Every House Is Haunted (28 page)

“Gross-
out!
”

John lowered his newspaper and looked over at Sally, standing in front of the open screen door. She was wearing a pink shirt that was too tight, and a black skirt that was too short. Of course these were the opinions of a father, but if he couldn’t comment on what his daughter wore when she left the house, then who could? Of course, the irony of the situation was that if he should ever voice his opinions, the result would almost certainly be tighter tops and shorter skirts. He reluctantly kept his mouth shut as he stood up and came over to see what she was staring at.

There was a new dead animal lying on the back porch.

Except “dead” was really too light a word. “Slaughtered” would have been more accurate. Or mutilated. The carcass was so badly mangled that at first John couldn’t tell what kind of animal it was. It wasn’t until he eased Sally aside and crouched down for a closer look that he realized it was a dog. And not just any dog, but one with a glitter collar.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. “Rambo.”

The dog’s fur was drenched with blood; only a few tufts of white remained. The body was covered in a brutal crosshatch of claw marks.

John felt his morning coffee gurgling unpleasantly in his stomach. He opened his newspaper, draped it over the dog’s body, and went to call the Robichauds.

“I just can’t believe it,” Dave Robichaud said, shaking his head.

“Neither can I,” John said.

They were standing in John’s garage drinking beers from the fridge he kept out there.

After John told him about Rambo, Dave had come over with a broom and a garbage bag. Together they scooped Rambo off the deck, both of them wincing at the sticky tearing sound the dog’s body made as it came off the wood planking.

“It must have been some sort of animal,” Dave reasoned.

“Must have been.” John nodded and took a sip from his bottle.

“But why would it leave her on your porch?”

“No idea. But why does an animal do anything?”

Dave nodded. His summer tan had turned the colour of curdled milk.

“Petra’s at her sister’s place in Huntsville. She’s coming back tomorrow.” He looked at John with wide, stunned eyes. “What the hell am I going to tell her?”

John shook his head. He didn’t even know what to tell himself.

A couple days later, John found two dead birds and a dead garter snake on the back porch. He cleaned them up without even thinking about it. Picking up the cat’s deliveries had become a part of his morning ritual. First he’d put on coffee, then he’d fetch the paper off the front lawn, then he’d open the back door to see what the cat had left for him. Most days there was nothing, but once every week or so he’d find a dead mouse or a dead bird or a dead snake. One time he found something he couldn’t identify. He went and got Brenda and she told him it was a woodchuck. Then she elbowed him in the ribs for getting her out of bed.

John rustled his newspaper and Brenda looked up from her crocheting. She glanced over at the clock on the mantel. It was almost 9:30
PM
.

They had been sitting in the living room for almost two hours. The only sounds during that time were the rustle of John’s newspaper, and the creak of the floorboards in the hallway as the cat passed by on his way to the kitchen.

At 9:42
PM
the front door opened and Sally slunk in.

“Where have you been?” Brenda said, bounding out of her chair. “You missed dinner.”

“I’m home before curfew.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I was out.”

“Out where?” Brenda pressed.

“Just out.” Sally gave her an indifferent shrug, the kind that comes naturally to teenagers and small-time criminals. Then she slipped upstairs. A moment later they heard her bedroom door slam shut.

Brenda looked over at John. “She’s lying.”

“You think?” John said sarcastically.

“It’s going to stop.”

“Good luck with that.”

“We should talk to her.”

“Go right ahead.”

Brenda glared at him. “You won’t talk to her?”

“What’s the point,” John said. “You said she hated us.
And
you said it was normal.”

“She doesn’t hate
you
. You guys used to talk all the time. You were thick as thieves,” Brenda added with an undisguised note of jealousy. “Maybe you should try taking her out for ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” John lowered his newspaper. “She’s fifteen, Brenda. A father is no longer allowed to take his daughter out for ice cream once she starts getting breasts. It’s like a national law.”

Brenda frowned. “She may hate us, but she still has to respect us.”

John raised his newspaper again. “I don’t think she got the memo on that one, dear.”

The following morning, the cat left a dead blue jay on the back porch.

That night, Sally came home at 11:30
PM
. Brenda grounded her.

The night after that, Sally came home at midnight.

Brenda didn’t say anything.

John and Dave were outside raking leaves on their respective lawns. Autumn had come early, along with a week of gale-force winds, and every tree on the street had dumped its load.

After awhile they leaned on their rakes and talked over the low hedge that separated their yards.

“How’s Petra been? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

“She’s okay,” Dave said. “She’s still pretty upset about Rambo.”

John nodded sympathetically.

“Do you think you’ll . . . you know, get another dog?”

Dave gave a tired shrug. “I suppose so. I mean, Petra loved Rambo, and she wouldn’t want to replace her, but she needs something to, you know, fill the void. I could go either way. Although I suppose it’s good to have an animal around to protect the property.”

John made no comment. The idea of Rambo protecting anything, or anyone, was ludicrous. About as ludicrous as the idea of a cat killing a dog and leaving it on the porch.

He coughed into his fist and was about to resume raking when Dave spoke again.

“I don’t know how to say this, John, but, well, you might want to keep an eye on Sally.”

John’s eyebrows went up a notch. “Sally? What for?”

Dave sighed. “It’s none of my business, but I’ve seen Sally walking home lately with Kris Dunn.”

John shook his head to say he didn’t know who that was.

“He’s that kid who lives at the end of the street. Well, he’s not really a kid. That’s why I thought I should mention it. Sally’s what, sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” John corrected him.

“Yeah. I just thought it was strange, seeing her hanging around that guy. Ruth Meyers says he’s a drug dealer.”

John snorted. “Ruth Meyers thinks every kid on the street is a drug dealer. Or a terrorist. Or a serial killer.”

Dave nodded. “Yeah, she’s not the most reliable source, I know, but I have seen a lot of people coming and going from his house. Not just kids, either. Older guys, too. It’s a little strange.”

“What do you think, he’s running a grow op or something?”

“Maybe. This is the kind of neighbourhood where they do that kind of thing these days.”

Dave went back to work. John leaned on his rake, deep in thought.

“You can’t tell me where I can and can’t go,” Sally said indignantly.

“You bet your ass I can,” Brenda told her. “Until you’re eighteen you don’t go anywhere without either my or your father’s permission.”

John didn’t think the
While you’re living under my roof
speech was the best approach, but since he couldn’t think of an alternative, he opted to sit with his newspaper and keep his mouth shut. Brenda was taking the lead on this one; all he could do was back her play and hope it didn’t make the situation worse. He had a father’s nightmare vision of Sally in tears running to Kris Dunn, complaining about her asshole parents and then asking Kris to take her virginity. The ultimate act of rebellion.

“I don’t need to tell you where I am every single minute of the day.”

“Wrong,” Brenda snapped. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”

Sally’s gaze drifted off to the side.

“Bitch.”

She whispered the word, barely loud enough for her mother to hear it. But hear it she did.

Brenda’s hand seemed to move under its own power. It came up in a flash of motion and slapped Sally hard across the cheek. The sound was very loud in the quiet living room. Mother and daughter stared at each other, stunned. They looked like two strangers who had bumped into each other on the street. Then they both dropped their eyes and stared at Brenda’s hand, as if it were a handgun that had discharged accidentally.