A knock came from somewhere in the house. I assumed Officer Hemmings was trying to enter since he had missed my call. Told Amy to stay with Jessie, my voice cracking and dry from the sheer shock of watching my neighbor murder his wife. Before I reached the handle lock of my bedroom, the knocking moved. At first, it came from a north-facing wall to the house, moving to the north-east corner, sliding along that wall and landing, finally, against the window sill of the bedroom window. I shot Amy a tense look. Horror strained against the muscles in her face. I could tell she was struggling to control Jessie and her screams at the same time. I put a finger to my pursed lips and shushed her. Amy managed a nod.
My gun was clenched in my fist in a moment, drawn and cocked, aimed right for the window. With a free left hand, I triggered the pull string to the blinds and let them wind up. Mr. Jennings’ face was pressed against the pane, mouth wide and exposing a row of crooked, blood-coated teeth. I screamed. I aimed. I fired.
Cops showed up and assessed the scene. Mr. Jennings had disappeared entirely, but evidence proved he had both slit his wife’s throat, along with Officer Hemmings’. Both were found bloodless and mangled in our front lawn. Hours later, Mr. Jennings turned up, soaked in blood and with shards of glass embedded in his skull from my bedroom window. He was disoriented and confused, claiming to have no memory of that night. As I write this, he is in jail under the suspicion of two murders.
The next day was chaos. The town was alight with rumors and people now believed someone was out to get my family. Ever since Jessie’s seizure, we were the center of so much shit that I people could not believe it was all coincidence. Nothing was purely accidental in a town like this.
Thursday night, we took no chances.