Pointe Park

         On the twelfth night at the two story Pointe Park house, I knew something was terribly wrong. After waking up to pee for the sixth time that night, I stopped short of the bedroom when I heard a noise coming from the kitchen below. It sounded like the kitchen cabinets were slamming, but Rick was on the night shift at work.
         I tip-toed back to the master bedroom, locked the door, and located my cell phone. Rick answered on the first ring, “What’s wrong?”
         “Someone is in the house,” I enunciated slowly.
         “I’ll be right there.”
         This wasn’t the first time in the last couple weeks that I’d called him at work. There was the second night when someone rearranged our living room furniture while I was asleep. Then there was the night when someone put Post-It notes all over the house, all saying a simple phrase: MINE.
         Let me be the first to tell you that filling out a police report at the police station where your husband is a cop is not a very comforting event. Rick had even installed deadbolts on practically every door in the house, including the bathroom and bedroom doors.
         At first, I thought it had to be the neighbor’s boys. She was a single mom who seemed to have no control over her ten and twelve year old sons. But now, they were off to summer camp and the events were still happening. Not every night, but often enough that I no longer felt safe there at night.
         Rick tried to keep my stress level down. He said it’s not good for the twins for me to be freaking out like this. But he can’t stay home with me, not this soon after starting at a new precinct. You always have to start out like a rookie, working the night shift and cleaning up what the more experience cops don’t want to.
         The house was a dream come true. I was stunned when the owner’s daughter sold it to us for less than the highest bidder. She said it’s what her dad would have wanted. For a house in upstate New York, we got a great deal. I saw the whole thing as good karma getting back to me. That is, until I actually moved in, of course.
         A sudden knock on the bedroom door caught my attention. There’s no way Rick could have gotten home so soon. Thinking fast, I decided to call Rick’s cell phone. I was relieved when I heard the same ringtone he’d had for years echoing in the hallway. He must have been in the neighborhood, planning to check on me before I even called him.
         I started to open the door, but a great force behind it knocked me onto the rough hardwood floor. I looked up through my curtain of black hair. In the doorway stood a pretty young woman. I started to back away from her stammering, “Wh-who are you?”
         “Oh, right, you don’t know, do you? Well, let me introduce myself. I’m Nancy Watson and I just killed your husband!”
         I managed to back up far enough to use the bed as leverage to stand up. “What?!” I screamed. “What are you talking about?”
         “I’m sorry, I’m being ambiguous, aren’t I? My name is Nancy Watson and I was the highest bidder on this house. Not you. Me. Do you know how much I offered for this house? Two fifty. What did you pay for it? One fifty?” Nancy was slowly stepping toward me, eying my bulging stomach.
         “Please, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me,” I begged, tears flowing freely down my face now. I doubt Nancy could even tell what I was saying at this point. I was a blubbering mess.
         “This house has been in my family for three generations, you know that? Before my parents lost it to the bank and old Mr. Daniels bought it up. He had to go, don’t you agree? He thought this place was haunted, ha-ha. Death of natural causes? I guess that’s what happens when you get old! I’d avoid it if I were you, Lisa.”
         I cowered further to the back of my bed as Nancy casually loped around to where I was curled up in the fetal position, cover in hand, looking like a scared child I’m sure.
         “Now don’t you worry, Lis. This will be over before you know it.”