As the Leaves Fall

The wind picked up around noon. Its gusts moved in all directions, rousting leaves from their piles and sending them across yards, streets, porches. A plague of sorts—frozen from autumn cold and brittle to the touch, skittering down the sidewalks like dried up locust shells. The house on Rivington Terrace took them in without question, trapping them in all its winded corners. It stood there deftly, a house built on the incline of a hill, so as to make the basement halfway underground and halfway above, its large front glass window gazing out at the wooded area across the street. There were two cars parked in the wraparound driveway, but no sign of life within the house walls. Sunlight, a bitter mirage in this cold, still managed to beam through the windows, probably cutting warm rectangles into the living room carpet, though from the outside, one could only make guesses at such things. Ashen clouds eventually choked out the light anyway, like weeds through a healthy root system.

The rain started soon after.
A few large, chilled spatters, then steady drizzle.


Raining. It must be raining.
The smell of urine was overpowering, hanging salty and warm in the crowded air. There was a wet sheen to the plumbing, part sink leakage, part evaporated piss. From her one source of light she could make out the rough shapes of cleaning products; bleaches, dish detergents, boxes of trash bags, all aligned askew, the result of blind crouched shoves with no second thought. She viewed everything wide-eyed, peering just above her folded knees, ashamed of her wet clothes but too scared to move—a little girl cowering under the sink. She prayed for no lightning, whispering childish incantations, remembering the last of the booming summer electrical storms. Those evenings her mother would coax her out from behind the couch and soothe her in her arms until the storm passed. Evenings eternally distant, a season long past. She pushed the thoughts away.

Inside was quiet, except for the clock in the living room keeping time and the steady thwapping sound coming from some other corner of the house. It was steady, the sound of something heavy being slapped upon the floor. It would slow or it would speed up but it was always there, beating cadence. The sound frightened the little girl the most. It was a dull reminder that something inevitably was waiting for her, counting the seconds.

She sneezed.
Her stomach rumbled.
It was an elongated sound, not so much an echo as a continuum, begging for attention. She tried to smother it by bringing her legs in closer, only succeeding in shortening her breath. The hunger was becoming too much to bear and she knew it. She would need food soon, but leaving her position, even if it was to walk a half step to the refrigerator directly across from her, would expose her to the stillness of the rooms, the dust hanging in the air like snow, wavering in the absence of wind or breath. She’d seen it in the movies, the ones where the girl hiding in the shadows sees that glint of hope and timidly shuffles forth, building the tension with her slowness only to be plucked away into the darkness again by a cold hand around the ankle.
She was also afraid to look at the pictures.

The faces of her family encased in rectangular glass, smudged at the corners from clumsy handling. Faces overexposed, dopey-lidded from blinking mid-flash, huddled together as evidence of their existence. They are tacked up haphazardly, held between fridge and randomly collected magnetic junk. Pictures of mom in this very kitchen, pulling a turkey out of the oven. Her head is turned in surprise, half-smiling, a few reckless strands of blond loosed from her ponytail swinging in her eyes. There are pictures of dad, unshaven and clearly hungover from wine the night before, making his way to the tree in his pajamas and Santa cap. Below the tiny magnetic words forming unfinished shopping lists and silly remarks, she sits; a picture for every growing year, huddled between parents, blowing out candles, running camera-blurred through a summer backyard. The collective lives of a family snapped and developed and laid out in nonchalant fashion, chronicling their polished lives. Their smiling faces scared her more than any exposure, but still she knew it was inevitable. Biting her lower lip, she prepared herself.
She put her foot out through the cupboard door, jerked up momentarily by the coldness of the linoleum. She shimmied out, eyes searching wildly in their sockets, catching a brief glimpse of the rain beating against the window above the sink, projecting across the filmy white curtains in wild shadowplay. When her fingers tightened around the refrigerator handle, she looked around one more time before pulling the fridge upon, a quick thrust that spilled dull yellow across her face.

Dozens of consumer products crowded her vision. There were plastic containers with tin foil tops filled with god knows what. Milk, eggs, cheese and lunchmeats all had their place. She could barely make out the row of beer cans lining the back of the top shelf, remnants of her father. She saw him for a brief second, bent over, the tail of his shirt just starting to come loose, his arm sliding in, careful not to knock anything over. How many times had she seen him repeat that action? The words came back swiftly…

“How many is that?” her mom in a half-joking, half-serious tone, so as not to rattle the cage too much.
“I’m not drunk, Janine. Just trying to re—”
“—I didn’t say you were drunk, I was just asking a question.”
“Don’t’ cut me off.” He looks over to his daughter, transitioning his anger into a soft, lucid smile. “Daddy’s not drunk, honey.” The anger returns just as quickly. “There nothing wrong with having a few beers after dinner to relax. I have enough god damned stress at work and I sure as hell don’t need it here.”

She grabs a tube of cookie dough from the top shelf, arching her feet up and stretching out for it, but as she pulls it out her hand hits the milk and it comes down onto her head, spilling over the floor. Almost slipping, she goes back under the sin, leaving the milk on its side, the contents pooling out around itself, inching across the linoleum. Somebody heard me. They’re coming after me, she thought, but the only thing she heard was the lapping sound of her dog, Coda, just outside the cupboard door. The sound of the chocolate lab calms her down some, but only slightly. Coda must still be sleeping outside of Their bedroom.

Coda lapped the milk gratefully, taking quick pauses to whimper in the girl’s direction.

After a few minutes, he gave up and loafed back into the living room and around the corner and the thwapping sound began again.
Light was fading fast.

********************

The man in the dark green slicker just stood there in the rain, partially hidden by the shrubs, staring over towards his seemingly empty neighbor’s house. A burst of wind sent his hood flying back and the rain ran off his balding head into eyes causing him to curse. He looked up at his leaf-bloated gutter, clogged up at the drainage point, sending a thin waterfall down to puddle around his basement window and cursed again, louder this time. “Fucking Halloween night and I’m stuck doing this shit,” he said to no one, flipping his hood back up and pulling out a pack of Camel’s. He’d been watching television when his wife yelled up that the basement was leaking.

Now here he was about to break his neck.

The smell of the leaves hit him as he walked out towards his work shed, the piles he had so nicely raked up the day before taking in the water, decaying rapidly. He slipped on the slight hill around the side of the shed and almost swallowed his cigarette. The ladder was cold to the touch and hauling it back up towards the house was a pain, but he managed, though somewhat clumsily. It was that fucking wife of his that was responsible, always, yelling, making him drive out to the drugstore to buy candy when he knew that no parent in their right mind would take their kids out trick or treating in this weather. And yeah, so the basement was leaking a little. It always leaks a little. There was no need to do this now.

Finishing his cigarette, the ladder propped against the house, he first noticed her, watching him from the bay window next door.

Little Amy Todd.

It didn’t seem odd to him at first; Amy was always watching him do his yard work. She especially loved to watch him mow the lawn, ducking out of sight when the mower moved too close to the window. She was a ghost almost, head hovering above the sill, obscured b Halloween knickknacks. He managed a slight wave, even in his mood, steadied the ladder and began his ascent. It wouldn’t be until a few hours later, when he was dry and warm and positioned just perfectly in front of the television, that he would realize that all the lights were turned off in the house next door and that maybe Amy was home alone for some reason.

Amy peered outside, past the dusty Halloween decorations.

It was almost completely dark now. She lifted one of her hand up very slowly past the sill, a finger extended to touch the back of a wooden scarecrow figurine, tracing its whittled turns. They were all dark silhouettes against the muted sky, standing rigid, immune to everything but time. Over towards the front yard she noticed a jack-o-lantern was falling in upon itself, the carved out eyes and nose sagging in to form one giant black hole. Would kids be out trick or treating tonight? Her costume was lying out on her bed, witch hat and robe with a rubber nose and broom, crumpled in with the sheets.

Mr. Pinsky was walking up from his yard; a ladder propped through his arms. He scared Amy, being out in the rain with his face totally obscured by his hood, but she didn’t move or look away. Instead she watched intently as he propped the ladder on end and stood in the rain, smoking his cigarette. When he looked over and noticed her she froze. He’s gonna see me he’s gonna come get me, but he only waved and flicked his cigarette. Downward she slunk, prostrate on the wooden dining room floor, pondering her next move.

She was brave in the darkness, moving from shadow to shadow, huddling against the fringes. It was a blanket covering her moves, keeping her from harm and exposure. Her house was a cocoon now, scabbed off from reality. No one was going to take that away. Slithering around the corners, she found her way to the living room.

It wasn’t as dark in there because of the dull streetlight coming through the front window, but she found peace within the cushions of her couch, wedging in and underneath, covering herself with throw pillows.

“What’ll it be tonight then, hunny? Let me guess, hmmm let’s see, you want to watch the news, is that right? Catch up today’s current affairs?” He said it the same every time and every time she giggled and yelled an emphatic ‘no’ and he would frown, taking a sip of beer. “I see, well, I guess I don’t know my daughter anymore then, she’s foreign to me.” He’d droop his head in mock sadness to fool her, making her lean into him, arms wrapping, even though she knew what would come next. “I guess I’ll just have to tickle you then!”
“Ahhh haha, nooooo daddy!”

But only silence now.

Coda was over in the corner to the left, huddled up in the little alcove that separated her and her parents’ room, the bathroom between the two. The dog hadn’t been outside for two nights now and the smell of stagnant urine and fecal matter wafted through the area. He hadn’t moved since earlier that day, whimpering from hunger, pawing at the bedroom doors. Amy wouldn’t go near those rooms. Instead she reached out a scrawny arm to grab the remote, pausing for a second or two before actually turning on the television. The sound burst throughout the house, echoing words in mid-conversation, easy-reconcilable sitcom fights enfolding. Coda lurched up and half barked, but lost interest quickly once Amy hit the mute button. She was content to watch anything as long as it wasn’t a horror movie.

The doorbell rang.

She heard voices outside, the vague laughter of a group of children. Amy slipped out of her cushions and made it behind the couch before the second ring, crouched down, moving the curtain slightly away from the ceiling-to-floor front window. Outside she watched the kids giggle in excitement. They were all wearing slickers, but their faces were still made up in zombie-pale makeup and mummy wraps, the crayoned in widow’s peak of a vampire losing its shape in the rain. Parents stood above them with umbrellas, huddling them onto the porch.

“What do you want to be this year?” Her mom’s voice, after an after school snack ages ago.
“A witch!”
“Oh really? Not an angel or a princess?” She shakes her head no, smiling.
“Let the kid be a witch for chrissakes. It’s Halloween.” Dad on the couch after work, beer in hand, waiting for dinner. “Kids want to be ghosts and ghouls and their parents always talk them out of it.”
“I wasn’t talking anyone out of anything. If she wants to be a witch she can be a witch. Do you have to butt into every conversation?”
“Just sounded like you were trying.”
“Oh just shut up and have another beer.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” Amy flinched at the word and her mom quickly ushered her to her room, telling her to get her homework done before dinner. She was left staring into her history book, the sounds of their yells only slightly muffled between the walls.

Outside the kids gave up and made their way down the street, avoiding puddles and running ahead of their parents. Amy decided it was time to go to her room. In there she could lose herself in the covers and pretend like everything was fine and she certainly didn’t want to spend another night under the sink. This posed only one problem.

She would have to pass her parents’ bedroom.

Tom Pinsky heard the doorbell. At first he couldn’t believe that people actually were out tonight trick or treating, but then he thought of course they would be, somebody’s got to prove my wife right. He slowly got up and emptied his first bag of the night into a large salad bowl, heading for the door.

“Trick or treat!” All yelled in unison.

Tom smiled. It was nice to see the kids all excited and dressed up. “Well well well. What do we have here? A zombie, a mummy and Oh My! Dracula!” The kids threw out their bags, which Tom noticed were not even halfway full. He decided to help them and along, emptying the entire bowl between the bags. The kids screamed in excitement, thanking him.

He lingered on the porch after the kids had moved on to the next house, the Todd’s house. He noticed that none of the lights were on except for a faint glow that could only be the television. When no one answered and the kids moved on, he grew worried, very worried. Was the girl there by herself? Can’t be, both the cars are there. He was about to call, but decided that maybe he’d better walk over instead, just to make sure everything was all right.

Tom threw on his slicker and walked back out into the cold rain, making his way across the yards.

She had made it to her door, actually touched the knob, before she made up her mind to go into her parents’ room. Coda whimpered below her but did not move as she turned around and tiptoed her way to the door. The dog stood up alert, however, when she touched the doorknob and slowly began to turn and began to bark. The sound gave Amy an odd feeling of strength, enough to push her to go through with it. She turned the knob until it would go no further and pushed, letting the heavy door swing open on its hinges.

Just darkness. She began feeling up the wall for the light switch, stumbling upon it sooner than expected and flipping the switch before she was ready. The dog began barking wildly now at the room, bearing its teeth in attack mode. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first and when the reality of the situation hit her like a gunshot, she could do nothing but shut her eyes and block it out. She ran from the room, unaware of the frantic knocking at the front door.

When Tom decided to stop knocking and just try the door, he knew in his heart that something was horribly wrong. The Todd’s dog, Coda, had just started to bark wildly. He found the door unlocked (another bad sign) and rushed inside, looking around wildly, trying to assess the situation.

“Amy?” He called once before moving towards the only source of light in the house. Coda didn’t even acknowledge his presence as he turned into the alcove, noting the piss and shit on the floor. He just kept on barking at whatever was inside the room. Tom looked in quickly, readying himself for anything.

At first he thought the room was empty. The bed was unmade. The clock on the nightstand was blinking twelve. He took one step into the room, looked to his right, and there he saw Mr. Todd.

Tom Pinsky lost control of his bowels, a night’s worth of beer streaming down his leg. He knew it was Mr. Todd because of the Led Zeppelin t-shirt he always wore. His head was almost entirely bashed in. Blood that was beginning to dry was clotted in the crevices of his face, his nose and eyes almost totally unrecognizable. What Tom couldn’t handle, however, was how the body was propped up against the wall, feet splayed out, shoulders slunk, a kid put in the corner by his mom for being bad. As he ran from the room, he caught one last glimpse of what looked like feet, as if someone had fallen off the bed and was just lying there.

Tom fell twice between the yards before making to his house and calling the police, dialing the number wrong the first time in his panic.

When the police arrived, they found Mrs. Todd lying on the floor next to the bed, an autopsy later revealing thirteen sleeping pills in her stomach. After further investigation it had been determined that the Todd’s were engaged in serious argument, likely due to Mr. Todd being fired from his job two days prior. Interviews with his ex-boss had confirmed the cause of termination to be drinking on the job. The fight had apparently escalated and ended with Mrs. Todd hitting her husband in the back of the head with a crowbar (ruled to be the actual cause of death). She did not stop there. Police estimates reveal twenty-two blows to the face and five to the chest. She took the sleeping pills shortly after.

Not mentioned in the report was the finding of their daughter, Amy, huddled under the sink, wearing a cheap drug-store witch costume.