Trash Night

Jeff gave the lid of the garbage can a shove to make certain it was secure before heading back towards his home. He stepped carefully, wincing every time his bare feet trod over the small pebbles that littered his driveway.

I should have put my shoes on, he thought. Jacket too..

Summer had just begun, but the evenings were cool. Still, it was a short walk to take out the trash, and the coat and shoes were really just an afterthought; in less than a minute, Jeff planned to be back on his couch, drinking a Heineken and enjoying Shark Tank. Ah, to be forty and single.

Jeff was just about to detour around his Mazda and ascend the porch steps when he noticed someone standing in the neighbor’s yard, not fifteen feet away. Even in the dark, he could see the man was completely naked. Though his flesh was bone white, his face and arms were painted black as pitch. The substance was slick as moonlight, and it glistened up to his elbows. It was smeared all over his face and bald head. He was grinning, his teeth a row of neat white points in the dark insanity of his expression.

As Jeff stood gawking, completely in awe at the absurdity of this spectacle, the man looked directly into his eyes, and opened his mouth wider that Jeff would have believed possible. The noise that came out was not a scream, it was a parody of one. It was the sound someone makes when the mean to imitate a cheering stadium.

Jeff had seen enough. He spun and bolted up the short flight of stairs leading to his porch. The rapid sound of footsteps padding across the grass behind him spurred him on faster. In his haste, he smashed the big toe of his left foot into the wooden steps sending a jolt of pain barking up his leg. He ignored the agony, pushed it out of his mind, and closed the distance to his front door in three clumsy strides. Jeff could hear the theme music to Shark Tank from the TV inside. He seized the doorknob and twisted.

It was locked.

A mental image popped into Jeff’s mind: his jacket, hanging beside the door, one side sagging from the heavy keychain in the front pocket. He laughed, a thin, hysterical giggle. He didn’t need to turn around to know the man was behind him (the smell was overpowering,) but he did anyway. His laughter turned into a groan.

From this distance, he could see it wasn’t paint the man had smeared all over himself, it was blood and shit. The putrid miasma enveloped him like a curse. His mouth was still stretched wide open, still making that horrible hissing sound.

By the time Jeff noticed the butcher’s knife, it was already sank halfway to the hilt, into his guts. The man pulled it out and stabbed him again.
And again.

And again.

His expression never changed.