Who’s Morgan Albright? Albright? Morgan? I repeatedly asked myself.

I hadn’t yet posed the question to Ross. I could see that the uncomfortable lull in the conversation troubled him greatly. Moreover, his confused expression informed me that I hadn’t said anything. I opened my mouth to speak. Quasimodo could’ve articulated the inquiry better.

“Di…di…didn’t I say ‘who’?...Who?”

The thought of hunching over, leaning my head to one side, bending an arm across my chest while stiffening the fingers of one hand, and sticking out my tongue as I spoke had come to mind; but the humor was lost in the awkward moment. So, I played it straight and finally asked in a complete sentence.

“Who’s Morgan Albright?”

“A friend. A childhood friend,” he answered.

By the soft-spoken words and the downward tilt of his head, I felt there was more to the story. I waited for him to proceed with baited breath.

He sighed deeply and added, “My best friend and fellow ne’er-do-well when we were younger.”

After a few more moments of silence, and a reflective stare that suggested careful consideration, Ross spoke once more: “A man not to be trifled with, either.”

Every word, filled with affection and admiration, exposed his sensitive side. But I could tell by the blush on his cheeks that he rarely spoke of such feelings. Odd, but he even spoke the last sentence with fondness, turning the words “not” and “trifled” into “my brother,” “my kin,” however Scottish men referred to one another.

Uncertain of how to respond, I allowed the first thought that popped into my head to come out.

“And now? Today? Are you the same? You, and this Morgan?”

I guessed that I simply wanted to know that Ross was a decent man: A gentleman, a scholar—intelligent men had always been my downfall—and one of character. I needed to justify my instant attraction, and I had long since stopped falling for the bad boy type.

“We’re not diametric opposites.” He began. “As childer, we were joined at the hip. By our teens, Morgan graduated to petty crime, while I honed my skills with the tip of a blade. Never did violence to anyone who didn’t offer it, though.” A faraway look stole across his face, and his accent changed, subtly but noticeably, as he spoke. “Joined at the hup,” and “haned ma’ skills,” he said. “The baith of us frightened people, to be sure, but for different reasons. I trounced bullyin’ yobs, saved damsels in distress, and looked after those who couldna’ look after thameselves. Morgan, on the ither hand, turned thief, rapist, an’ murderer. For a time, I was his conscience. He didna ken right from wrong, and I was there to remind him. By sixth form, twelfth grade, though, he was lost to me and the rest of our bunch. His hate evaporated all the good in ‘im.”

He reached out, laid his hand on mine, and continued. “We were baith mean as snakes, mind you. One look from either of us, and a would-be tough guy would scurry awa’ wi’ his tail tucked between his laigs. We niver had to lay a finger on ‘em. What fun we had.”

“What happened to the two of you after high school?” I interjected.

“We had a falling out⎯a right bad one⎯and went our separate ways. I saw him a few years later. His hair was shorter and spiked. He took to wearing gloves and bits and pieces from old metal and leather armor; boots too, the kind with studded straps near the heel that end at the knee, the dotit bastard. Nocht ava’ but rage and sorrow left of him. Even his humor was gane.”

“Gloves? Spiked hair? Boots?” I interrupted. “I think I saw him!”
“Where?”
“Outside my house.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“You didn’t let him in?”

“No, I was frightened. He frightened me. I called the cops. That didn’t do any good. They handcuffed my best friend, Jillian. And me. Searched the house as if we were criminals. Went into the back yard and…”

“Marina!” He shouted in order to stop my rambling. “How did he frighten you?”

“He just stood there watching me…from the shadows. It creeped me out. That’s all.”

“I knew he’d come. I knew he was here,” Ross exhaled.

His tone switched from concerned to curt as he added, “The peelers canna save you from the likes of him. The bastards are not your friends, either. I guess you understand that now. After last night.”

“Wait a minute…Save me? Why would they need to save me? What’s going to happen?”

“I’m not certain. But if Morgan’s here watching your house, watching you, you can bet it’s not to share landscaping tips.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure? You know. You know why he’s here. I can see it in your eyes; your face,” I raced.

“Calm down, Marina…”

“Calm down? After almost getting killed in the park, terrified by some creep, and pushed around by those ‘peelers’—cops—you want me to calm down?”

“I only…”

“Hey, wait a minute. The park? You were in the park. The coyotes were…When we happened upon them. Someone else was there, and you knew it. Morgan was there, right? He was in the park. That’s what you meant when you said ‘I can guess’…He butchered those animals, didn’t he? But how? Why? Who the hell is he? What the hell is he? Who could do such a thing? And you knew…You knew he was there…You knew he would come here…to my home. That’s why you followed me. But…Why?”

“Mary…”

“Don’t you dare call me Mary! Who are you? Who is Morgan? What are the two of you; lunatics? Why are you both here? I thought you liked me; were attracted to me. That that’s why we met in the park; that that’s why you’re in my house⎯my home. It’s the only reason that I let you in, you insensitive bastard. How dare you? Get out! Get out this very second.”

As I shouted, Ross listened. As my tone escalated, the more, it seemed, he took note⎯not your typical male. Most men disregarded an overactive, distressed female. But he didn’t. He simply bowed his head apologetically.

By my last “get out,” he had risen from the chair and prepared to leave. He walked down the hall with purpose; not in the somber, wounded way for which I’d hoped. Though I didn’t see him leave, I heard the door quietly creak as it shut behind him. While barely audible, it was a thunder-clap in my ears.

#

Days went by, then weeks. There was no sign of Ross. I walked through the park daily; read by my bedroom window nightly; even sat in the dark a time or two, hoping, and dreading, the prospect of seeing so much as his shadow. But, there was nothing. And I hated the nothing as much as I hated him.

What I did see, in almost every morning paper, were wild animals slaughtered all over the city: First, our coyotes; soon after, more coyotes, deer and foxes. People were rather pleased that these undomesticated threats to suburban living were being stamped out, regardless of how. Hence, no one did anything including the police.

Later, stray and pet dogs were found mangled⎯ “torn to shreds” stated one headline, evoking hostility with each bold word. The most apathetic citizens bellowed for action, then. Never realizing that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, now residents howled when little Foo Foo and Rover were in danger.

It was during this stage of the attacks that my ex-publisher called. I say “ex” because he fired me after I wrote a doomsday piece stating that the wild deaths were merely the beginning.

“Get this trash off my desk,” he roared. “I can’t publish this. I’ll be the laughingstock of the county.”

I never understood his misgivings, and I rarely accepted them in ladylike fashion. Even though he attempted to quiet our arguments by slamming his office door, my co-workers could hear every single word of the dispute.

To him, most of my articles sounded like conspiracy theories. Some he’d print because they amused him. Some he wouldn’t. I was far from his favorite reporter.

But it seemed that I had gained his favor back when he called. Giggling like a schoolgirl, he requested that I write a piece on the slain pets. Naturally, I refused. I was done being the jester of his rag.

Afterward, Death rode on the wind, spiraling through Atlanta’s crack houses and red-light district; littering the “undesirable” parts of town with mutilated bodies. Indigents filled the roster. Again most sighed with relief when druggies, prostitutes, and other criminal elements made the casualty list. No one gave them a second thought.

But as I’d guessed, this un-witnessed battle made its way through the burbs of Atlanta. Panic set in.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” boys and girls.

Partly due to my journalistic instinct, but mainly to establish my sanity, I kept track of the incidents on a large map, which I glued to the wall of the living room. I knew those ball-tipped pins that I inherited from my mother, which I found in her sewing basket, would come in handy someday. Green marked where the wild animals had perished; while white pins indicated the domestic ones; red, the poverty-stricken and homeless; yellow, the lawless. I chose blue, my favorite color, for the unwary suburbanites.

I stood back to admire my work. I told myself that one look at this map would prove my lucidity to anyone. The colors branched out symmetrically from a center: My house.

What? My house!

The striations resembled an intricately designed snare, much like the web of garden spider. I howled at my handiwork, yelling at it as if it were a person.

“How could this be?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“No more. Please, no more.”

Rapidly, my anger turned to fear. My mouth hung open. My eyes bulged. I felt something was coming to get me. But why? And who?

I began to shake. My heart accelerated. I hurried to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and called Jillian.

“I need you,” I demanded.

“What’s wrong, Mary?”

“I didn’t know who else to call. Please come over. I’m scared. Really scared.”

“What happened? That creep again?”

“No. Not that. Something else. Something worse.”

“Are you kidding me? Worse than the peeper? That stalker?”

She went on to explain that she and Luke, her live-in boyfriend, were on their way out of town for a mini-vacation. She would stop by, though, and he’d be tagging along.

Luke lived and breathed the corporate world. He made a tidy sum within its pecking order, and never let anyone forget it. Furthermore, to his mind, anything conceived outside this realm of hierarchy was doubtful at best; utter lunacy at worst. For example, gardening was “absurd” as he put it: Grocery stores were everywhere. He never bought into the GMO scare, or the organic hoopla. Walking to work was another. “That’s stupid!” he’d sniff. Affordable automobiles were in ample supply, and, of course, there was MARTA (Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority). I did both. Gardening was my passion. The food I grew had a superior taste, unlike those from the store, which had none. Plus, it saved me a lot of money. I guess walking did, too. Money had never been my motivator. I happily found ways around using it. So, Luke and I never saw eye-to-eye.

Without his cell phone, he was lost. Without his Rolex, he was naked. Without his gated MacMansion in Johns Creek, he’d rather be homeless. I never knew what Jillian saw in him, but she was my friend. My best friend. For that reason alone, I put up with him. And she knew it.

Without hesitation, Jillian added, “He won’t bother you. I swear. I’ll be over as soon as we finish packing the car.”

“Thanks,” I sighed.

“You’ll be okay ‘til then?”

“Yes, I think so.”

I waited, and waited. Minutes felt like hours. My thoughts were in one place, my hands frantically puttered in another. Unlike the three monkeys that covered their ears, mouth, and eyes; my ears strained to hear anything irregular, my mouth bellowed at the ball-covered city before me, and my eyes bounced back forth like ping pong balls. Now I knew why the monkeys sat like that. Surely, by night’s end, I’d win a trip to Bellevue.

Finally, I heard Jillian’s car pull up to the curb. I sprinted to the window; saw one door open and Luke get out. My temperature rose as I felt my face being flushed with anger. Simply his presence infuriated me. Yet, it was good to see somebody—anybody. Anybody was better than nobody.

Who was I to pass such judgment on another, anyway? Hadn’t I snubbed panhandlers or day-laborers, wealthy weebles or status-minded socialites, a time or two? Hadn’t my superficial flag flapped on more than one occasion? It was hard to admit, but I had. It had.

I was still nagging at myself when Luke walked through the doorway.

He took one look at the piles of newspaper stacked around the room, the general disarray of things, and snorted, “She’s at it again, Jill.”

Not only does Jillian detest anyone shortening her name, but Luke knew it—all too well. My loathing for him rapidly returned.

I pictured his head exploding from the blast of my shotgun as Jillian snapped “At what? And don’t call me Jill. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

She flashed an exasperated expression in his direction.

Ignoring her look, he continued.

“She’s gonna tell ya about some horrible conspiracy that’s plagued the city, again, and how we’re all gonna die from some unseen threat. You refuse to say anything against her cockamamie ideas, so you’ll be buying into it in no time.”

“Zip it, Luke,” Jillian angrily replied.

As Luke and I eyed each other in a Mexican standoff, Jillian changed the subject.

“What are all those pins on the map for, Mary?”

I didn’t know whether she was dodging Luke’s and my inevitable confrontation, or honestly asking. So, I sighed: “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Come on, Mary. Don’t let Luke git to ya. Tell me what they are."

“That’s just it. I’m not sure. I only know that I met Ross, saw this Morgan guy, and the killings started all the same week. So, I started tracking it all. All the slayings. That’s what that is.”

“So, the pins are dead people?” Jillian asked.

“Well, yeah, and animals. Different colors for different types.”

“Jeesus!” Luke cried out. “Give me a foockin’ break.”

He ducked down simulating a defensive stance, rolled his eyes across the breadth of the ceiling and in a sarcastic tone said, “Oooo, hurry, let’s get outta here, Ji-Ji-Jillian, before the creepy shadows come to ki-ki-kill us.”

“You’re not funny, Luke,” Jillian scolded.

“Don’t bother, Jillian, I don’t pay attention to him anyway,” I interposed.

She approached the map with me, and listened as I explained its implications. When my voice accelerated and my hands trembled, I could see, by the look on her face, that my explanation for the nighttime terror in our town was as real to her as little, green men landing at city hall in their disc-shaped spaceship. As a reporter, I’d seen that look before—many times. I’d learned that most reject truths even when the details are methodically studied and documented. I supposed that Jillian was more “normal” than I in this respect.

Luke shoved the newspapers, which were on the couch, onto the floor and sat there, still rolling his eyes. In my peripheral vision, I saw his numerous disgusted grimaces and silent vulgarities. I ignored him as usual.

At least he was quiet, for once. Perhaps he realized that pissing Jillian off would not be conducive to a romantic, three-day weekend. Whatever the reason, his rigid frame leaned into the sofa and he finally kept quiet.

“So, you believe that you—your house—have something to do with what’s going on?” Jillian inquired hesitantly.

“Well, yeah.”

“That guy in the shadows really got to you, didn’t he?”

“Jillian, look at the map. You can’t deny something weird’s going on.”

“I could pick out any other place in the city and draw the same conclusion, Mary.”

“Not with a three mile radius of no incidents around it. Look at it. Sweet Apple Park, Hembree Park, the CVS; nothing closer. There are about 200 homes in this subdivision alone, but no one’s been harmed; no house disturbed. It’s like this is an epicenter of some kind.”

I jabbed the map each time I mentioned a place.

“Oh, man, will you look at the time,” Luke interrupted gazing at his bare wrist. “Time to go. I know, I know, time flies when you’re havin’ so much fun.”

To my dismay, Jillian didn’t disagree with him. She turned, grabbed her purse from the coffee table, and started for the door. Luke led the way, and was the first to reach for the knob. He opened the front door and waited for Jillian to catch up.

“We really got to go, Mary. We’ll be back; Sunday night,” she chimed.

“Sure,” I sighed in return. “I understand. You two have fun.”

I barely finished my sentence when Luke stepped onto the porch, followed by Jillian. I heard gurgling sounds and a bloodcurdling scream. Someone flew head first, a foot off the ground, through the door, limbs flailing, and landed at the base of the stairs with a loud thud. It was Jillian! She was slumped near the first step like a rag doll.

The ululation on the porch, compounded with shrieks and moans, blared through the walls and windows. I couldn’t tell if the sounds were prayers or anguished blasphemies⎯perhaps both.

Too scared to approach the doorway, I pressed my face against the glass in the living room. My vision, obscured by a thin layer of fog, left too much to the imagination. I expected to see demons with long, black horns and razor-sharp teeth; Luke being swallowed up by the pit of hell, sectioned onto talon-shaped skewers, and barbecued over red-hot coals.

I cupped my hands over my ears, but I couldn’t look away. I gaped at a large, dark form picking up a smaller figure by the throat. Within seconds, a bloodied mass struck the window. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The sight seized my eyes forcing my gaze upon the horrors partially hidden by haze and darkness.

The smaller shape slumped to the ground. The larger drew near. Moonbeams armed a pair of bestial eyes, as the silhouette stared back through the windowpane. I collapsed onto the carpet as if felled by a lance. Just before I could see what it was, something pulled it back into the mist. Chilling growls preceded the fierce battle that took place mere feet away.

The moon teased me with flickering outlines that were neither animal nor human. At times, I thought I saw a man’s profile; others a ferocious beast. Then, tufts of hair and misshapen limbs would appear. Finally, I screamed.

I scurried to the stairway, on all fours, and laid Jillian’s head on my lap.

“Wake up, Jillian! Please, please, please wake up.”

I shook her, prodded her, begged her; but she didn’t move. I managed to pull her into the kitchen by grabbing her armpits and tugging her down the hall. Once there, I frantically searched for a weapon of any sort. Fortunately, there was no shortage of makeshift weaponry in this room. The butcher’s block held an arsenal. A corkscrew plunged into an eye or a carotid artery could work. I stuffed my pockets with every sharp instrument that I could find; tucked a few items into the back waistline of my jeans as well; and gripped a butcher’s knife in one hand, and a cleaver in the other.

“You’ll be safe here,” I whispered to Jillian as if she could hear me. She lay unconscious by the breakfast table. “Wish me luck.”

Terrified, I returned to the foyer. Fancying myself a Musashi of sorts for a moment, I twirled the blades in my hands. It wasn’t as easy as it looked in the movies. I dropped them both.

The noise startled me into making my stand at the door. Surely, the intruders had heard. They’d come crashing through the door at any moment, I thought. But, the screams⎯no, not screams, more like yelps⎯continued. They sent shivers up my spine. These cries for help compounded with grisly rumbles brought out every fear I’d ever known.

Every thump sent my heart fleeing from my chest. The unintelligible words and yells left me motionless. I should’ve open the door, and slashed at whatever was on the porch, but I didn’t. I stood there paralyzed.

Time stood still until…until an eerie silence stilled my breath. I laid an ear against the cold, hard, wooden surface of the door. I didn’t hear anything.

Suddenly, two knocks sent me hurtling across the tile floor, and I finally took a long, deep breath. I slid to a stop and waited for someone—something—to come bursting through the door, but nothing happened. For a few minutes, I wondered if I had heard them at all.

Before long, two louder knocks shook the casing. I took two baby steps forward and pointed the cleaver at the door.

“I’ve called the police,” I lied. “I have a gun. So, you better get away while you can.”

No one answered.

Moments later, I heard the sound of fading footsteps. Then, again, nothing.

I slumped against the door and slid to a sitting position. I waited there until I was sure that no one waited for me on the other side ready to pounce. It seemed like hours, but in reality maybe only twenty or thirty minutes.

Reaching up for the handle, I slowly stood and turned the latch. Holding my breath, again, I cracked the door open. I inched it toward me until there was enough room for me to see outside. The night hid nearly everything from my sight, but I could immediately make out the wooden floorboards. A portion of the posts, which flanked the stairs, were also visible.

I took another deep breath, dug for courage, and flung the front door open.

The hulking outline of a man at the foot of the steps startled me. It remained motionless. Wishing I now had a gun instead of knives; I backed through the doorway and flung both in its direction.

One skimmed the right shoulder; the other missed altogether. The shape moved. I screamed. It moved closer, onto the first step, then the second, then the third. With its every step forward, I drew back an equal distance. Once on the porch, it stopped.

The light from the hallway sloped along its torso. A yellow sweep revealed shredded clothing, on lower limbs, which hid bloodied wounds. I fixed my eyes on the chest of curled hair as it came into view, and for a moment found something appealing in the thicket.

A few paces more and the allure became horror. I screamed again when I saw the flow of blood. Beneath it, bone and chunked flesh protruded from three entrenched claw marks. Within an instant, the man fell forward. I caught him in mid air, but his weight pushed us both to the floor. As he lay there, head in my lap, I recognized him.

It was Ross!