Lights Out

When the lights go out in the kitchen, you think you’ve lost power. It’s not uncommon to have brown outs or black outs in Montauk, especially during windy storms. But there is no storm tonight. And the wind is quiet. The only sound is the water running from the tap into the stainless steel sink. Warm water soothes the arthritis swelling up your knuckles while you scrub a stubborn patch of dried barbecue sauce from the last plate. You press the soppy sponge harder onto the heavy stoneware, channeling the anger and frustration from yet another failed family gathering until it becomes loose.

When it frees the plate, the tension is freed from your shoulders.

But only temporarily.

That’s when you notice that the stove light and microwave timer aren’t off nor are they blinking. A hazy porch lamp illuminates the silhouettes of mosquitos, gnats, and flies through the window.

The power isn’t out.

But the lights in the kitchen still are.

So you say, “Kevin, I’m still in here,” while reaching instinctively for the hand towel to your left. Your dunce of a husband often turns the lights off when you’re in the bathroom taking a shower, in the garage looking for a tool he’s misplaced, or in the kitchen washing dishes apparently. You chalk it up to ineptitude, but what you really fear is that he is constantly forgetting you.

But this incident, by itself, doesn't cause you concern.

Not until you hear a sound above you.

Cccrrreeeaaakkk!

The floor whines and groans under a heavy weight in the upstairs bedroom. Moments earlier, your husband had said, “I’m heading up,” while tenderly grabbing his stomach as he waddled up the stairs. Serves him right after having eaten everything on the heart-healthy Do-Not-Eat list. But who are you to deny him? Or baby him? You were trying not to be so controlling, as your youngest daughter reminded you of again today before storming out of the house before you could put out dessert.

“Kevin?” you ask, a lilt in your voice now, as you consider that if Kevin is upstairs, he couldn’t have possibly run down the stairs and back up so quickly. Not with his bum knee nor without making a raucous considering he walked like an elephant.

Your heart skips a beat, releasing a cold flush of blood, but you ignore the anxiety crawling along the back of your neck. It’s just old house nonsense, you think to yourself, chalking it up to not having been in the beach house all winter and spring. The house tends to have an eerie feel about it after being abandoned for months, and you haven’t gotten a chance to tidy up the way you normally do–a tip-to-tails clean and a deep tidying of all the bedrooms, in hopes your daughters would actually stay the night for once without picking a fight. But traffic had you arriving two hours late, and your daughters–the eldest with her three kids and husband in tow, and the youngest with a scowl–were an hour early. So you scraped together what you could for a quick barbecue, hoping your birthday would be different for once. But they still didn't stay.

“We’ve got to get the kids to bed,” your eldest said, while you were still eating your slice of cake. But at least you got a consolation hug before she left with, “She’ll come around.”

With a defeated sigh, you make your way across the kitchen to turn the lights back on. You still have to put away the Tupperware and wipe down the counters. The linoleum tiles are cold and clammy beneath your tired feet. To be fair, your body is tired all the time now that you’ve reached seventy-years-old. Happy Birthday to me…

Then–a dense black figure emerges in the doorway. It's tall–maybe taller than your husband–but you push that thought away as an electric pulse of fear runs through you. It doesn’t move or make a noise. It’s too thick to just be a shadow. Too wide to be a coat. And you can smell it.

A hefty aroma of body odor mixed with acrid chemicals makes your nose twinge and tickle. Yet, you don’t sneeze. You don’t move for a moment, trying to rationalize what’s before you. Then you say, “Kevin, stop messing around,” a bit angry now, a bit more scared. When you turn on the light switch, you see who is in the doorway.

It’s not Kevin.

A stranger stares at you, dressed in a black hoodie and stained jeans. His eyes are peering, curious, like when a bird watches a worm slither around before striking at it. This face will be one you will never forget. When you close your eyes at night, you will see his bloodshot brown eyes with green flakes, the deep wrinkles in his forehead caked with dirt, his thin cracked dehydrated lips, his long prominent nose that reminds you of Roman statues, and the patches of stubble along his thin cheeks and bruised chin. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you will imagine him smiling, his teeth black and yellow and cracked and missing. Sometimes, you will see him crying, tears leaving brown streaks along his emaciated cheeks. But mostly, you will see his eyes–dead, menacing, and cold. And the flashlight.

He lifts and turns the flashlight in his right hand, as if considering its weight as he plays with the grip. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

You understand what is about to happen, and the thought shakes you from your frozen state into sheer panic. Your stomach drops out as a pulse of adrenaline soars through your veins. You're hot then cold then hot again. There is sweat trickling down your face now but your body is shivering. And you find your voice. And you scream.

But not for long.

The flashlight comes down onto your temple, and with it, a heavy thud. The pain is momentarily delayed. All you feel is the rush of blood to the area as the skin swells and rises. A distant pulsating blurs your vision. When you tap your temple, it feels wet.

Then it comes down again. This time, to the back of your head, where you tie your ponytail when you play with your grandkids. Where you add that gold clip with red flowers that you like to wear when you go to weddings. Where your husband gives you a kiss sometimes when your back is to him. Where you press your head into your pillow on nights you can’t sleep, wondering how to fix your relationship with your daughters.

You brace yourself for another blow, certain now that it will be the one to turn your lights off permanently. But in the murky distance, you hear your husband’s heavy footsteps barreling down the stairs, and you see the stranger, with those green brown eyes, bolt for the door and disappear. You hear muffled cries and screams and sirens. All distant and fading.

Until it all goes black.