Partners, A Tonight's Terror Original

He chose himself over his friend.  Then he moved on. But mud sticks.

A story about guilt, consequence, and identity.

No AI Writing. No AI Narration

Tonight's Terror. Original horror stories told in the dark. 

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This audio is an original short horror story written and performed by Tonight’s Terror (C.S. Austin). It is not adapted from, based on, or affiliated with any existing novel, audiobook, film, or copyrighted intellectual property. All writing, narration, and production elements are original and owned by the creator unless otherwise credited.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:03

Some decisions don't feel like betrayals when you make them. They feel necessary, strategic, and clean. You tell yourself the other person will land somewhere. People always do. And for a while it seems like you're right. Life continues. The house fills up. The noise of it all drowns out whatever you left behind. But guilt doesn't move on the same timeline. It waits, just beyond your field of vision. And then it finds a way in.

SPEAKER_00 0:39

You're listening to Tonight's Terror Original Horror Stories to Hear in the Dark. Subscribe and share if you're a fan. And now, tonight's story.

Story Begins

Epilogue

SPEAKER_01 0:52

The psychiatrist sat with one leg crossed over the other. He was sitting up straight, but appeared at ease in the wine-colored leather chair. Philip glanced around the dimly lit room. He'd had at least six appointments here. Still, at some point during each visit, he'd look around and take an inventory of the shells and pieces of art. The same ceramic mask on the shelf looked on passively. The mask had hollow eyes. Every time Philip looked at it, he had the faint impression it was studying him in return. The same kaleidoscope of book spines rode the bookshelves. Fittingly, Philip and the doctor were talking about the same thing they always did. Guilt. When do you think it started? Dr. Barker asked. Philip stopped counting the birds in a framed photo on the wall and looked back at the doctor. I know exactly when it started. It started when I heard of what had become of Danny, of his family. Your former business partner, the doctor said, beckoning him to continue. Yeah, friend, really. Then later business partner, Philip said glumly. Soon after their law firm had turned into a financially viable player in the legal world, Philip had seen an opportunity to muscle Danny out. He took it. Almost overnight, March and Farley had become Philip March and associates. It wasn't long after that he'd lost the ability to sleep through the night. I knew his family was struggling after we parted ways. Someone at the office mentioned they'd sold their house. I figured they were leaving the area for a new job opportunity, maybe downsizing. If the work wasn't coming, that would have been the responsible thing to do, Philip said. What made you reach out to me? Dr. Barker asked gently. The arrest, Philip answered quickly. I heard that Danny got picked up for DUI. I couldn't believe it. He never drank, not even when we were in college. That must have been upsetting to hear, the doctor said. Philip didn't acknowledge that. He carried on speaking. The last thing I heard was that they were in some sort of temporary housing situation. I didn't ask for any details. Why not? The doctor asked. I don't know. What am I going to do? I'm the last person he ever wants to hear from again, Philip said. Are you sure? Philip hesitated for a moment. His eyes flashed to the wall clock. He nodded toward it. I can't meet next week. We're out of town. The lawn at the march's home was a little long. Philip had asked the landscapers to hold off one more week before the first cut of the season. The grass leaned in the stiff spring wind, showing the white green backs of the blades in waves across the property. Beyond the yard, the woods rose in a thick line of maples and oaks, their branches clattering softly in the wind. The property backed up to a stretch of undeveloped woods that extended for several acres. Before he'd even turned the car off, his daughter Everly was waving and making silly faces at him from her bedroom window. The family's nanny, Tess, stood behind her. Philip treasured the moment he closed the car door and embraced his home life. He believed his children were the best parts of him, things separate from the viciousness of his work. They were happy, funny, and kind. His son, Benjamin, was ten years old. Philip found him inside, halfway up the stairs. He was flanked by strips of bright orange plastic and a scattering of toy cars. This is the biggest car ramp in the world, Dad, Benjamin announced in place of a hello. Philip put a foot on the first step in feigned amazement. I can tell. Great work. He watched his son work with laser focus, attaching bits of track and testing its angle on the stair before moving on. Have you seen Mom? Philip asked. She's on her bike, he said, without lifting his head from his car's. Stephanie had stopped working when Everly, their youngest, was born. They'd agreed it was temporary, but temporary turned into permanent as years passed. Philip worried she resented him for it, but most of the time she seemed to enjoy the latitude home life gave her. She was unclipping from the spin bike when he stepped into the capacious, finished basement. The space was a second family room and home gym. Oh, hi, she said breathlessly. Her face was bright pink with exertion. Before Philip could return the greeting, she asked, Did you wrap up the Roberson settlement? Oh, yeah, this afternoon before my appointment, he answered. Did you get the full amount? Stephanie was a lawyer, or had been before stepping away from work. These days, her professional appetite was fed vicariously through Philip's wins and losses. Yes, every cent, Philip said. Killer, Stephanie said with a smirk and pecked him on the cheek as she passed. Philip grinned and followed her upstairs. Do you want help getting the kids packed? he asked. No, it's done. Car comes at seven tomorrow. I'll need help getting them out the door so we can make the flight. Vale got another twenty inches this week. Should be perfect, Philip said. When Philip opened the front door of their home five days later, the smell hit it before anything else. It wasn't a forgotten trash bag in the kitchen or the stench of a skunk pulled in through the HVAC system. It smelled wild, like the outdoors had crept in while they were away. The family stood together at the threshold. What is that, Mommy? Everly asked. I'm not sure, sweetie. Daddy and I will look around. Go grab your other bag from the car. Can you carry your ski boots? Philip stepped into the living space beyond the foyer. The house was still and quiet. The massive windows that formed a wall along the back of the open first floor framed the lawn and forest beyond. Outside the trees bent in the unrelenting wind like a silent film. The quiet in the house made the foreign odor all the more out of place. He looked to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open. The door yawned into the room. The weak light of the appliance glowed dimly. What the hell is this? Philip said aloud. Indignance brimmed in his voice. What is it? Stephanie called from the entryway. Philip didn't answer. He was leaning against the counter, hinged at the hips, peering over to the refrigerator. He took another step, and his shoe crunched on something on the floor. He flinched back and looked down. Mud. A clump of dull brown mud now dried. Beyond was a bare footprint, outlined in dusty grey brown. Someone had been through here, barefoot. Philip frowned at it for a moment as if the print should have meant something. A faint trail of dried mud continued across the tile through the kitchen. Steph, Philip called, keeping his voice somewhat low. Did Tess have any reason to be in the house while we were gone? No, she answered. She had the week off with us gone. He was close enough now to see the contents of the refrigerator. The food had been shuffled, jars on their side, coffee beans scattered on a shelf and spilling onto the floor. It was when he saw the butter that his heart finally began to race. A stick of butter, or margarine, he never knew the difference, was sitting discarded on the floor. It had been bitten. Human teeth had taken a bite through the wax paper covering and left the remainder behind. Someone had been here. Perhaps someone unwell. Perhaps someone abnormal and depraved. Steph, he shouted, a tremor of panic rising in his throat, get the kids back in the car. The police officers who had been inside the house finally appeared at the front door. Philip was sitting on a retaining wall across the pull through driveway, waiting. He had busied himself scrolling through the footage collected by their exterior security cameras during their trip to Colorado. The app showed dozens of motion events, but none of them showed anyone coming or going. One of the men in uniform raised his arm and beckoned Philip. Come on over. There's no one in there, he said placidly. Did you find anything on your camera recordings? Philip shook his head. No, nothing. But not every possible angle is covered. The officer who asked nodded empathetically. Philip walked with the police officers through the front door and into the living room. So what happened? he asked anxiously. From what we can tell, some homeless people got in here. We can't quite figure out how they did it. Nothing's broken. You said you had to unlock the door when you arrived home today. None of the other doors or windows have been forced. Philip nodded, expecting more. The police officer didn't continue. He looked around the house, bemused. So what? Philip asked. What did they do? The other officer, a heavy set man with a mustache, spoke. They just shacked up and stayed here, we think. There are beds unmade. I don't expect you left them that way because we found more mud on the carpets and some on the sheets. Is anything broken? Anything stolen? Philip asked. He was growing frustrated with the need to ask what he thought were obvious questions. The police seemed amused, if anything. No, nothing broken. You'd know better than us if anything was missing, and you'll need to give us an itemized list if there is. But I don't know. We saw jewelry, your watches, even some cash. None of it had been touched. Odd, isn't it? The officer concluded. Philip was struggling to remain composed. I don't understand. So all this, and I'm only out the cost of carpet cleaning? Looks that way, sir, the mustache officer said. There's one thing you should check on. In the master bedroom, you have a walk-in closet for all your clothes. It looked like someone played dress up. Almost every shirt and suit is off its hanger and tossed in a pile beside the mirror. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Philip inquisitively. Does that mean anything to you? Do you know anyone who would do that? Do I know any muddy hobos who like Tom Ford's suits? Philip was out of patience. The police knew nothing and had nothing to offer him. He was dialing Stephanie's number to tell her it was safe to bring the kids back from her sister's place before the police were back in their car. Two nights later, the family was still stumbling across puzzling evidence of the home invasion. A page had been torn from Stephanie's journal. She noticed when she pulled it from her nightstand drawer. It had been a blank page, one beyond her most recent entry. When she showed it to Philip, he held it in his hands and tilted it under the light of her reading lap. Faint impressions of words from the missing page were pressed into the next. Most of the markings were unreadable, but there was a scrap of a phrase or two he could make out. I stay home. The children live, he read aloud. The words had been pressed hard enough to scar the page beneath. My God, who is this person? What is that? Stephanie asked. And look, Philip whispered, pointing down to her nightstand drawer. There's your old phone sitting right there. It has to be worth five hundred bucks. They'd taken to whispering whenever they discussed the break-in. Philip and Stephanie hoped that if they smoothed things over and stopped bringing it up in front of the children, the whole mess would pass from their memory as harmlessly as a lost favorite toy or dead pet goldfish. Outside, the wind picked up. Leaves scratched and skittered across the driveway. At the edge of the woods, a deer paused and watched the squares of light in the house as the family moved about, preparing to sleep. Everly and Benjamin sat beside one another on the stools at the kitchen island. All four legs swung happily as they ate cereal and shouted out objects they found in the I Spy game on the back of the box. Philip drank coffee and hunched at the corner of the counter, worrying over his laptop. The time on the slopes in Vale had set him behind at work, he said, and he'd be home late tonight. Stephanie was already in her workout clothes, awaiting Tess's arrival so she could begin her day. She looked longingly at the jammed email inbox on Philip's laptop screen. When the nanny arrived, she could get to her yoga class and lean into the schedule she'd set for herself. Anything but resign herself to being homebound. Downstairs the home gym lay empty and quiet. Sliding glass door that opened from the basement onto the backyard was marked with muddy handprints pressed against the glass. The soil still damp. They were small, the size of a child's. The lights along the drive blinked on as Philip's car turned between the stone columns at the mouth of the driveway. He'd made good on his promise. It was late. The kids had been in bed for hours, and Stephanie had fallen asleep in front of a home buyer reality show before he'd even left his office. The house was dark and quiet when the headlights bathed its facade in blue white light. Philip killed the engine and sat for a moment in the silence that followed. The wind moved somewhere above him, combing through the trees along the back of the property. The driveway lights hummed softly. For the first time all day, nothing required his attention. He stepped out of the car with care, as if the house itself were sleeping. When he opened the front door, the familiar smell of the house greeted him, clean laundry and the faint trace of dinner lingering in the kitchen. He slipped off his shoes and carried them to the bench by the door. The foyer lamp was on, casting a warm circle of light across the floor. Beyond it the house fell away into darkness. Philip moved through the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the sink. The ice maker clattered briefly in the freezer behind him before settling again. He leaned against the counter and drank slowly, staring through the wide windows toward the backyard. For a moment he allowed himself to linger there. The counters had been wiped clean after dinner. One of Benjamin's toy cars had been abandoned near the edge of the island. Philip rolled it back and forth with his finger, listening to its wheels click against the stone. Upstairs the house remained perfectly still. Philip carried his glass to the living room and set it down on the coffee table. The wind stirred outside, moving the branches along the edge of the woods. He walked toward the window and rested his hands on the back of the sofa, looking out across the dark lawn. The wind had picked up again, pushing the tops of the trees in slow, uneven waves. Something along the tree line snagged his attention. Four dark shapes sat where the yard met the woods. At first he thought they were stumps or fallen branches. The wind bent the trees around them. The shapes didn't move. He stared, squinting at the figures. There were two small ones, perhaps tree stumps, and on either side a taller one. Philip took two steps to his right and switched off the one light that remained on inside. His eyes adjusted quickly. The figures were people. He could see their frames, shoulders, heads. They didn't move. They were watching the house. Philip was paralyzed. He gripped the sofa behind him as blood pounded in his ears. He felt certain that at any moment the people would bound down the slope from the trees toward the house. But they didn't. The only movement he could discern was from one of the smaller figures. The head cocked slightly to the side, or at least Philip thought so. It was a subtle movement, but it struck him as a sign they were studying him. Or perhaps the house. His hand drifted to his pocket where he found his phone. He didn't take his eyes off the people in the trees. The instant his phone's screen lit the gloom of the living room, all four figures turned in uncanny unison and retreated into the woods. Philip stopped. He didn't know what to do. The police had been useless the last time they'd been to the house, but this time he'd seen something. For somethings. There was no doubt in his mind that these were the people who had been in his house days before, and now there was no doubt they were still here. In the end, the attorney in him won out. He knew making a report could be invaluable, if these events ever culminated in arrests or a trial. He dialed the non-emergency line and twenty minutes later gave his report to a bleary eyed sergeant with a red nose. He could explain to Stephanie in the morning. Philip lay awake a long time. He rolled on his side and looked out the window. He'd pulled the shades apart before getting in bed. It only gave him a view of the treetops from the bed, and Stephanie would be annoyed to be woken up by the sun. He didn't care. He wanted one eye on the woods. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Danny. He saw his former business partner, dressed in rags. He was digging a trench. While his family and children watched. Their expressions were lost. And they just looked down at him while he was digging. They were so miserable. Philip's hands had wandered into his hair and he was raking through it with his fingers as he spoke. Dr. Barker wore a concerned voice. Expression, his eyebrows gathering toward the center of his forehead. Philip continued. You know, if Danny had pushed me out instead, my family would have been the ones scrambling. It could have easily gone that way. If Dr. Barker let the thought linger in the air between them. Philip didn't finish. And the sleep? The doctor asked softly. The same. Feels impossible most nights. Eventually I drift off, but it's never good sleep, Philip said. The experience you had while you were looking at the woods. Do you think it's related to exhaustion? Dr. Barker asked. Are you saying I hallucinated it? I didn't, Philip replied. Dr. Barker didn't engage with the challenge directly. What did Stephanie think they were? She was asleep. She didn't see them. Philip lifted his head and dropped his hands from his hair as if he'd just noticed them there. He looked squarely at the doctor. She saw the mud, the break-in. I didn't dream it. Stephanie stood in front of the walnut mid-century modern desk in her office. They'd set the room up this way after she'd resigned from her position at Stokely, Becker, and Bourne. Her laptop glowed seducely. There was an email on the screen. Ernie Stokely had left the old firm and had been pestering her about coming aboard his new consultancy for six months. She hadn't told Philip. She wasn't sure why. He'd been supportive of her decision to step back from work, but had it really been her decision? When she replayed the conversation that led to her resignation, her mind increasingly cast Philip as an impressive character, leveraging her affection for the children. She wasn't sure anymore if she'd ever really agreed. One day she'd simply found herself turning in her letter to the partners. The excuses she'd peppered into the conversation were all echoes of the many talks she and Philip had had over the preceding weeks. Mama it was Benjamin. His tone suggested something minor, an inconvenience, a squabble with his sister. Stephanie looked at the computer screen. Her reply was already typed. She hovered over send, then closed the laptop. She sauntered out of the room and along the upstairs hall to referee whatever had broken out between him and Everly. Instead, she found Benjamin at his bedroom window, looking out. What is it? Stephanie asked. He turned and seemed to consider something for a moment before speaking. There was a boy in the backyard. He's gone now. What do you mean? Stephanie asked vacantly. She crossed the room to her son. Who was it? Was it one of the Ackermans? Did their dog get loose again? Her mind was already back on her laptop. Benjamin shrugged. I don't think so. I couldn't see his face. His expression was somber. Mama, do you think he was the one who got into our house? Stephanie drew in a sharp breath. She stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders, now scanning the backyard herself. Why would you think that, Benny? The yard was empty. Birds hopped between branches and the skeletal spring trees. The sun slipped behind the clouds, turning the grass a deeper shade of green. He had my jacket, Benny said softly. You don't know that, Benny, it might have been a similar jacket. Which one? Stephanie asked. My Benny and the Jets one, he said, a note of angst in his voice. He was just standing there, like he was waiting for something. Years before, Philip had come home from a joint Elton John Billy Joel show with a bright red commemorative jacket. He'd thought it was hilarious. Once Benjamin grew into it, Philip had put it on him every day until it became their son's de facto favorite. Benny, that can't be. Your jacket is hanging on the railing in the hall. I just saw it. Wordlessly, Benjamin scampered out from under his mother's hands and disappeared into the hall. He returned a moment later holding the jacket. His face was relieved but then broke into fresh confusion. He laid the jacket on the bed with the reverse side facing up. He ran his hands over the embroidered lettering. The boy's jacket was just like this, but you couldn't read the words, he said. Benjamin swirled his hands over the lettering like he was washing it. It looked like that, all mushy, not real letters, he concluded, looking to his mother to see if she understood. Stephanie turned back to the window. She squinted at the tree line, scanning for a scrap of red. The spaces between the rows of grey trees were vacant. Philip was home late again that night. Stephanie had sent a cryptic text about Benny's jacket and something he'd thought he'd seen. Philip felt guilty that he hadn't had time to respond, and once he'd gotten into the car to head home, he knew she'd be wrapped up in the bedtime circus. The driveway glowed with his customary warm welcome. Philip tried to see it for what it was. But that had been harder since the break-in. The house felt less like a home than an exhibit, a sight, a still from a documentary. A sigh escaped his lips, and he heard the undertone of protest. He didn't want to walk into his own house. There were men he worked with who talked about this. They'd sit in their driveways, drinking from a flask for the better part of an hour before dragging themselves inside to face whatever awaited fatherhood, marriage, loneliness. Worse yet, he knew lawyers who would sleep in their offices. As far as Philip knew, none of them were avoiding their actual houses. He stared up the place, the slate shingles, the immaculate woodwork of the entryway. In the quiet, he pictured Danny standing beside the car, looking up at the house the same way he was. Philip rubbed his eyes, erasing the image of his betrayed partner from this place. The thought remained, though, Danny and his family. Nothing Philip tried seemed to remove the truth of the life Danny and his family were living. At last he killed the engine and stepped out. He heard his daughter's scream before he opened the front door. Stephanie's form flashed across the hallway that opened onto the foyer above as Philip rushed through the door. Steph, he called, both wanting her attention and asking what was happening. His wife didn't even turn to the sound of his voice. She charged toward the children's bedrooms. Philip took the stairs two at a time. Everly's bedroom door stood open. Stephanie was already inside, crouched beside the bed. Everly had retreated into the far corner of the mattress, her knees pulled to her chest, her small hands twisted in the blanket. It's okay, honey, Stephanie was saying. It's okay, you scared yourself. Everly shook her head violently. No, she said. I didn't. Philip slowed as he reached the doorway. His chest still heaved from the run upstairs. The room smelled faintly of the lavender spray Stephanie used when the kids had trouble sleeping. What happened? he asked. Everly's eyes darted toward the window, then back to her mother. There was a girl in here, she said. Stephanie brushed a strand of hair from the child's forehead. Sweetheart, you were dreaming. I wasn't asleep, Everly insisted. Her voice trembled, but she spoke with a stubborn certainty only children seemed capable of. I can never sleep. Philip felt a twinge of sorrow to hear his daughter mention insomnia. An inheritance? He stepped farther into the room and crouched beside the bed. Where was she? he asked gently. Everly lifted one shaking hand and pointed across the room. Over there. The desk lamp was on. It cast a soft yellow pool of light across the floorboards and the pale rug beneath it. There was nothing. What did she look like? Philip asked. Everly turned her gaze back to him. She looked like me. She had my face. The words settled into the room. Everly burst into a new wave of tears. Stephanie forced a quick, dismissive scoff that didn't sound convincing even to her own ears. Okay, she said softly, recapturing a soothing tone. That's enough spooky stories for tonight. But Everly shook her head again. She was just standing there, looking at me. Stephanie stiffened and pulled in a short breath. Did she say anything? Philip asked, immediately regretting indulging her. Everly's face scrunched as she searched her memory. No, she said. She turned on the light. I don't sleep with a light on anymore. Philip glanced toward the corner of the room once more. The lamp hummed quietly on the desk. Then what happened? Stephanie asked. Everly swallowed. I screamed, she said, and I covered my eyes. Then you were here. Stephanie drew the girl into her arms. You had a bad dream, she murmured into Everly's hair. That's all. But Philip remained crouched beside the bed, staring across the room. For a moment he wondered if she was telling the truth. If something really had been standing there an instant before they came in. He rose slowly and walked to the window. Outside the trees along the edge of the yard swayed tiredly in the wind. Philip, Stephanie whispered. He looked back to her and Everly. Go check on Benny. The children ate breakfast in a trance. Even the persistent naivete of their short years couldn't withstand the blanket of anxious dread drawn over the home. Stephanie exchanged a strained glance with Philip over their heads. She marveled at the notion that they might be failing their children, even in this palace. The heaviest doors, the smartest cameras, the full-time nanny. And still the filth and fangs of the world were getting to them. Philip took his meetings virtually in his home office. The clients and colleagues might have noticed him peeking over the rim of his laptop through the window and on toward the woods intermittently. No one commented. Philip's work ethic was beyond reproach. When the workday ended, the sound of his children filled the house. They carried the momentum and verve of the school day with them, briefly lighting the dim and muted house. After the kids had fallen asleep, Philip stood in his son's bedroom, looking out over the yard and tree line. Something in the way the moon filtered through the trees and painted the lawn with stripes of light suggested to him there was life out there in the dark. It was just a few moments later that something along the stone wall caught his eye. Four figures stood at the boundary of the lawn beyond it. He hadn't noticed them approaching. They were as they'd been the first time he'd seen them, from left to right, one tall, too short, one tall. The tableau was a perfect reproduction of the group the first time they'd come, as if they were playing parts and each hitting their mark. The flashlight was heavy and cold in his hand as he traversed the lawn. He had asked Stephanie to call the police and ignored her protests as he left the house. The beam of the flashlight bounced across the grass ahead of him and on toward the woods. The light weakened to a dull glow at that distance, but he could see their ankles and legs. All at once he was close. As the beam illuminated the four motionless forms at the edge of the property, Philip staggered back as if he'd been struck. There, hemmed in by the trees and brush, stood a garish copy of his family. They stared at him, past him, through him. Their eyes were wide but unseen. Philip gripped the metal handle of the flashlight, unsure how he would use it, but certain that he would. He looked closely at his own double, Stephanie's and the children. Each was a close facsimile of the original, but with hideous defects. Stephanie's jaw hung as though one side of her face were full of fluid. Everly's forehead was twice the size of his daughter's. His own double was nearly identical to him, but its mouth hung open, revealing a second row of teeth stacked behind the first, above and below. They were poorly done replicas, made from memory, the details badly botched. What are you? What are you doing here? Philip stammered. None of them spoke. None of them moved. Philip looked down. They were all barefoot, the soles of their feet black, their ankles streaked with mud. The beam of the flashlight showed their fingers in stark white. The fingernails on each hand were packed deeply with black dirt. Their clothes caught his attention. The Everly wore a onesie his daughter had long since outgrown, the fabric stretched thin and riding awkwardly up the legs. His double wore a suit jacket Philip recognized immediately. One he'd worn to threads early in his career, now split at the seams and hanging wrong across the shoulders. The faint wail of a police siren broke the silence. The dead-eyed stares remained, but one of them, the Philip, finally spoke. The voice was hoarse and gravelly, rough with disuse. What are you doing here? it mimicked. Then with varied emphasis again, what are you doing here? And again, what are you doing here? It was as if he were turning the words over in his mouth, trying to get them right. With each recitation Philip flinched as though he'd been slapped. Then, one by one they began to back away. Without breaking their stairs, which seemed to bore into Philip and move beyond him to the house, they stepped deftly backward. They moved slowly. Their steps were as nimble as a deer's. They scarcely rustled a leaf or touched a fallen branch. Philip stood frozen, watching until they disappeared beyond the cone of light from his flashlight. When the police arrived, Philip was waiting on the front stoop. Stephanie joined him as the officers got off the cruiser. Philip told the men he'd seen the people he suspected had broken into the house again. His voice sounded strangely flat to Stephanie. She watched him skeptically as he explained where the people had been standing and the direction they'd been moving when they disappeared. The policemen paced off around the house to sweep the woods. They asked Philip and Stephanie to stay inside. Once the two were alone, she asked, What happened? I could see you from the living room. You stood there in front of them for a long time. Philip's voice was trembling. I don't know what they are. They're not like us. No, they they are. They're they're like copies of us. He took a breath. But Steph, I don't think they're like us. I don't think they're human. What are you saying? Stephanie asked. Her face was pinched with confusion and growing panic. He laughed, a short hysterical bark. You know, when I walked out there, I had this crazy feeling it was Danny. Here to kill me. In front of his family. Stephanie's face softened into something like pity. Philip, she began, we're going to talk about what happened out there in the yard. I don't care if it's with the police or just us. He nodded vacantly, looking out the big rear windows as flashlight beams bounced through the woods. About Danny, she said. He died yesterday. Philip didn't move. He hanged himself. I heard from Rebecca at spin class today. I'm so sorry. I know it's not the time, but I think you need to know that all of this she gestured toward the woods with one hand. It isn't about him. It can't be. Philip's eyes were wide. He hadn't turned from the window. Yes it is, he said quietly. It's all about him. The police checked every window and door in the house before leaving. They even tiptoed into the children's rooms to verify the windows were secure. Philip was so numb he could scarcely speak. Stephanie asked if they could spare an officer to remain at the house. After a brief radio exchange, the officer said someone would be parked at the top of the driveway for the night in case of any further disturbance. A detective would visit them tomorrow. When Stephanie locked the door behind the police officer, she turned to find Philip gone. She climbed the stairs and found him standing in Everly's doorway, watching her sleep. Come to bed, she said in a whisper. We can talk more tomorrow. Philip took two larazipam and stared at the ceiling until the dull slide of sleep took him. The young police officer assigned to spend the night in front of Philip and Stephanie's house stayed awake all night. He sipped from his thermos and watched the big house dutifully. The window of his cruiser was cracked open so he could hear. He even took a few strolls down the driveway to be extra vigilant and to stave off drowsiness. He heard nothing of what was happening inside. Four figures stood outside the bedroom doors in the dark. They'd entered the house without a sound. The faulty sliding door in the basement had gone unnoticed for months, even by the police. In unison they reached for the door handles. All four doors opened at once. Each figure stepped inside the room that belonged to them. In the dim light their features had already drawn closer to the originals, as if something in them had begun to set. There was a brief moment of silence. The scuffling and smothered shouts leaking from the bedroom scarcely reached the first floor, let alone the police car in the driveway. At 6 AM, his shift ended, and the officer, having seen nothing out of the ordinary, drove away. Detective Settle rang the doorbell of the palatial White House at 1 PM. The night before, the lady of the house had called 911 about intruders on the property. The information he'd been given indicated that this was the third such incident in two weeks. He would begin by interviewing the parents, and then the children, if they allowed it. Then he could walk the property and potentially document evidence missed by the responding officers who had been working in the dark. By the third ring he was beginning to think they'd gone out. At last, he heard movement inside. A man in a posh-looking gray suit answered the door. Settle noticed that the man had struggled to tie his tie properly. Before he could speak, the man, presumably the homeowner, Philip March, spoke abruptly. You must be the police man. Come in. He pronounced the words separately, police man, like a child might. He scarcely opened his mouth when he spoke. Then he stepped aside and gestured broadly, beckoning Settle to enter. The house was quiet and clean. The man closed the door behind them and stalked past the detective. Settle followed, bemused but focused. He had encountered every type of victim and complainant in his years as a detective. People responded to trauma in unpredictable ways. As the man walked deeper into the house, Settle spoke to his back. I understand you've had an upsetting couple of weeks. I'm sorry to hear it. The man didn't respond. They arrived in a large open plan living space. Enormous windows walled the back of the room. A woman and two children sat on the couch in front of the television. The woman held a remote control out in front of her, as though she were changing the channel. Settle leaned forward and looked at the TV. It wasn't on. This is my family, the man said. His voice was rough and strangely vacant. Right, Detective Settle replied. His spider sense was tingling, had been since the man opened the door. The children were looking at the television passively. The woman was dressed professionally, like her husband. It was then that he noticed a smear of mud behind the man's ear, dark and textured, impossible to miss. It might have made sense had the man been working out in the yard, but he was wearing a suit at one in the afternoon, on a Saturday, to watch television. Settle looked from the man to the woman and the children on the couch. All four of them were watching him now. None of them blinked.

Podcast Outro

SPEAKER_00 46:33

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