4:12 in the morning, a woman screamed bloody murder for her life. I was getting soda water from the fridge, earlier than usual, but still my morning ritual, when I heard her.
The scream was a blood-curdling, sheer terror for life. It lasted only a second or two, enough for the driver to slam on his brakes suddenly, the sound an immediate jerk.
The cat heard it too.
The windows were open, but the house was being painted, plastic covering them so I couldn't see.
I notice then, through the thick cover, a bright blue light shining in my windows. It started in the kitchen, and shined through all three windows.
"Oh good, the cops are here," I thought to myself as went to wake up Sandy.
"Sara! did you hear that?"
"What?" She instantly woke up.
"That scream."
She didn't hear it, she said as I peeked out from behind the blinds.
But what I saw, wasn't the cops.
It was a lean male, in a dark hoodie sweatshirt who pulled into my neighbor's house two doors down and shone the light in her living room windows and back towards our house. The light wasn't blue, it was an LED - bright with a far distance.
"He's looking for her," I said.
"Is the front door locked?" Sandy replied quickly.
"Hell if I'm going down there!" I said. I'm usually the one who checks out the noises, but I wasn't going outside. Not after hearing that scream.
"Well, I'll do it, then!" she bustled out to the arctic entry to the deadbolt lock.
I was frozen as I watched the car, a silver late 1990 Taurus, pull in front of our house, then turn into the house across the street - just barely in the driveway at first, then all the way to the garage.
"What are they doing at Diane's house?" I wondered. The deaf old woman would faint dead in her oversized nightgown and white socks if she looked out the window right then. The man was insistent on finding something. Someone. The girl.
But where did she go?
The man drove off after about two minutes of looking through poor dear Diane's front windows. Where was her footstool of a dog, Tiger when you needed him?
And where was the girl?
The cops came around next, but it was too late. There was nothing but the sleepy cul de sac of our neighborhood. Silent homes, and structures without words as witnesses.
The chills of the story still run through me. A woman, scared for her life. Yards, feet away from my sleepy head. What happened to the woman? Who was she? Where did she go?
And just like that: one day, as you're pouring yourself a glass of soda water at 4 am on a Monday morning, a girl's scream becomes etched in your memory. Without ever seeing her, or knowing the situation, her scream is still being reverberated through the walls of my chest, the crevices of my mind, pumping through my veins. The struggle of someone, desperate. The most desperate cry for help, not the kind in a dream when you lose your voice. The kind where you scream because your life depends on it.
My dear, I pray for you. I care about you.
My heart aches for you to be safe.
The scream was a blood-curdling, sheer terror for life. It lasted only a second or two, enough for the driver to slam on his brakes suddenly, the sound an immediate jerk.
The cat heard it too.
The windows were open, but the house was being painted, plastic covering them so I couldn't see.
I notice then, through the thick cover, a bright blue light shining in my windows. It started in the kitchen, and shined through all three windows.
"Oh good, the cops are here," I thought to myself as went to wake up Sandy.
"Sara! did you hear that?"
"What?" She instantly woke up.
"That scream."
She didn't hear it, she said as I peeked out from behind the blinds.
But what I saw, wasn't the cops.
It was a lean male, in a dark hoodie sweatshirt who pulled into my neighbor's house two doors down and shone the light in her living room windows and back towards our house. The light wasn't blue, it was an LED - bright with a far distance.
"He's looking for her," I said.
"Is the front door locked?" Sandy replied quickly.
"Hell if I'm going down there!" I said. I'm usually the one who checks out the noises, but I wasn't going outside. Not after hearing that scream.
"Well, I'll do it, then!" she bustled out to the arctic entry to the deadbolt lock.
I was frozen as I watched the car, a silver late 1990 Taurus, pull in front of our house, then turn into the house across the street - just barely in the driveway at first, then all the way to the garage.
"What are they doing at Diane's house?" I wondered. The deaf old woman would faint dead in her oversized nightgown and white socks if she looked out the window right then. The man was insistent on finding something. Someone. The girl.
But where did she go?
The man drove off after about two minutes of looking through poor dear Diane's front windows. Where was her footstool of a dog, Tiger when you needed him?
And where was the girl?
The cops came around next, but it was too late. There was nothing but the sleepy cul de sac of our neighborhood. Silent homes, and structures without words as witnesses.
The chills of the story still run through me. A woman, scared for her life. Yards, feet away from my sleepy head. What happened to the woman? Who was she? Where did she go?
And just like that: one day, as you're pouring yourself a glass of soda water at 4 am on a Monday morning, a girl's scream becomes etched in your memory. Without ever seeing her, or knowing the situation, her scream is still being reverberated through the walls of my chest, the crevices of my mind, pumping through my veins. The struggle of someone, desperate. The most desperate cry for help, not the kind in a dream when you lose your voice. The kind where you scream because your life depends on it.
My dear, I pray for you. I care about you.
My heart aches for you to be safe.
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