Views From Nature

This story is brought to you by SAM. Her fiction haunt is My Write Side. I first encountered her chilling tales while participating in Write On Edge’s weekly Red Writing Hood. She is a master at horror. Check out Season of Change if you don’t believe me.

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The grass was growing tall again. It took its sweet time coming. The charred blades faded away; a pleasurable sight after the tragic events that occurred there one night. The house is no longer there, though. It was leveled out after the fire, and no one bothered to rebuild. No one was interested in buying the property either. Out-of-towners often drifted in, like tumbleweeds that blow across a Wild West ghost town, then returned to their fancy cars and high-tailed it out of town. It’s as if the land claimed its own, and the aura was not pleasant.

I reckoned that lot would stay empty forever. I was wrong. Somebody finally bought it. I didn’t even realize until the foundation showed up out of the blue one day. Next came wood supports, and shortly after, the frame of a house stood in the exact spot where the old house had been. It was uncanny really how much the new house looked like the old one. When it was finished, even the color of the aluminum siding was the same. The only difference was that the big bay window that had faced out to the street in the old house was now facing the back of the lot. There were hardly any windows in the front of the house at all. And that was strangest thing of all.

Moving day finally arrived. I saw two long U-Haul trucks drive through town. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched for as long as there was something to see, which wasn’t long, considering the town is so small, and the house was just down the first street to the right if you followed Main Street, which they did. (It was the easiest way to go, since South Street winded through the mountains, and half of it wasn’t paved. It was the only other way to get into town, so most people preferred Main Street). A small car followed the moving trucks, a tiny blip on the road compared to the trucks. I could see two heads in the car, but didn’t get a good look at its occupants. That would happen soon enough, I reckon.

The next couple of days it rained, non-stop, as if the sky were mourning some secret love affair gone awry. I hated that kind of rain. The humidity was oppressing, the droplets not even cool enough to give a nosy walker some relief. And nosy walker I was indeed. If you wanted to know anything about anybody in this town, I was the person to ask. Old Hattie Clay would suggest otherwise, but that old coot hasn’t left her rocker in nigh on seven years now. The only thing I didn’t know about was this house and its new occupants. I was hell bent on fixing that.

I ducked into the bakery for a moment, it being the nearest store to the house. It wouldn’t look right to show up without a welcoming gift. And since I didn’t know what kind of people they were, I decided on a fresh loaf of Mrs. Sessom’s sweet bread. I never met nobody that didn’t like sweet bread. Armed with my gift, I went back to walking, clearing the distance between the store and the house quicker than I thought to.

I saw the silver compact in the dusty driveway. It made me smile realizing they hadn’t paved it yet.  I reckoned it was a stroke of bad luck or something since no one’s ever been able to pave that land yet. I moved on to the small stones that lead around the house. There was no door on the front side of the house, either, which made it even stranger. What kind of people don’t have a front door? Anyways, I moseyed on around to the backside of the house and got a pleasant surprise. There they’d started a garden. There was rose bushes planted on each side of the doorstep with roses so red you’d think someone bled to death on them. I stepped on the stoop, ready to knock when a cold wind went right through me. It was as if I had no jacket at all, but I knew I did. I made sure to put one on as I went out my door earlier. The icy air had me at a standstill with the supper I ate before walking churning in my gut and threatening to relocate itself on top of one of those rosebushes. I was about to turn tail and run when the door opened. The most gorgeous woman I ever did lay eyes on stood in the doorway, her long black hair flowing like a silk gown around her perfectly tanned skin.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she said. I almost didn’t catch it, she spoke so soft. Her voice had a musical quality to it.

“Hiya. My name’s Ebenezer Cooper, but you can call me Coop. Most everyone else does.” I extended my hand in greeting, but she didn’t accept it. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, and leave a little offering of neighborly good will.” Her face lit up at the mention of an offering, and this time when I held the bread out, she took my hand.

“It was nice of you to stop by like this. Thank you.” She didn’t remove the bread from my grip, but she didn’t release my hand either. Instead, she tugged lightly on it, leading me inside the house. I followed, of course, my curiosity getting the better of me. I never did see inside the old house either. I got the distinct feeling that these were neighbors who would keep to themselves. I will admit it rattled my old bones a little. I was disappointed that there wasn’t much to see in the dim light. There was no furniture, but the windows were covered tight with thick curtains. The air had an antiseptic smell about it, like the kind you smell when you get in a new car. I felt the hair rise up on the back of my neck, but told myself it was silly. I was a grown man. I had no reason to let those old horror movies of my youth get me all scared and riled up. The woman moved to open a curtain a little wider, letting more light shine into the room.

“Please pardon the dust. We are still moving in and unpacking. I did not expect visitors so soon.” This time she came closer, holding her own hand out in greeting. “I am Yvette. Welcome to my little home.” She bowed in a grand sweeping gesture I didn’t know what make of. Now that she’d let some light in, she moved behind me and closed the door. I could see around the room better now. There were famous paintings from all over the world hung neatly on each gold wall as if this was an art museum. Most were of dangerous animals in their natural habitat—a lion on the African Safari here, a Great White in Caribbean blue there. This couple had more money than I thought they would. In fact, they were downright rich compared to the rest of the townsfolk just by owning one of these paintings alone. I suppose my surprise didn’t go unnoticed because Yvette smiled and drew my attention to one piece. It was of a white tiger resting just outside a jungle.

“You like this?” She asked me. I nodded. I always did have a tender spot for cats, even wild ones like this. “Come closer. Tell me if you can see the color of the tiger’s eyes.” I obliged, standing so close I could almost touch it with my nose. I stared deep into the cerulean blue of the tiger’s eyes. The tiger’s face seemed to grow larger the longer I looked at it and I stepped back. Yvette stood right behind me, blocking any further retreat. “Can you see the hunter in his soul, Ebenezer? All he needs is prey.”

I realized at that moment I was trapped. The tiger’s face had indeed gotten larger. The room around me had shrunk, the dim lighting changing from the dull gray of dusk to the soft green of the jungle. I heard a roar so realistic, if I weren’t standing on the carpet still, I would have believed it was real.

Open your eyes. Her voice was a whisper and distant. I realized my eyes were in fact shut. I opened them slowly and screamed.

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Every now and again, I hear someone stepping on the porch. I can feel the vibration of their feet landing on the stoop through the walls. I’ve come to hate the sound of their voices, knowing it will only make the tiger restless. I’ve come to hate the smell of the fresh sweet bread they always bring with them. I’ve come to hate the helplessness that overcomes me. If I leave my spot in this tree or yell out in warning, the tiger will find me. I stare helplessly between the fronds of my palm tree as they too succumb to the woman’s enchantment and disappearing in a painting of their own.