Lenora
Somehow, Pleasant Pointe remained in the past. There were barber shops with their painted posts and old men sitting out front talking about nothing. There were kids racing down the sidewalks, either in a desperate bid to escape their parents or to get something sweet from the ice-cream truck parked just outside a used bookshop.
On the surface, it was a beautiful place to settle down, the sort of town where people could be assured they were safe to raise their families.
On the surface.
I turned onto Briar Drive, passing the police station in the process. It was a lone building separated from those nearby with a spattering of cop cars parked on the street. I rolled my eyes at it. The sheriff was little more than decoration half the time.
Businesses faded the farther I traveled, soon overtaken by residential neighborhoods. The houses were nothing special, little fifties ranch-style things that could’ve been out of a catalog from the same era. A few of them were kept up, but most had been left with peeling paint and balding yards. Rivercreek, a terrible name, hadn’t been the nice side of town for decades. That was Whispering Springs, where the money went.
I continued on my journey before pulling up to the curb outside a pale blue-and-white ranch. I crouched in my seat to better eye the structure, noting the faded paint, the overgrown yard and the shutter hanging on by a thread. I shook the unease from my shoulders.
“Welp,” I muttered to myself, “no turning back now.”
After turning off the car, I exited the vehicle and headed for the house. My mind raced with the things that would need to be done in order to sell the place. The list wouldn’t be short, but money was.
I chastised myself for letting it remain vacant for so long, but it hadn’t been by choice. No one had wanted it the last time I put it on the market.
Christ, I hope someone buys it this time…
The front door gave way after some cajoling of the lock. Stale air hit me in the face, hard. Something putrid sat under the heat of it, as though something had been left to rot. My heart sank. I prayed the fridge and the trash had been taken out when the house was abandoned, but I had no idea and was afraid to check. The man was being taken to a nursing home, not likely to return, so surely someone knew to throw away anything that could rot, right?
Maybe I should’ve bothered checking after the fact?
Nah.
A large set of windows stretched across the wall of the living room, looking out over the street and the front yard. They were my first stop. I threw back the curtains and jerked the windows open as fast as I could manage, just to save myself from the stench and heat.
A gentle breeze trickled in through filthy screens. I welcomed it, even though it was roughly the same temperature outside.
The living room didn’t appear much changed from my last visit years prior, when Dad had still lived here, complete with a remote on the couch, the carpet in desperate need of a vacuum and a layer of dust across everything. The tubed TV was a nice touch, causing me to raise a brow. I hadn’t thought I’d have the chance to explore antiques while I’d be there.
I traversed the familiar floor plan, glancing into the rooms in passing. The main bedroom and bathrooms were fine, possible to clean with relative ease, but the guest bedroom made me want to rip my hair out. Everything a hoarder might possess had been shoved into the space, taking up every inch of visible floor.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” I muttered. “Try throwing shit away for once.”
Rolling my eyes, I closed the door on my childhood bedroom and headed for the one place I really didn’t want to go.
My stomach curled. I shifted and peered over my shoulder toward the kitchen.
Please, please, please, please.
My feet took me down the hall and to the left into the kitchen and dining room space. The trashcan was wedged between the fridge and the wall, too wide to properly fit and at an angle. A white trash bag peeked out from beneath the lid.
Taking multiple breaths in preparation for what I was about to find, I approached. I touched the button that released the lid and sighed in relief. The bag was empty.
Encouraged by the reveal, I opened the fridge and nearly vomited.
“Christ!”
I slammed it shut, unable and unwilling to see what might rest on the shelves. I assumed keeping the door open for too long would allow whatever eldritch-lovecraftian horror dwelled within to escape.
I coughed, desperate to rid the back of my throat of the smell as I approached the window above the sink. It refused to give in to my will, opening mere inches. Rather than fight it further, I rushed to the backdoor and threw it open.
With a sigh, I allowed my head to rest against the door. I closed my eyes, a grimace forming on my face. I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to deal with the past. I just wanted to go back to the shitty little life I’d made for myself in Arizona.
While I contemplated whether or not burning the house down would’ve been the better option, a low rumble echoed in the distance. My back tightened, and I righted my stance. The sound drew nearer and nearer until it couldn’t have been more than a few yards off. A pit formed in my stomach.
I made my way to the front of the house and glanced through the window. Sure enough, the source of the sound was heading my way.
Pulling into the driveway were three bikers on smaller-modeled Harleys, each wearing a leather vest, a cut, bearing a logo I’d seen more than a few times while living in Pleasant Pointe.
“Fuck,” I said on a sigh. I’d been hoping to avoid confrontation, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.
The bikers parked and turned the motorcycles off. They stood but didn’t approach the house, instead standing next to their Harleys in as intimidating a way as they could manage.
I emerged and stood on the porch.
A young man in the lead with fair hair cut short, a narrow face and slim arms tilted his head at me. He removed his sunglasses, squinting a little in the bright sun.
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
I arched a brow. “Actually, that’d be you.”
He chuckled, but the action held no happiness. His friends remained silent, one leaning against his bike with arms crossed.
“You’ve got two hours to get off the property,” he said. “You don’t want us to come back.”
The laughter came quick and loud, bursting out of me before I could have bothered holding it back, not that I would have.
Two hours? Who gives someone that long? He must be new to this.
The blond wasn’t amused, but I didn’t care.
“Fuck off,” I said with giggles touching each syllable. “No, better yet, go ahead and call your boys. Call the whole bunch if you want. I’m not leaving.”
He glared at me, seemingly desperate to do or say something but not sure what.
“You have any idea who you’re dealing with?” he asked.
I looked him over and spotted the lack of a few important things. An evil smile curled my lips when I met his gaze once more. His left brow twitched.
“A prospect,” I replied. He flinched once more, an action he hadn’t been able to hide. “Fuck off.”
Without another word, I turned my back on the wannabe and headed inside, slamming the door when I had. If things went as I hoped, he and his buddies would drive away and leave me alone. Unfortunately, things rarely went how I wanted them to.
The likely outcome would be him calling his brothers for backup, since I hadn’t run away with my tail between my legs, but I would deal with that when it happened.
In the meantime, I had more important things to do.
Through the laundry room, I entered the garage and found a box of trash bags. Returning to the kitchen, I prepared myself for the hell I was going to endure.
Closing my eyes, I counted to ten and yanked open the refrigerator door. The stench came hard and fast like before. I shielded my nose and did my best not to open my eyes completely, afraid the fumes would melt them out of my skull.
A bloated half-gallon jug of green milk was the first thing in the bag.
The power had been turned off for two years before I’d called to have it flipped on—and it showed.
* * * *
Every organic thing that was torn from the fridge and freezer bulged against the lawn bag that was not meant for so much crap. I tied it closed as fast as possible and was ready to drag it through the house when I heard the sound.
More motorcycles.
Dropping the hoard, I wiped off my hands and headed for the living room once more. Peering through the window, I spotted three more individuals sailing into the driveway, meeting up with the original prospects I’d met earlier.
Each of them sported a similar aesthetic to the first three, though their bike’s gas tanks bore the symbol of a laughing devil with a smoldering cigar clamped tight in its pointed teeth. The same had been stitched to the back of their cuts, topped with a patch that read Infernal and another that ran beneath the devil which read Colorado. A tiny MC logo rested just off to the right of the devil, making it all nice and legit.
The man in the lead had been the first to turn off his bike. It was comically small compared to his overall size, looking more like a bicycle.
His toned arms were left bare, the sun glinting against his bronzed complexion. Tattoos of various kinds traveled up his left arm, beginning at the wrist and disappearing beneath his clothes. They were beautiful, a mixture of Native American and Polynesian designs, like he was.
Dark hair was pulled out of his face and into a bun so it’d remain off his neck, as well.
He stood, towering over the blond and his friends. He sighed loudly, running his hand down his mouth and tugging on his short beard.
“The fuck am I doin’ here?” he asked in a deep, annoyed voice.
“One of the neighbors called the clubhouse,” the blond said. “They said someone was in the house. You guys told us to take care of anyone snoopin’ around.”
“And?” Guy Number Two asked.
He remained on his bike, leaning forward with his elbow resting on his propped-up knee. His black hair was shorn close to his head in a high fade, the beard on his square jaw much more refined than the first guy’s.
His complexion was a bit lighter, though still sun-kissed just the same. And where the first guy was a giant with bare arms, this one was an average-sized man wearing an actual shirt beneath his cut.
“And she won’t fuckin’ leave,” Blondie said, waving an arm at the house.
“Well, who is she?” Guy Number Two asked.
“I don’t know. Some real estate bitch, I guess. She told us to fuck off.”
The pair chuckled, alongside the man who’d joined them. I didn’t recognize him.
Blondie and his fellow prospects shifted uncomfortably.
“So you called Mommy and Daddy to deal with the problem?” Number One asked.
The blond’s ears reddened. It was clear he wanted to say something to the pair but wouldn’t dare disrespect the two high-ranking members.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said with a sigh. Removing his sunglasses, he hooked them on the collar of his shirt. “We’ll take care of this.”
He approached the house, but I had no intention of letting him reach the porch.
Throwing open the door, I emerged again.
He froze in place. The taunting smiles left their faces in a flash.
I did my best to remain stoic, to keep my racing pulse and nerves to myself, but it was hard. Fuck, it was hard.
“That’s her,” Blondie said excitedly. “That’s the bitch tha—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he barked back, silencing the prospect with little effort.
I met the giant’s gaze, staring at him from beneath my lashes. I waited for whatever might happen, unable to even guess.
A tense silence filled the space and threatened to consume us all.
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked around the giant. His buddy, wearing a similar expression of shock, approached as well.
“Hey, Len,” he said.
“Hey, Jon,” I replied. My attention shifted back to the giant. “Jay.”
Jay’s thick brows creased. “The fuck are you doing here, Lenora?”
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