Dead Ringer

I'm a huge fan of horror because I find that it is most often the most suitable genre to realize our fears in a safe space where the bad things that happen are make believe but the outcome is often a sense of catharsis. We faced our fears, and though we really had nothing to lose because it was all pretend, we still grew stronger for it. Horror is also a perfect vehicle to make a statement, whether creative, personal, political, or any way else, horror is an excellent way to make a point. That's partly why I wrote this story, but the other reason is a little simpler; I love a good scare.

• Horror

								
The flicker of the television light seemed especially lonely this chilly September night in 1997, and twelve-year-old Thomas Billings didn’t care much for the feeling at all. In truth, this loneliness made no sense. He had spent plenty an hour home by himself before and had never felt anything remotely like this. In fact, he usually enjoyed these small windows of time away from his family. 
An especially eerie episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? about a kid whose friend had been killed in a bridge accident was playing on Nickelodeon, and though this was Thomas’s favorite show, he couldn’t focus on it; that crippling sense of loneliness kept intruding on his thoughts. As he peered through the dancing shadows cast about his living room, he wondered where his parents and older brother Dan were. They had left for Aunt Bedelia’s around two that afternoon – a brief hop, skip, and a jump (one of his father’s dorky sayings) across town – and now the grandfather clock in the hall was chiming eleven. They’d never been out this late before.
For a moment, during a particularly bright flash of the television light, Tom thought he saw someone sitting in his father’s easy chair in the corner. There then gone, like a specter in a horror movie. But he didn’t freak too much; he was just getting tired. That was all. 
Instead of surrendering to that tiredness, Tom snatched the remote from the coffee table and began flipping through the channels. Incoherent babble and static flashed by in a blur that would drive most people crazy, but not Tom.
It was the news he decided to stop on, but not because he made a habit of watching it; normally he couldn’t care less. It was the word BREAKING! spelled out in giant red letters across the screen than had compelled him to watch. 
The screen faded onto a very handsome, dark-haired, middle-aged man sitting at a large desk with the words WABI CHANNEL 5 NEWS written across the front in large block letters. He looked up at the camera with dark eyes and a straight face before starting his spiel. 
“Good evening, I’m Chris Williams,” the man said, “and this is the news at eleven. A manhunt is under way in Fever Springs tonight after it was discovered that ten people have been murdered at four separate addresses across the small town.” 
The camera cut to footage of a saltbox house that was lit up like a Christmas tree (another of his dad’s dorky sayings) and standing against the dark night sky as people – investigators, police, EMT, and onlookers alike – milled about the street. Though the footage was dark and grainy, Tom thought he recognized it, but it was hard to say for sure through the grit of the image.
“This was the scene outside a residence on Crescent Avenue tonight, only an hour ago, following a neighbor’s call to authorities upon hearing what she believed to be a woman screaming. This follows reports of disturbances called in throughout the late afternoon from residences on Railroad Street, Pine Grove, and West Street. Thus far, information on the crimes is limited, and authorities have yet to release any identities of the victims. Fever Springs Police Chief Carlton Folsom had this to say:”
Chief Folsom was on the screen now, a tall man in a blue uniform standing at the edge of a busy street; the camera’s bright lights left his rugged face overexposed, like a photo taken with the subject much too close to the flash. The poor man squinted his blue eyes against the lights as he tried to form his statement. 
“So far,” Folsom said, “the crimes appear to be opportunistic in nature. There is a distinct lack of evidence to suggest that breaking and entering occurred at any of the crime scenes, which leaves us to presume that the suspect entered only unsecured homes. Given the violent and wide-spread nature of these crimes, we are issuing a shelter-in-place order for Fever Springs and surrounding towns. We urge all residents to remain inside and keep all doors and windows locked until further notice.”
Folsom was suddenly gone as Chris Williams, sitting in the warm comfort of the WABI news studio, came back onto the screen. “There is no word yet as to whether or not authorities suspect to discover more victims, though they are not ruling out the possibility.”
A chill ran down Tom’s spine as he leaned forward and listened to the reporter talk while his mind ran wild with all sorts of dark fears and suppositions. He turned around again, nervously spying his father’s easy chair once more. Of course, it was empty now, full of nothing but flashing shadows, but…
He got to his feet, no longer interested in the babbling reporter, and crossed the living room to the hallway. His reflection flashed briefly in the mirror on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, but he barely noticed in his march for the front door, its singular square window framing the cool night beyond. The porchlight glowed a mute and melancholy beacon into the dark, and Tom ruminated on all the cold fears running rampant behind his calm façade. As Tom peered out the window at the diffuse glistening tarmac of the street beyond the murky lawn, he reached forward and snapped the deadbolt. Though most everyone in Fever Springs left their doors unlocked, Crescent Avenue was only five blocks away, and that was just a little too close to home for Tom to feel comfortable leaving his house unsecured. He lingered a moment before turning away, flicking on the hall light before striding past the stairs and into the kitchen where he also locked the back door. 
Fever Springs, Maine was the type of small town where everyone knew each other, where friendliness came easy, lawns were always kempt, and people seldom seemed bothered by anything. As such, the town wasn’t exactly known as a high crime area, and even a single murder was very rare. In fact, Tom couldn’t even clearly remember the last time someone had been murdered here. He thought he had heard tell of one some years ago in 1992 or ’93, but that memory was vague. The worst thing he could clearly remember happening here had been when Mr. Bilodeau’s snowblower had been stolen right out of his garage in broad daylight last winter. No one had been caught for that one, but theft is much milder a crime than murder, and the cops hadn’t tried particularly hard to solve it.
Having secured his home, Tom stepped away from the back door and crossed the checkered tile floor to the fridge. Mom and Dad hadn’t been home to make dinner, and Tom had stuffed his face hours ago with everything a growing boy needs – Twinkies, Doritos, and Coca-Cola. But now, awash in the blue glow of the refrigerator light as he stood in his dark kitchen, he was hungry for something of more substance. He grabbed some accoutrements and made a ham sandwich at the counter. 
As he ate, he stared out the window over the sink at his dark back yard. A quarter mile behind his house was the small municipal airport and the rotating light that helped guide the planes to land. As such, though his backyard was dark as pitch, the airport light’s revolving beacon periodically split the night and revealed the patio just beyond the back door and the above ground pool (covered for the season) just beyond that. 

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