In Laymon's Terms

Monica’s mom let her drive the Taurus on weekend nights, when she was at work. But she had to be home by 2 a.m. She was strict, but this was LA and Monica was seventeen. The last show at the Kingplex didn’t even start until midnight. And that was the perfect excuse.

She told her mom tickets were sold out for all shows except the latest ones and they really wanted to go to the movies. She would even take Steven along.

Her mom left at 7:30, and Cindy was at the door at 8 p.m. with her father’s tool-belt around her skinny waist, complete with flashlight, a screwdriver, a hammer and measuring tape. The belt hung low on one side, pulling her skirt down to show her bare hip.

“Why the measuring tape?”

“I didn’t want to take stuff out of there in case my dad notices.”

“Freak.”

“Hey, I thought we could use the flashlight. And the screwdriver and hammer can come in handy if I decide to go psycho and kill you guys.”

“Did I say ‘freak’ already?”

“Yes you did. Where’s the kid?”

“Probably having trouble with his Underoos.”

“STEVE. LET’S GO!”

“COMING!”

He came down twirling two flashlights like handguns. He blew into the head of the flashlight, pretending it was a smoking pistol.

“Don’t ever say I didn’t do nothing for ya,” he said, handing his sister one of the flashlights. He looked over at Cindy, tipped his imaginary hat. “Little lady.”

She laughed. Her firm breasts were visible through the cut-off wife-beater tank top.

Monica rolled her eyes, and pushed him out the door.

“They ain’t comin’.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Shh. Is that a car?”

“Here we go.”

They pulled up to the house and Monica felt a shiver run through her. She didn’t expect it to be cold up here; she felt naked in her thin T-shirt and tiny denim shorts. Steven was already out of the car, staring up at the house in thirteen-year-old wonder.

Cindy came out slowly, awed by the darkness of the house.

“Why are the windows painted black?” Monica said as she stepped out.

“Maybe the guy painted them so no one could see him kill his family.”

“Oh, yeah Steve. The guy paints over, like, twenty windows just so no one can see him kill his family? Do you see any other houses on the street? No one would see him, anyway.”

“All right, let’s go,” said Steven, anxious.

“This is gonna be so cool,” said Cindy.

“What are we here for again?”

“Anything we can find, Mon,” said Steve.

They flicked on their flashlights and walked inside. Why was the door open? thought Monica.

The house was dark. They could smell the years of dust and grime the boarded-up place had soaked in. It smelled like old meat and shit and metal. Is this what dead people smell like? Steven thought.

“Cool. Look at this,” said Steve, his flashlight training on a crusted black spot. “It’s blood.”

“It’s probably paint.”

“Could be blood, you know.”

Monica ran her flashlight over the living room. The place was furnished, but everything was covered in sheets that had once been white. Off to the left, the kitchen sat dark and long deserted. To the right, a staircase led to another floor. In front of them, the dining room was empty but for an ancient chandelier.

“Let’s just walk through and get out of here. I’ll even pay for burgers if we leave in ten minutes,” said Monica. She hated to say it, but she was scared. It was too quiet. Her shirt was wet and she was shivering. She walked toward the dining room. Cindy and Steven followed closely behind, Steven making sure to knock into her every few seconds for a cheap feel.

The three stood in the middle of the dining room, flashlights piercing the darkness.

“This is where he killed his wife,” said Steven. They all fanned their lights around the room. A clanging sound suddenly came from the ceiling and they all jumped. The chandelier had shifted and years of dust fell onto Monica’s hair and all over her clothes.

“Cool! A ghost!” Steven said as he backed up and bolted for the stairs. “Come on, let’s go look.”

“Steve, get back here. Come on. It’s creepy here. STEVE!”

But he was gone and the two girls looked at each other, worried. Monica breathed deep and gathered her strength.

“Let’s go find him.”

“I’m kinda scared,” admitted Cindy.

“Me, too. Stay close. Don’t run off, please?”

“You got it.”

They got to the top of the stairs with their backs against each other, walking sideways. The flashlights were in front of them like guns and they fanned them around the hallway. Three closed doors lined the right side; one was on the left.

They made a lot of noise. It made them both feel better to hear their voices in the empty house.

“STEVE?”

“STEVIE? COME OUT AND YOU CAN TOUCH MY BOOBS,” screamed Cindy.

“Hey!” Monica nudged. “That’s my thirteen-year-old brother you’re talking to.”

“Yeah, and if boobs can’t get him to come out, then nothing will.” Monica laughed nervously when he didn’t come out.

Cindy kicked the first door. Monica turned the knob and it flew open. Pays to watch the X-Files, she thought.