on? The occurrence was not completely foreign to him however curious it may have seemed. For years, he had been accustomed to an occasional feral in the area, and from time to time, he would see a few pass through his yard. A couple of times, he had even caught one or two stretched out along the deck railing taking in the riverfront view before jumping away, as he would turn on the light to do the same. This particular event, however, was most bizarre. It was the first instance where he was close enough to make actual contact—not that he had any interest. He flicked on the outside light and gazed beyond the deck, where he noticed the garbage bin tipped on its side with bags ripped open, trash scattered, dissipating into the night.
Little scavengers…
Frank closed the curtain over the door and went back to the recliner. He was annoyed, but the trash cleanup would have to wait till morning. The excitement exhausted him. And as the Giants’ Amari Toomer ran for forty yards for a touchdown, Frank put the cats out of his mind and reached for a marshmallow. It was late in the evening, and since he was expecting Estelle, who was at a friend’s house across town, he decided to stay up to wait and watch more of the game.
Not long into the fourth quarter—mere minutes in fact—the Giants were down—again—and Frank started to have a hard time keeping his eyelids open. Moderately interested as he was, his expectations were quite low and not without reason; he was used to the disheartenment that being a fan of New York football would bring. Hell, there’s always next weekend, right?
Finally, he surrendered, figuring Estelle would just wake him for bed when she returned—whenever that was. Tonight was bingo night. All bets were off.
It may come as a surprise, but Frank was not much of a sports fan until his later years—another habit he picked up with the marshmallows—but watched because it was usually mindless and somewhat optimistic. With myriad health issues and a recent diagnosis of diabetes, a little optimism was something he needed as of late. When he wasn’t parked in front of the television or tending to his meticulously kept vegetable garden in the backyard, Frank could be found working on antique furniture in the garage or maintaining Estelle’s porcelain collectibles. He was content with the quiet, mundane lifestyle of his hard-earned golden years.
His resume was quite impressive, just over twenty years with the state police and another twelve parked behind a desk filing paperwork part-time while collecting a pension. Prior to that, he spent a decade in the military with the U.S Navy and was on active duty during the Korean War. His remaining time in service was spent as a consultant during the early years of Vietnam upon entering the police academy. Estelle fell for a man in uniform, which was evident by the varied, dated pictures of Frank on the mantel above the fireplace. They had married as soon as he returned from Korea.
POP!
Abruptly and extremely disoriented, Frank woke, jumping out of the chair. Everything went black. He stumbled into the coffee table, knocking off a lamp, while debris fell in all directions, as he yelled, taking the Lord’s name in vain. A noise that sounded like a gunshot brought him to consciousness. Unaware of how long he was asleep this time, he called for Estelle, but her returned silence assured him it was only briefly.
The moonlight beamed through the windows, guiding him around the dark house while he rustled through drawers in search of any source of light. Eventually, it dawned on him to check the garage. The automatic door didn’t function, so he opened it manually, letting the moon pour in, hitting the workbench against the back wall. He located a heavily scraped Maglite in one of the drawers—a relic from his time on the force that at one time shone light through the darkest of alleyways and was surprised yet thankful it actually turned on.
Faint meows and the pitter-patter of feet were heard in the driveway as he quickly made way across to close the garage, but it was too late; those outlaws began to invade, tails waving in the air as they made their advance. Frank panicked and paced toward the house door, barely entering before they neared. Without giving it a second thought, he carried on. The power outage was taking precedence, overruling any other thought process in his mind.
Frank was convinced a transformer blew but at least wanted to check the fuse box in the basement first. Much like the attic and every spare room in the house, it was essentially storage for decades worth of junk, unused appliances, the washer, and dryer unit. There were cardboard storage boxes dispersed throughout, some stacked high against each wall, filled with effects from every decade they lived on Forest Street. Somewhere, long-buried away, the Cavanaugh’s still had their four children’s baby clothing and first pair of shoes.
Rows of tall, narrow cubed shelving lined the perimeter brimming with muddled collectibles from generations past: porcelain China—dinnerware, cups, saucers—odd trinkets of crystal art, glass vases, copper jewelry boxes, animal figurines. They lived, untouched for decades on crowded shelves. An old plastic-covered, tufted brown, leather sofa sat in one corner, which too held boxes. Lying next to it was a Westport billiards table—feet removed—and a 1960s wooden console television. Frank had a workbench of southern yellow pine near the foot of the stairs, much like one in the garage, but it hadn’t surfaced from the depths of boxes in years. The walls were composed of waning aggregate, and the floor was partially carpeted with a well-aged Tabriz Persian animal rug. The smell of must emanated from growing dry rot shrouded by the quarter-inch of dust that adorned most surfaces in the space. Anyone familiar with the Cavanaugh’s would kindly consider them amateur antique collectors, while anyone else would probably just call them hoarders.
Frank took each creaking step, slowly, one at a time, down to the bottom, holding firmly to the railing. It wasn’t out of the norm for either Estelle or himself due to the inoperability of the light switch, and they generally only went down during the day: one of many home improvement projects he had underway, put off for another time. As he reached the bottom, the flashlight started to flicker. The ancient batteries battling their way out of stagnation. He stepped over a dirty laundry pile, making way to a utility closet where he retrieved a heavily dusted oil lantern, one he specifically recalled, for reasons unknown, picking up in Old Saybrook at a yard sale right before being deployed to the war in Korea. After wiping some grime off the glass cover with a sleeve, he lit it with a wooden match taken from a stockpile of odd matchboxes collected over time.
Even with the soft glow of the oil lantern, it was pitch black, and Frank, having difficulty seeing as it were, walked face-first through hanging cobwebs, trying to locate the fuse panel. After moving a few mildew-covered boxes to create a narrow path, he came across familiar territory. He saw the panel next to the dryer and opened the rusted hatch, nicking a finger on a serrated edge as he checked the circuits. Everything looked fine. Scratching his head, he figured at this point, a transformer must have blown, which would account for the noise heard earlier, and with whatever was happening across the water, it was probably a safe bet. Frank turned, held up the lamp, and proceeded toward the exit.
A succession of shrill rings next to Frank caused him to nearly jump out of his skin; the flashlight dropped from his hand, rolling out of sight. There were several hardwired telephone landlines throughout the house, with the basement having one installed in the 1970s—a time when the room was a more utilized space for hobbies, gaming, and of course, laundry. Frank picked up the receiver, which hung from a square pillar in the center of the room, and was relieved to hear the voice on the other end.
“Hello?” Frank said as if he didn’t know who it would be.
“Frank, did I wake you?” Estelle asked with a hint of guilt. She was standing in the kitchen, holding the end of a green wall phone in Florence’s house, on the other end of town. Behind her, Florence and three other elderly ladies sat around a rectangle table littered with paper bingo sheets and various colored ink dotters used to mark the sheets.
“Estelle? No.” Frank said as if he’d been working on the power situation all night. “The power is out at the house—you have power by you?”
“Huh, that’s strange. Everything is fine over here. Did you check the fuse box?” Estelle asked as she buttoned up her long, purple coat.
“Yeah, looks fine to me. I heard a bang—I think a transformer went or something.” Frank said unequivocally. The light emitting from the lantern’s flame reflected off his face with a swirling oscillation as he stared into it.
“Well, I’m all bingo-ed out—just going to say goodbye to everyone and head home. Do you need anything while I’m out? I can swing over to the gas station and get some candles or batteries. I’m assuming you’ve found flashlights?” Estelle asked.
“Yup. I found ole reliable in the garage. We also have the oil lamp, and by golly, it actually works!” Frank snickered. “I don’t think I’ve lit this thing in over thirty years or so. What a great find this was. I ever tell you that story, dear?” Frank said rhetorically.
“Only about a hundred times, Hun. It was at the house with all the old stuff that got you into your antique hobby.” Estelle said in a storied tone. “Alright, I’m leaving shortly. See you in a bit, Frank. Be careful, will ya? You don’t want to hurt yourself down there in the dark.” She said lightly.
“Heh, I make no promises, dear.” Frank smiled.
Frank hung up the phone, grabbed a nearby rag for his finger, which had begun bleeding significantly now, then held up the lantern to see where the flashlight had rolled. He started toward the back, then stopped abruptly. To his astonishment and disbelief, a tear in the foundation corner was protruding outward from the floor and wall. Chunks of slate and dirt lay scattered around the edges of the gape. Frank wasn’t even sure if what he was seeing was real. He squinted his eyes, trying to focus, then took off his glasses, inspecting the lenses. It wasn’t his eyes deceiving him. Frank cautiously stepped toward the corner to examine the damage. His eyes began to adjust as he grew close, revealing much more than he had anticipated.
The tear became an oblong size hole three to four feet in diameter. Frank picked up a chunk of rock, and on further inspection, noticed deep corrosion, determining it had to be a degeneration of concrete. This type of decay was not uncommon, especially in older houses so close to saltwater. He dropped the rock and reached over to touch the edge of the orifice, where he felt a thick, viscous substance, tacky to the touch as he rubbed it between his thumb and index finger.
Frank leaned in to smell it when a curious thud prompted him to look up. The sound came from the adjacent side of the room. Now wondering if a squirrel or other small woodland creature could have made its way inside, he walked over to take a look. For an instant, he recalled three years earlier when he found a raccoon that had snuck in an open window and had given birth to a small litter under the workbench.
The sound of something falling, clattering along the solid floor, resonated through the damp room, and Frank stopped in his tracks. Becoming slightly unnerved, he decided to end the exploration, quickly picking up the flashlight and heading straight toward the stairs; his pace much brisker now. He rounded the corner and caught a glimpse—a double-take—of bright, glowing eyes in the reflection of a six-foot-high and profoundly tarnished, Mid-Century Gilt mirror situated diagonally from him. It provoked an immediate response laterally, causing him to trip over a milk crate filled with various gardening tools and knocking over several leaning billiard cue sticks.
Frank came crashing to his knees, dropping the flashlight to better secure the lantern in his other hand. Glasses flew off his face and slid out of reach. His vision now blurred; all he could see in darkness were two round, bright auras from each light source. Frantically, he began to crawl and feel his surroundings. The adrenalin started pumping through his veins, elevating his heart rate rapidly. The first item he discovered, to which he was instantly relieved, were his glasses; quickly shoving them to his face, he proceeded.
Next, he spotted the flashlight, but it appeared oddly distorted. The lenses were cracked, and everything he saw began to have a stained-glass effect. He picked himself up as fast as his aging body would allow, panting, out of breath, and scanned for the exit, disregarding either light source in his frantic attempt to escape his unknown aggressor. At that moment, leaving the basement was paramount.
A low, gurgling growl shattered the stale air. His hair stood on end. He froze.
The last thing he saw was several pairs of large, frosted pupils in his chipped specs followed by crimson spatter. Strands of flesh tore from his wrinkled neck, breaching the carotid artery, crushing the esophagus. One last breath of air squeezed out with a compressed whimper as a sharp, piercing object imbedded in Frank’s neck. His appendages quivered uncontrollably for a short time before becoming motionless. Within seconds, Frank was surrounded by the pool of matter that had made him viable only moments before.
The mayhem didn’t end at the murder, however. Slivers of Frank’s blue, shepherd-check flannel shirt littered the ground, followed by ribbons of grey hair and pale skin as a series of finely edged blades repeatedly scored his thorax. As the body rived, muscle tissue and wet rib bone fragments were chipped away, firing off, rattling along the concrete. The sternum opened with precision, hinging over his side with the rest of the cage, leaving organs vulnerable. A final swift swipe flipped over Frank’s lifeless remains fully exposed on the basement floor.