Crooked Stick Figures

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The house was beautiful, carved of rough black stone, the hills around it alive with vegetation, stubborn in their fight with the coming fall. Trees littered the property, some of the branches nearly touching the roof. There were no lights on inside. The nearest neighbor wasn’t visible from here, and I wondered who had made the call to Child Protective Services. I stepped from my Jeep hoping that this was just some kid trying to get their parents in trouble, not a spouse who was sick of her partner taking aggression out on their son or daughter with a fist or razor.

Storm clouds mounted and turned the sky nearly black by noon. The house’s shadow stretched toward me like midnight taffy, secretions of nightmares long held close to my heart. The skin on the base of my neck itched as I neared the stone steps with an empty file folder dangling from my left hand. I was only here to ask questions, to find out what was going on between parents and children and make an assessment. But the promises we make to help are nothing more than words until they hold beneath the weight of action. My knees creaked as I neared the large doors. I hit the doorbell and waited, thankful for the comfort of the pistol hidden beneath my coat. Child Protective Services didn’t endorse it, but I’d seen enough to know it’s best to be prepared for anything. Evil lurks right over our shoulders because it can bind itself to the hearts and thoughts of our neighbors.

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