Everything was perfect. The town should have been pictured on a postcard. Not amazing, not extraordinary. Maybe not even beautiful. Just, perfect.
The main road dividing the town was made with dark, almost though not quite black, asphalt that split down the middle with two shining, yellow lines that looked so new they could have been painted yesterday.
The road butted up to the light concrete of the town’s sidewalks evenly on both sides. It stretched on for miles without so much as a piece of trash, a stray leaf, or any other debris that could violate its perfection.
The shops were made to look older than they really were, from the 50’s perhaps, even though the material itself was polished and new. A single gas station stood at the town’s center, just across from the diner. This was where all of the kids would hang out after school.
Taking the main road east from the diner would bring you to city hall. A large, beautiful building with giant white pillars at its front resembling those found at the White House itself. This was where the politicians would argue and make decisions.
Across the street there was a gazebo sitting at the center of a shaded park. A playground with two swings, a jungle gym and a sandbox sat between the gazebo and a baseball field used for the towns little league. This was where mothers would bring their children to play on the weekends.
One block north of the shaded park sat a neat row of houses, each one a different color. The lawns were deep green, the picket fences a spotless white. The homes and their yards were all laid out identically with only minor details changed according to each homeowner’s preference. The stone walkways that cut through each lawn were universal in the neighborhood, but some chose to line them with roses. This was where families grew and made their memories.
A river marked the northern boundary of the town, separating the old cemetery from the dense woods. None of the statues of angels were old enough to be falling apart. This was somehow comforting and disquieting. The town was young, the cemetery large.
A tiny church stood at the southwest corner of the cemetery with a bedroom for the priest on the second floor. This was where, on Sunday mornings, the bells would toll their beautiful song, and all the families of the town, dressed in splendor, would go and talk to God.
Laughing and praising and singing and more laughing until the service is over, and everyone goes home. The people eat their meals, kiss their kids and say “I love you” like any normal family in any perfect town ever would.
Indeed, everything was perfect.
The last detail was the most important, the bridge to the woods. When Norman looked out from his front porch, he could just make out the brown, wooden railing on the bridge. At the north end of the cemetery, and just as the tree-line broke. On a quiet night, if he listened very hard, he could hear the water of the river rushing under the bridge.
Sitting at a low table in his living room, Norman surveyed his work with critical eyes. Taking in each and every little detail of the model he’d spent so much time creating. Matching, down to the tiniest detail, the town he lived in, the town he loved into this miniature version.
After a few more moments, Norman let out a heavy sigh. “Perfect,” he muttered to himself and rose to his feet.
The table he’d been sitting at was actually a combination of six square tables he’d pushed together after chopping a foot of length off their legs. The model of the town filled most of the open space on the tables tops, and the tables took up most of his living room. A narrow walkway left just enough space to navigate around them, but Norman didn’t mind. He loved his model. He loved his perfect town.
Norman stretched his arms and legs, feeling the tension in them ease a bit as he did. How long had it been? he wondered as he glanced at the wall-clock behind him. It read 7:42.
Counting in his head he was surprised to find that he’d been working on his town for six hours. My, my, time does pass.
It was almost 8 o’clock, and the sun was beginning to set. He still hadn’t walked through the neighborhood behind his house, part of his routine on Sundays.
Norman divided the town into seven sections and visited each section on a different day of the week. This way, he was able to make sure his model was accurate and up to date. Sundays were for the church and the neighborhood he lived behind.
It was a small area to cover and would only take a few minutes but, still he hesitated. He didn’t like to be out after sunset. It wasn’t that he was scared, he knew there was nothing to fear in such a perfect town. He simply liked to be home at night so he could watch the bridge that led to the woods. He had to watch sometimes because the town was perfect, and it had to stay that way. No matter what.
If he hurried, there was still time.
Making his decision, Norman dashed out the front door and jumped down the three steps of his porch, turning left, towards the church, as his feet touched the green grass in front of his house.
The street Norman lived on was empty. There were no other houses between the church and his home, so he paid little attention as he power-walked to the west end of the street. There was very little that anyone could have changed here in the past week.
Reaching the street’s end, he made a sharp left, cutting a path that would bring him to the neighborhood’s boundary. A few steps and he was there.
Hastily, he walked down the sidewalk with his head on a swivel. Anyone looking out their window would undoubtedly question the strange-looking man’s sanity as he walked fast enough to pace any jogger, darting his head left to right, up and down, taking in each and every detail.
As he made his way past the homes, his eyes would keep darting toward the setting sun, getting smaller and smaller by the second. Norman wiped his damp palms on his jeans and did his best to steady his breath. He began to hum to himself as he went, hoping it would distract him enough to regain his composure. It might have worked too, had he not seen that last house.
The line of homes came to an abrupt halt and Norman with it. The peach house with white trim was now different, the trim was no longer white. Instead, it was a very deep, dark… what? Blue? Black?
His heart began to beat, thudding against his breastbone with enormous force. The sun was getting low, too low, and with such dim light he couldn’t distinguish what color had replaced the white. He took a step forward and squinted his eyes. Another step. Then one more.
Navy blue? Midnight? Who the hell paints trim anything darker than a light shade of gray?! His left eye began to twitch.
Another step and he was inches from the newly painted wood. Any closer and he would be kissing it. Shit!
Looking back over his shoulder he watched the last bit of sun disappear, and knew he had to act quickly.
Ding-dong! He rang the bell. Ding-dong! Once more. Tapping his foot on the home’s stone walkway, Norman thought he might burst out of his skin. The door opened.
“Well, hello Norman!” Mrs. Lansbury, the perfectly mannered housewife greeted him.
“Hi Sheila,” he said hurriedly, but was cut off from saying more due to the annoying habit most humans have to talk about nonsense at their first opportunity.
“How are you this fine evening?” she babbled, “oh, you must be out for your weekly check tonight?”
“Yes, actually . . .”
“Well, wonderful” she cut in, “why don’t you come on in? We’re just now ready to sit down for supper.”
Norman’s eye twitched, now prominent and noticeable.
“No, Sheila, maybe next time. I was really. . .”
“That’s too bad” again cutting him off,” we’re having my famous baked casserole tonight and you won’t guess what’s for dessert.”
She spoke slowly and very properly. Norman felt the twitch expand down his cheek as a hot energy spread through his body.
“It’s taken me all day, but it’ll be well worth it. The crust itself . . .”
“Sheila!” Norman exploded “No! Thank! You!” The surprise on her face made him pause a beat. He hadn’t meant to be rude. He was just in a hurry.
“Thank you for the invitation, Sheila.” He said a bit more calmly. “I was just wondering what color your trim has been painted.”
“Oh?” Regaining her composure, “oh, of course! For your model, right? How silly of me. We had it done just Friday. Larry’s brother’s painting company. Hardly even charged us.”
“Great, Sheila. What color?”
Her hand went to her chin as she began to contemplate.
“Hmm” she tapped her chin. “I’m pretty sure it was some blue, real dark.”
“Yes…?” Norman tried to draw it out of her.
“Oh, right! Midnight blue! I remember now. We decided…”
But Norman didn’t hear the rest, he was already sprinting back to his home.
Sitting on his front porch with a mobile table set in front of him, Norman gazed out toward the woods. A slight breeze bent the smaller limbs and rustled their leaves, drowning out the sound of the rushing water of the river.
The cemetery was calm as was everything else. On top of the table in front of him was the model home of the Lansbury’s, along with a bottle of midnight blue paint and a tiny paint brush. With the help of a battery powered lamp, along with a magnifying glass, Norman carefully applied the new color to the home’s trim.
Though there wasn’t much area to paint, the amount of time it took was relatively long. So enveloped in his task at hand, Norman didn’t see the young man walking amongst the headstones until he crossed Norman’s direct line of sight.
The cemetery fence was thirty feet from Norman’s porch and stretched about 150 feet from north to south. Norman living to the south and the wooded area to the north. And the river. And the bridge.
As the young man wove in between the statues and headstones of the dead, Norman’s heart rate quickened. Perhaps tonight, he thought.
The young man turned left and headed north, towards the woods that lie just across the bridge.
Norman set down his tiny brush and his tiny model home, unwittingly leaning forward in his chair. The young man got closer to the bridge. Step. Step. Closer.
He knew the young man was close enough to hear the flowing water, and Norman knew its effects. The gentle lapping of water on shore, the soft hiss as it kissed rock and sand on the journey downstream. The sound mesmerized and lulled those close enough to hear it, and they always wanted to be closer. The young man was no exception.
Hands clasped behind his back as if to show he was in no hurry, the young man walked casually toward the bridge, his gaze fixed on the river.
Norman, still sitting, picked up the table in front of him and set it aside, making a mental note to check later if his new trim would require a second coat. The young man now stood at the center of the bridge.
Resting his forearms on the handrail, the young man leaned out over the river and gazed down at the water. He looked relaxed and comfortable.
A moment passed, then the silence was broken.
“Jack?” a woman’s voice rang out.
Norman turned his head to see a woman enter the cemetery. She was young and attractive. Norman had never seen her before.
“I’m here” the young man, Jack, answered. They saw each other and the woman took a step toward him. That’s when it happened.
A small, dark shape climbed up the handrails of the bridge, seemingly coming from the river, and landed with a thud just behind Jack.
It was difficult for Norman to make out features from this distance, but he didn’t have to see it. He’d seen it many times before.
Four feet tall with a lopsided head, and dark grey skin which made it hard to see much of it by moonlight. Except for its sharp, yellow teeth and shining green eyes, it blended in well with the night. The creature was bulky and gave the impression of strength. And violence.
The woman, noticing the creature, slowed her pace and after a few steps, stopped. She was facing away from Norman so he couldn’t see her face but knew the look that she would be wearing. He’d seen it on countless men and women through the years.
It was the look of knowing something terrible was about to happen and being powerless to stop it. It was the look of excessive adrenaline coursing through the veins of someone as still as a statue, making their breath shallow and unsteady. It was the look of desperation, and a wish to be anywhere else at that moment, somewhere you wouldn’t have to watch a loved one die a violent death. It was the look that wondered “Am I next?”
The woman screamed, but there was nothing to be done for the young man standing on the bridge. The creature moved quickly. Almost too quickly to see what happened next.
Grabbing the man by his shoulders, the creature wrenched him down and back with one swift motion. As soon as the young man’s head was level with the creature, it disappeared
completely into the creature’s snakelike mouth. A loud crunching sound followed by a slushy, wet thwack as the headless body fell to the bridge, spasming and twitching in a macabre dance that only seemed appropriate, given the manner of death.
The woman screamed again and, as if by some engrained instinct to protect her loved one, she took a small step forward. Taking its attention from the corpse at its feet, the creature looked up at the hysterical woman. Their eyes met and she shuddered visibly, driven by a mix of fear and revulsion. The creature turned its attention back to its meal and knelt down to eat.
The woman turned and ran.
“Help! Help me, please!” She ran west, toward the church. “Please! Somebody help me!”
As the woman reached the gate that led to the church, she grabbed the steel bar meant as a handrail and pushed with all her weight. A metallic clinging sounded, but the gate hardly moved.
“No! Please! Let me outta here! Help!” She began to bang on the gate.
“Please!” she cried.
As she continued to thrash and cry, a man appeared on the other side of the gate, startling the woman.
“Calm down miss, I can let you out,” Norman told her. “What in the world has gotten into you?” he asked, unlocking the gate.
“Oh, thank God.” she exclaimed and ran into his arms. “Please, you have to help me. My fiancé.” She pointed back toward the bridge. “My fiancé’s been attacked!” She was close enough that Norman could smell her shampoo. A fruity, clean smell he found pleasant.
“On the bridge,” she shouted in his face.
“Attacked?” Norman said, “Here, let’s go right up here. My home has a phone, we can call the authorities there.”
She nodded consent and they ran up to Norman’s house. When they got there, Norman grabbed the phone and hurriedly dialed.
“Yes,” he spoke into the receiver “there’s been an attack. Some wild animal, a bear I think, has hurt someone. Please send help.”
A pause as he listened.
“The cemetery by the church of Saint Francis, on the bridge, I think.” Covering the receiver with his hand he spoke to the woman. “Are you hurt?” He asked.
She shook her head. “Um, no. I don’t think.”
“What’s your name?” Norman asked.
“Kelly,” she said absently.
As soon as he was off the phone, Norman turned his attention back to the distraught woman a faraway look in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked, guiding her to a seat in his crowded living room.
A pause. Silence.
“It wasn’t a bear,” she said softly, staring at some specific piece of Norman’s carpet.
“You saw it?” Norman asked the woman. She made no reply at first, but slowly nodded her head.
“Well,” Norman began, “if it wasn’t a bear, what was it?”
This time she stayed still with her silence, her eyes fixed on the same spot on the carpet. He could see her trembling, and knelt down in front of her, obscuring her view.
“It’s ok. You’re safe now, but you have to tell me what you saw. OK? So, tell me: What attacked your fiancé?”
Seconds passed in silence. Norman was about to give up, assuming she was in some sort of traumatic shock when finally, she spoke.
“A demon. A devil . . . or, monster,” she said, breaking into sobs. She began to speak in between wailing and heavy breaths, but Norman could only make out a few words.
“From hell . . . awful . . . green eyes . . . head just gone!” she sobbed
He let her cry for a bit before wrapping his arms around her shoulders to comfort her.
“Shhh,” he said, “It’s OK. You’re OK” He began to stroke her hair softly as he did his best to soothe the woman. After some time, her sobs became a sniffle, and her breathing more regular.
Norman began to talk to her in hopes of calming her down.
“Where are you from Kelly?” he asked her. “Do you have family?”
Pulling her head back from Norman’s chest, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Looking up at him, she spoke.
“We’re from the coast, the west. We eloped. My parents hated Jack, so we left and planned to marry. His cousin lives a few hours from here and promised Jack a job. We were going to start our life. And now he’s…” She started sobbing again.
“Kelly, calm down.” he told her “Do you have any children? Anyone that was traveling with you? Did you drive, take a train?”
A confused look on Kelly’s face as she answered. “We have no kids, we came alone on the train, why?” She wiped her nose again.
Norman smiled endearingly, looking down at Kelly’s sweet face.
“Oh, just making conversation.” He patted her head lightly.
Another moment passed in silence, Kelly’s head buried in Normans chest. Finally, she pulled away.
“How far away is the police station? Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
Once more, he looked down at the woman in his arms. Her green eyes were like wet emeralds, spilling tears down her porcelain cheeks. So sweet, so trusting. Such a shame.
“Well, my dear,” Norman said casually, “they won’t be coming here tonight.” He let out a small chuckle and began to squeeze the woman against his shoulder. Constricting her neck with his muscular grip.
Her initial look of confusion was quickly replaced with shock as she felt his strength envelope her.
“Wha…” She tried to speak but found it impossible, her lungs were being compressed with such force that she could not breathe. All she could manage were unintelligible squeaks and odd noises.
Shock became fear, and she began to thrash about as much as possible, but Norman too strong for her.
Veins in the woman’s forehead, neck and face shown thick and full of blood. Vessels in her eyes began to burst, tinting red what had just been white. Her struggles lessened.
Norman never broke eye contact with the young woman. Thinking it a courtesy to let her know she was not alone in her final moments of life. “I’m right here,” he whispered softly to her.
A single tear spilled down her cheek as her movement came to a stop. Her eyes no longer gazed back into his. Now, they seemed to look past him through him. Perhaps to some faraway place where pain no longer existed. Norman hopes she was there now.
Releasing her, Norman felt her body go limp. He once again looked into her eyes as he laid her back into the chair she had been sitting in and wiped away the single tear from her cheek.
“There, there, my dear,” he spoke softly. “All better now.”
Norman lifted her up and slung her over his shoulders. She was very light, and, for that, Norman was grateful. It made the track down his steps, through the cemetery and to the bridge much easier than it had been with heavier bodies.
When he got to the bridge he hesitated. Unlike everyone else, he knew what creatures lived beneath his feet, what they’re capable of.
The wood echoed under his heel as he took the first step onto the bridge.
Though there was much he didn’t know about them.
Another step.
He’d often wondered where they’d come from. Were they from another planet?
And another.
Or did they come out of some poor soul’s nightmare?
At the center of the bridge, Norman stopped. He bent down, and carefully laid the woman onto the old wood.
He stood up and looked down at her with a sad smile. Only the tiniest rising and falling of her chest showed she was alive. He hoped she would not awaken before the creatures came to her; she didn’t deserve any of this. He would have rather killed her already, spared her the fate of watching herself being eaten, but he couldn’t. The creatures beneath the bridge don’t eat what’s already dead, and she had to disappear. It wouldn’t do to have police and media and outraged family all over Norman’s perfect town. It just wouldn’t do.
A small creaking noise brought Norman back and he quickly spun around on his heel.
Click-clack, click-clack. Norman’s shoes met the bridge. The bridge creaked in response.
The last step Norman took always came with mixed feelings. Happy to be safe and away from the bridge. Sorry that innocent people had to die and disgust that he had played a part in it.
And another that was harder to define. A sort of combination of anger and pride. He felt this every time he realized he would do it again, as many times as needed, to make sure the secret was kept.
Closing the giant cemetery gates behind him, Norman casually walked up the gentle slope that was his front lawn, and the three steps leading to his pitch. Before heading in that night, he looked out at the church, the little garden shack, the cemetery and deep woods. That’s when he heard the scream.
Only a monster could have heard it and felt nothing for the young woman being ripped apart by the soulless beasts from under the bridge. His blood ran cold as he listened. What began as a cry for help soon became a choking death rattle. Ending in profound silence.
Norman had spent many nights trying to find a way out of his predicament, all to no avail.
Maybe even a “danger” sign that the bridge was not to be used.
He chuckled at the idea. “A danger sign,” he laughed as he said it. “If that were the case, my town wouldn’t be perfect.”
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