The house gradually caught her attention because it was trying too hard to fit in. The woman walked her dog on the street in front of it almost every day, as she was about to do now. 

  Although she had lived in the neighborhood a dozen years, she only began looking at the house closely during the past few months, drawn by its unchanging nature.

  The one-story structure was gray with white trim and a white front door. Its blinds were always closed; no light ever showed through their slats, even in winter when the dark came early. A driveway on the south side led to the back yard and a gray garage with a white door.

  For weeks after she noticed the house, she wondered if anyone lived there. Not once did she see anyone mowing the grass. Yet, it never grew past two inches — almost as if “they” had a robotic mower that only came out at night. No shrubs or flowers adorned the front yard, although some shrubs grew along one side.

  In contrast, her own house a few blocks away was two stories and misshapen. The top floor cantilevered out over the bottom in the manner of a rustic brown Swiss Chalet. Her flower garden in the front yard was a mix of flowering weeds, self-sufficient perennials, and some depressed annuals that needed more water than she could remember to give. 

  Her lawn grew in manic spurts that she only thought to control after her neighbors mowed self-satisfied lines of manicured turf on either side.

  Recently at the gray house, she’d seen the garage door open a few times, revealing two cars that fit with the nondescript theme: one was silver, the other black. Someone must be around.

  The woman took Cubby’s leash off the hook in her mudroom. Her large goldendoodle danced in anticipation of the first of his two daily walks. 

  As she clipped the leash to his collar, she realized it was the sameness of the gray house that bothered her. Nobody could be that boring. They must be hiding something behind the ultra-normal facade. She wouldn’t be surprised if the house had a hidden basement room, or children chained in the attic, or bodies buried in the back yard. 

  She chided herself. Perhaps she’d been watching too many crime shows on TV since she retired. With her husband dying years ago, and both her sons grown and moved away, maybe she had too much time on her hands.

  Cubby quickly pulled her to the end of her street. They turned left onto the road that veered around the old elementary school and would take them past the house.

  As the woman and Cubby came even with the yard of the gray house, her heart caught. A tall man with dark hair was walking up the driveway toward the garage. His back was to the street and he held a few white envelopes. She noted his black slacks and white shirt. This concerned her more than if he had been wearing clothing of any other color. 

  God forbid he wear any blue or green, someone might notice him.

  Cubby wanted to stop and sniff the air trailing the man, but she tugged his leash, not wanting to linger and draw any attention.

  The man kept walking into the open garage. The woman’s purposefully nonchalant steps propelled her and Cubby past the house.

  She and Cubby turned off the pavement and onto the dirt road that led along the end of the school to their favorite trail through a thousand-acre city nature park.

  As they walked through the dense forest and her pounding heart slowed, the woman thought. And as she thought, she began to smile.

*

  At two a.m., the hour of deepest sleep, her radio alarm went off. She clamped her hand down on the clock and got out of bed, groggily changing into black sweatpants and a black hoodie.

  Lying alert at the foot of her bed, Cubby followed her downstairs to the mudroom off the kitchen that led to the back door. She opened one of the built-in drawers that lined the wall and took out a black neoprene mask she used to protect her face from the winter wind. She considered wearing it, but decided it would make her look more suspicious than she already did. She put it back in the drawer and flipped the hood over her graying hair.

  “You stay here, Cubby. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

  The dog tilted his head, looking curiously at her as she stepped outside and closed the back door.

  The late spring air was cool as she walked down the street toward the gray house. The sweetness of lilacs lingered in the night. She shoved her chilled hands into her pockets, making a note to wear her black gloves next time. 

  A waning moon lit her way, bright — but not too bright. She didn’t have any trouble finding her way in the dark. All those wilderness camping trips her parents had taken her on as a child made her comfortable moving in the night. When she was very young, she has used a flashlight at first. But the more time she spent away from the comforts of civilization, the more she found she really didn’t need artificial light to see her way, especially when there was a bit of moonlight.

  As she neared the house, she slowed, scanning the area. All was quiet. A road ran behind the house. Normally busy, it was deserted at this time of night. A stand of trees stood between the road and the garage. Rather than walk up the driveway, she used the road to approach the house from behind. 

  She slipped into the woods and pressed herself to the back of the garage, senses alert. She peeked around the corner toward the back of the house. It was dark and silent.

  A little rush of adrenaline coursed through her at this adventure, reminding her of when she and her brothers used to play “spy” on the neighbor kids. 

  It had been way too long since she’d felt any sort of excitement or done anything the least bit mischievous.

  She slid along the side of the garage to the man door. She always disliked that name, as if only men would ever go into a garage. Well, it was a woman door tonight.

  She turned the handle and the door opened. She smiled and walked inside. The garage smelled like dust and gasoline. A cloying odor she couldn’t identify also lingered.

  She couldn’t see a thing, but that didn’t bother her. She reached out her hands and walked forward a few steps. They came to rest on smooth metal, which, after more investigating, she discovered was a car trunk.

  She turned around and inched toward the wall. Her fingers felt a wooden shelf, and she slowly fondled the things on it, keeping her eyes closed to heighten her sense of touch. A wrench, a pencil, and miscellaneous flotsam. She kept moving and searching. She was looking for a key. 

  Almost everyone she knew had a key to their house hidden somewhere in their garage. Surely people trying this hard to appear normal would have a key in here.

  She felt around, working her way high and low, careful not to displace a thing. She would not turn on the garage light or use a flashlight. The garage had frosted windows in the door and she didn’t want to get caught.

  She wouldn’t open the car doors, either. That would turn on the dome lights. But she noticed that every time she got near one of the cars, the cloying smell got stronger. 

  Must be an air freshener. Pineapple or something.

  She searched through half of the garage in vain. Stymied, she decided to check if she could hear anything at the house. She made her way out the “woman door,” closing it softly behind her.

  She hesitated a few moments to ensure no one was in the yard. By the moonlight, she tried to discern if any security cameras were trained on the back yard. She didn’t see any mounted under the eaves or along the roof line. Then she crept the short distance to the back of the house. 

  The woman stood near the porch. She took off the hood and put her ear to the wall. All was silent until, What was that? 

  A low distant moaning came from within. 

  She pressed her ear harder to the gray siding. A few moments passed and then the moaning came again, like someone hurt.

  She stepped away, looking up at the back door and the windows, trying to see if anyone was alert to her presence. Nothing. She climbed the few steps to the door, checking to see if it was locked. It was.

  Still, the noise had rattled her, and she swallowed hard. After a few more moments to make sure she remained undetected, she listened again.

  It was quiet for a long time, but the moan repeated, more softly.

  Whoever was hurt, it didn’t sound like anyone was coming to help them. An image of a child tied up in the basement came to her. Or maybe it was a woman.

  She listened a while longer, then pushed away from the wall, her hands clammy and a chill in her heart. She’d had enough for tonight. Time to go home.

  She slipped past the garage and back into the trees, grateful for their cover.

*

  With Cubby curled on the floor at the foot of her bed, the woman tossed and turned as she tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep. The animal-like groans kept coming back to her.

  The sounds made her think about those three women who were held captive in Cleveland and had just been rescued. They had been chained to radiators for ten years – having that man’s baby and miscarriages without medical aid.

  She had to do something to discover the source of those awful sounds.

*

  Two nights later, after she felt rested and had recovered her bravery, the woman was back in the garage, searching through the other half of it like a blind person. She touched wrenches, yard tools, and crusty old paint brushes. Her shin bumped against a wooden stepping stool. But she couldn’t find a key.

  That same cloying smell hit her whenever she neared the silver car. 

  Probably covering up the smell of a dead body. 

  Since both cars were in the garage, someone was probably here. She wouldn’t try to get into the house even if she could find the key.

  Frustrated, she decided to go to the back of the house and listen again.

  She pressed her ear to the siding near the porch where she had listened before. She heard nothing at first and was just about to move when she heard a scuffling and then a low, long moan.

  She stepped away and looked for an easy way to enter the house. Since the key wasn’t presenting itself, maybe a window would have to do. 

  To her left past the porch she saw a screen window about five feet up that could allow entrance, especially if the inner glass was open.

  Her yoga classes had left her aging body with unusual flexibility. She was sure she could wriggle through the window once she got the screen off, especially if she had something she could stand on.

  The dull ache in her shin reminded her of the stepping stool in the garage. Yes, that would work. 

  She knew it could be a long wait, but some night when both cars were gone and the window was open, she would use the stool to reach the screen, working it off and then entering the house. With stealth and care she’d investigate the source of the moans and then get out and call the police, if needed. 

  Somehow, she thought the police would be needed. 

  But how much time did the groaner have? She wished she could call the police now, but what would she tell them? Nothing that sounded sane. She needed specifics.

*

  The woman was mowing her lawn the next day when one of her neighbors, Wendy, came home from work. She got out of her car and came over. 

  The woman turned off her lawnmower and wiped the sweat from her brow.

  “Hi, how’s it going?” Wendy asked.

  “It’s going,” the woman said, with her usual flippancy.

  Wendy took a closer look at the woman. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You look a little pale.”

  Since the woman couldn’t very well tell her neighbor it was because she’d been skulking around the neighborhood in the middle of the night, she just said, “I haven’t been sleeping well. I think it’s the change in the weather.”   

  “I hear ya,” Wendy said. “I can’t take this heat, myself. I wish we had air conditioning, but it’s just not worth it to only use it for a few weeks a year.”

  “At least we have fans,” the woman said. After a moment, she asked, “Say, do you know the people who live in that gray house across from the school?”

  Her neighbor scrunched up her face in thought, and peered over the woman’s shoulder as if she could see the gray house through the trees and houses in between. “No,” Wendy said. “I’ve never seen anyone around that place. I kind of wonder if anyone even lives there. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder if anyone lives there, too,” said the woman. “I was just curious, is all. The place looks maintained, but I never see anyone. It’s weird.”

  She didn’t want to tell Wendy about the man she’d seen — didn’t want to let on how closely she’d been watching the place.

  “Now you’ve got me curious,” Wendy said. “I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if I see anybody.”

  The woman tried to keep her voice casual, “Okay, thanks.” Then she changed the subject to the water main shut off that the city was planning for their street tomorrow to replace some aging pipes.

*

  During her next early morning trip, a light mist was falling as the woman made her way to the gray house. Disappointment weighed on her as she checked the garage and found both cars inside.

  On her way out the door, she paused to look at the back of the house. The window she hoped to enter was closed. No light came from it or the other windows.

  She crept to the other side of the porch near the window this time, hoping to hear the noises better from that location. She pressed her ear to the damp siding and waited, one minute, two, three.

  Then it came, perhaps a bit louder than before. But this time the moan was punctuated with interruptions — as if it hurt the person to make the sounds — as if they had a broken rib or their arm was twisted behind their back.

  Since she knew she wouldn’t be breaking in tonight, the woman listened longer than before, repositioning several times, trying to pinpoint the location. She even risked moving to the side of the house which, luckily, was sheltered from the street and the neighbors by bushes.

  The groans never grew louder, making her think they were coming from the basement.

  “AAAAAuugh. Augh. Augh,” sifted through the walls and into her ears.

  “Oh, you poor thing. What have they done to you? I promise, I will help,” she whispered into the siding.

  She imagined the police breaking down the front door and carrying out an emaciated boy in their arms — the child squinting at the bright lights of the squad cars in the night. Television crews would gather and want to interview the woman who alerted police . . . .

  The change in the moans spurred a sense of urgency in the woman. Maybe if she came to the house earlier in the evening, the adults would be gone.

  The mist grew heavier, threatening to become rain. The woman slipped wraithlike through the backyard trees, on her way home where she planned to investigate on her computer how to break into screen windows.

*

  A few days later, after she felt rested and the weather cleared, the woman awoke to her alarm at 11 p.m. She had gone to bed early so she could get at least a little sleep before her undertaking.

  Cubby followed her downstairs from the bedroom. In the closet at the foot of the stairs, the woman dug through a cardboard box that held her tools, bringing out a headlamp that she used inside her tent when she camped, and a pair of needle-nose pliers.

  In her kitchen, she rummaged through a porcelain plate that held her cell phone and various flotsam, retrieving a couple of paperclips.

  She told Cubby to stay, then pulled on her hoodie and went into the night. As she walked down the driveway, Cubby barked as he watched her from a window. It was unusual for him to bark, but she didn’t want to waste time going back to quiet him.

  When she was about half a block away from the gray house, beams from the headlights of a car came her way. The woman ran off the road and hid behind a tree in someone’s front yard. The rough bark snagged on the back of her hoodie as she leaned against it, heart skittering.

  After the lights receded, she peered down the street after them, then looked in the other direction toward the house. Everything was clear, so she eased out from behind the tree and continued.

  Once she reached the house, her quick look in the garage confirmed that both cars were gone.

  Yes! The woman pumped her fist in silent enthusiasm. 

  She felt down low for the stepping stool and crept to the back of the house. As she placed the stool beneath the window, she saw it was open behind the screen. 

  She was so excited, she almost didn’t bother to check if the groans were still going on in the house.

  She pulled off her hood and pressed her ear against the part of the house where she heard the noises most clearly. After a few minutes, they reached her ears.

  I’m coming baby . . . I’m going to help you.

  Back at the window, she climbed the stool. Once up, she put her headlamp strap around her hood. Looking left and right to ensure she was still alone, she turned the light on just long enough to find the location of the screen latch. 

  During the brief light, she was also able to see inside the room she’d be entering. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like a desk or a dresser was underneath the window.

  She stood very still, hoping no one else had seen the flash. An owl in the park hooted its echoey “who-cooks-for-you” call a few times, then was silent. She blinked her eyes to get them used to dark again.

  Satisfied, she took out the pliers from her pocket. She inserted their nose into the screen near the latch, making a small hole. Then she pocketed them and took out a paperclip. She straightened a few of its bends, just like the YouTube video had shown her. 

  She pushed the straightened end through the screen, trying to catch the tip of the latch and push it open.

  Damn, I’m not sure I’m aiming it right . . . .

  She switched on her headlamp for a moment and repositioned the paperclip, just a little to the left. She knew her maneuvering was making the hole larger, but was sure the homeowners would never notice once she put the screen back in place. And if they did, they’d probably think some animal made the hole, or maybe that it had been there all along.

  After a little more futzing, she felt the paperclip bump against the end of the latch. Carefully, she pushed it farther, but it slipped.

  Cursing quietly, she switched on her light for just a second and repositioned the paperclip. In the dark, she pushed steadily against the tip of the latch. It moved!

  She kept pushing until it would go no farther. She knew she had it. Slowly, she removed the paperclip and pocketed it. Then she cautiously pushed the screen inside the room, praying it wouldn’t fall and make any noise. 

  Just when she felt the screen start to tip, she was able to reach her other hand inside and grab it before it clattered onto the furniture.

  She stood a few moments, breathing hard, then lowered the screen onto the flat surface below it.

  After her breathing slowed, she flicked on her light again. Yes, it was a desk. The room looked like an office, with a big clock on the wall and a book shelf. An open door led to a hallway. 

  She’d be climbing onto a desk strewn with papers; she’d have to be careful not to slip. And she couldn’t risk turning her light on again inside the house.

  She braced her arms on the window frame and used her yoga strength and flexibility to push her upper body through the window. Silently, she moved the screen off to one side and slid the rest of her body through, squirming like a seal on rocks.

  She got her knees under her and then sat on the edge of the desk, gradually sliding her feet to the floor. 

  She stood inside the room, getting her bearings. 

  Somewhere to the right down the hallway, a dim light shone. And somewhere, also from the right, came the groaning.

  It sounded too near to be coming from the basement. It must be on this floor. 

  A faint smell of bleach reached her nostrils. She walked through the room silently. Before entering the hallway she paused, listening. Nothing but the groaning. It was coming from the right, near where the light shone, so she turned in that direction. 

  She passed an empty guest bedroom and then a bathroom on the left side of the hall. That’s where the bleach smell was strongest. She lingered outside the bathroom just a moment, looking inside and trying to assess whether anything was amiss, but she couldn’t tell. If only she could locate that poor, hurt person, everything would make sense.

  The foyer for the back porch and one more closed door were along the right side of the wall between her and the end of the hallway. An open passageway on the left led to the room with the light. Perhaps it’s a kitchen?

  The groans got louder as she progressed, until she stood at the closed door. The sounds emanated from behind it. She couldn’t tell if they were from a male or female, or an old or young person.

  For a moment, she stood, too scared to try the door and find her entry barred after she had come so far. She was so close to the mystery, so close to the discovery . . . .

  She tried the door.

  It opened.

  Inside the room, she immediately noticed a nightlight in a low outlet. On the far side was a mattress on the floor with a dark form on it.

  She walked closer, making out a misshapen body. Its face was toward her and the groans were coming from its mouth. It was a boy, about ten years old, with dark hair and protruding teeth. His eyelids were closed over bulging eyes. A blanket was bunched up at the foot of the mattress, and his arms and legs were bent at awkward angles.

  She looked away for a moment and noticed a wheelchair sitting against the wall on the other end of the room.

  This isn’t a torture victim, it’s a disabled boy!

  At once, she realized why the people in this house were trying so hard to look normal on the outside. On the inside, they had a child who wasn’t normal.

  Just as swiftly, she realized the enormity of what she had done. I’ve broken into the house of this helpless boy. 

  Of course, he couldn’t be alone. Although the cars were gone, there had to be someone home — unless his parents really were monsters and had left him here. Maybe she should check the house for them, but everything inside her was urging her to go.

  She started to turn just as the child opened his eyes. Upon seeing her, his pupils, big and dark already, widened in terror. His mouth opened in an “O” to emit a howl that was ten times as awful as his groans.

  Mortified, the woman fled, hoping to escape the house through the office. But when she was halfway down the hall, the figure of a man came at her. 

  It was the man she had seen in the driveway those many days ago, but instead of his nondescript clothing, he wore boxer shorts. His hair was tousled and his face bore a look of sleepy shock.

  When he saw the woman, he raised his hand, which held something black.

  The boy’s howls continued, louder than ever.

  The woman didn’t have time to wish the boy would stop, didn’t have time to say anything to the man. She barely had enough time to process that the black thing he held was a gun, before everything erupted in a bright flash and a roar.

  The last thing she felt was the mess the bullet made of her insides. It tore through her heart and punctured her lung, ricocheting off a rib, lodging somewhere deep inside her. 

  Even before her body hit the floor, her soul escaped to the ceiling.

*

  The woman watched as the man stood over her body, panting. Her lifeless form twitched and writhed mechanically on its back. Her eyes stared, open wide, as if they could see her soul lurking above.

  The man dropped his gun and raced to the boy. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and started to sing, smoothing the boy’s hair with his hand.

  “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

  Eventually, he called 9-1-1. The woman watched as the police and paramedics arrived. They didn’t even try to revive her. She was beyond hope.

  In the hallway, a policewoman questioned the man.

  “You’re going to need to come to the station and give a statement, Mr. Roberts,” she said.

  “I can’t leave my son, Jason.” He gestured toward his son’s bedroom. “He’s disabled, and my wife is away on a business trip. If I leave, he’ll be alone.”

  The policewoman looked down the hallway at the closed door to the boy’s room. “What’s the nature of his disability?” 

  “He’s got Pfeiffer syndrome – he can’t walk or talk.” He drew a shaky hand through his hair. “Christ, he can hardly breathe.”

  “All right sir.” The woman laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go into the living room then, and talk. Go get a robe on first, if you’d like.”

  By this time, more officers had arrived, and one accompanied Mr. Roberts to his bedroom as he put on a green flannel robe and then walked to the living room.

  The soul-woman followed, floating above.

  When the man sat on the couch, he fixed his red-rimmed eyes on the policewoman and told her that something woke him. “I figured it was Jason, like usual, but when I walked past my office, I saw the screen was off the window.”

  The woman nodded to her colleague, who left in search of the office. “Down the hallway, on the left,” she called after him.

  “That scared me, so I grabbed the gun I have in my desk. Then Jason started screaming, and I started running. The woman came at me . . .  I thought she hurt Jason. I panicked and . . . I shot her.” 

  He pressed both hands to the sides of his head. “Why, why, why on Earth would she do this?”

END