Tiny Horror

The anger didn't leave him. It sat in his chest, sour and hard.

By eight-thirty, twilight was settling into a bruised plum color over Antioch. The air felt thick as wool, and the cicadas in the silver maples were screaming their rhythmic, dry rattle. Valerie had gone to bed early, tired of his silence.

Covenant my ass. I'll board the whole thing shut and show them nothing happens.

Julian went to the garage, hauled an eight-foot sheet of three-quarter-inch marine plywood off the rack, and carried it down the slope.

He had his impact driver clipped to his belt, pockets heavy with three-inch lag screws, and a work flashlight clamped between his teeth. Near the shore, the air carried an odor like vinegar and stagnant river mud.

He stepped into the shallows. The pond water was warm, greasy against his shins, the silt sucking at the soles of his work boots. He hoisted the heavy plywood against the water-facing side of the wrought-iron arch.

He drew a lag screw, set the magnetic bit against the metal scrollwork, and pulled the trigger.

He braced for the screech of stripping steel. Instead, the self-tapping screw sank into the antique iron with a soft, wet shuck. The metal gave way like cured tallow. The driver rattled—clack-clack-clack-clack—burying the washer flush against the pine veneer. A dark, oily bead oozed from the puncture, running down the face of the wood.

Julian set another screw. Then another. He worked around the perimeter of the frame until sixteen lags pinned the plywood tight across the empty arch, walling off the dark water beyond.

He drove the last screw into the upper corner.

The cicadas stopped.

Not a taper—a sudden cut, as if an axe had severed the sound across the entire township. The frogs went silent. Even the background hum of traffic from Route 83 seemed to drop out. The air pressure thickened, popping in Julian’s ears.

He stepped back, boots pulling out of the mud with a wet slap.

Under the flashlight beam, the pond water behind the plywood lost its surface ripples. It didn't reflect the light. It sat dead, flat and black, like spilled ink.

Julian turned and scrambled up the wet grass, sliding the glass patio door shut and locking it behind him.

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