One Evening in Suburbia
By Scott Craven
The night was as dark as Monica’s mood.
Not the night specifically, but the veil of inky blackness stretched across the horizon blotting out the weed-choked lots bordering their quiet street. She first noticed a few weeks ago a thin, dark, and impenetrable line that blocked all light, like a black hole without an event horizon. When she first noticed it as a thin line across the night horizon, she wrote it off as an optical illusion, like wavy heat lines emanating from pavement on a summer day. She could no longer ignore it as it slowly advanced over the days and weeks. It disappeared with the first light of day but returned, a bit closer, each night, creeping along the emptiness of the failed subdivision that Ed had insisted they buy into.
Monica still kicked herself for being talked into the deal, buying one of the three model homes that remained of someone’s failed dreams. Bad enough that it came with a ninety-minute commute each way, but it also was a magnet for every field mouse within ten miles. Ed’s promises of future development turned out to be as empty as his ambition, which was clear just a few weeks ago when he told her he was quitting his job because “I’m just not feeling it anymore.”
Thinking back, that was the day when Monica first noticed this odd lighting phenomenon. That morning, over Monica’s famous omelets, Ed mentioned he had decided unemployment was his best career choice. She fretted about it for hours, even as she drove home after another long day at work. She barely paid attention to the darkness, more concerned about how they were going to keep the lights on.
Monica pulled into the driveway and shut off the car, the garage off-limits since Ed turned it into a gym he never used. She grabbed her laptop off the passenger seat, glancing in the rearview mirror. Was that wave of darkness actually closer than it was a few minutes ago? No matter, she had bigger concerns than an odd atmospheric condition that would vanish with the sunrise.
Not that Monica would mind if she got home one day to find it swallowed by whatever the hell this was. “Tell you what, I’d just turn around and start over, yessir,” Monica mumbled, not the first time she’d said such a thing out loud, and mostly where Ed could hear.
She took a deep, calming breath as she walked to the front door, all tension returning as soon as she heard the country music blaring inside. This meant a likely argument ahead when she would turn it down to talk, something Ed was rarely interested in these days. She turned the knob and pressed at the door, only it didn’t open, and her nose banged against the wood. Monica might understand a locked door if they lived in an actual “neighbor” hood, but here? And what did they have that was worth driving an hour to take? Not much of a black market for drum kits, about the only thing of value they (Ed) owned. It was still practically new, since Ed lost interest two YouTube instructional videos into his passion.
Monica fumbled for her keys, headed inside and shouted, “Alexa, off,” resulting in merciful silence. For a few seconds, at least.
“Hey, hon,” Ed’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’m in the kitchen.”
He was always in the kitchen when she got home. Not to cook, but to assemble the ingredients that she’d be cooking. Monica saw the wok on the cold stove, knowing the complicated Japanese dish he expected from her.
Swallowing her frustration but not her hunger, Monica resigned herself to the way things were. That’s when she noticed a credit card bill on the counter. Two things stood out: the name of an unfamiliar bank, and “Past Due” printed in red.
“Oh, that?” Ed said, noticing her gaze. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. You know it will just give you a headache.”
There it was, a threat that was no longer as indirect as she once thought it was. Not that he’d ever hit her, but he had come close. So close. His fist was just as fearsome when it plunged through drywall inches from her skull than if it had struck her directly. His temper was a barrel of TNT and arguments over money the short fuse.
“What did you do, Ed?” Monica said, nodding toward the bill knowing he left it out to bait her.
“I said it’s nothing. Pick up a few extra shifts and it goes away. Poof.” He splayed his fingers like a magician, as if he could really make anything disappear besides their relationship. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”
Monica wasn’t sure exactly how the argument started. Did she actually hurl the wok into the dining room? But she knew how it ended an hour later, when he raised his hand to her, and she reached for a knife. Realizing where this could have ended, Monica rushed outside before her rage consumed her. She gulped deep breaths of cool air and wondered if this was the night she’d had enough. Only something else caught her eye.
The darkness was advancing. She couldn’t see their mailbox or the houses on either side. The blackness was swallowing things whole, and it shimmered with energy. Or … expectation? Like a living thing, and hungry.
Monica went back inside and there was Ed, watching TV as if nothing had happened. “Dinner?” he said.
Anger again welled inside her.
BANG! BANG! BANG! The entire house shuddered under the pounding at the front door. Monica peeked through the slats and then turned to her husband.
“It’s for you.”
