Chapter 1
The rumbling, quaking sound of a diesel engine interrupted Janna's
sleep but did not wake her. She stirred in her bed, nonetheless, her
long dark hair splayed across the pillow and sheets and some of her
face.
Whatever large truck that mean motor belonged to—it squealed to
a stop right outside and ran idle for a moment before being
extinguished by the turn of a driver's hand.
The sound of doors opening, closing, and stuff being moved outside,
pulled her from the deep depths of darkness. She did not stir, but
R.E.M. sleep was gone, had fluttered away with the beginnings of a
dream she would never know. Uuug!
Lastly, the loud voices tore her from all relaxation, any chance of
sleeping in. She was up, moaning, annoyed and uncomfortable.
Janna knew she didn't need to sleep in, anyway. She slept in every
day as is, waking when most working stiffs were stuffing their faces
with lunch. Then again, the thirty-one-year-old woman had no job, no
responsibilities, no boyfriend, no life. What was there to wake up
to? The poster of David Beckham hanging on her closet door? (Sure,
until you get bored of seeing the same pose and expression for the
millionth time). The house that was so quiet it seemed
ear-numblingly loud? The many empty rooms which had not been
frequented for years? Not hardly.
The noises .... the voices outside. They made her
curious. There were two of them, both male, both possessing a sharp
southern accent. Someone was probably moving into the house across
the street. Finally. After two lengthy seasons. The place had not
been occupied for the past five months, despite the hoards of people
who'd taken walkthroughs. The grass around the premises was knee-high
now; the For Sale sign was bent, discolored, dirty and looked years
old.
Getting lazily out of bed, Janna stumbled across the room toward the
window that overlooked Smith Street, a narrow, paved one-way that was
perhaps the most boring, uneventful street in the U.S. With a finger,
she pulled down a slat from the blinds and peered out. The dying
leaves of an oak somewhat blocked her view of the action, but through
some swaying, rust-colored foliage she could see two black men
struggle to carry a large cider chest from the back of a Uhaul. One
man looked sixty, his short, puffy hair like the end of a Q-tip. The
other looked eighteen, his head clean shaven and covered with tribal
tattoos. They barely got the chest down the ramp. Once they did, they
paused to take a rest.
“ Yeah,
Mike, sucker weighs a ton. Gettin' too old for this shit, buddy,”
she heard the old one say.
“ Aww,
come on, Quin. You've lifted heavier than this before, for a much
longer time.”
“ Yeah,
a few years ago. Time catches up with you, believe me. Just be glad
you're young.”
Was this God talking to her? Sending her a subliminal message? Janna
thought. Was She saying, “Fall in love and get married and have
kids before you can't anymore? Start your life before you die an old
hag, alone, depressed and bitter?” Or was it her paranoid mind
saying these things with no relevance to the truth?
I am so desperate.
She waited for the neighbors to show themselves. Either they weren't
here yet or were already inside. Was it a family? A couple? Another
elderly person to add to the already ten thousand on Smith Street? A
cute, single guy?
Yeah, right. Very desperate.
The chances were slim, of course. For all she knew, the person who
was moving in could have been the next Jeffrey Dahmer.
It could have been a priest.
It could have been anybody.
But pondering over it, if anything, sure was fun and exciting.
Brushing her thoughts aside, Janna ran to the bathroom to rid herself
of the several ounces of Mountain Dew still flowing through her
system since last night. Relieved, she went downstairs to toast a
couple of waffles which she ate on her living room couch while
watching the Price is Right, her favorite game show. Plinko was her
favorite game. She could watch those chips
The rumbling, quaking sound of a diesel engine interrupted Janna's
sleep but did not wake her. She stirred in her bed, nonetheless, her
long dark hair splayed across the pillow and sheets and some of her
face.
Whatever large truck that mean motor belonged to—it squealed to
a stop right outside and ran idle for a moment before being
extinguished by the turn of a driver's hand.
The sound of doors opening, closing, and stuff being moved outside,
pulled her from the deep depths of darkness. She did not stir, but
R.E.M. sleep was gone, had fluttered away with the beginnings of a
dream she would never know. Uuug!
Lastly, the loud voices tore her from all relaxation, any chance of
sleeping in. She was up, moaning, annoyed and uncomfortable.
Janna knew she didn't need to sleep in, anyway. She slept in every
day as is, waking when most working stiffs were stuffing their faces
with lunch. Then again, the thirty-one-year-old woman had no job, no
responsibilities, no boyfriend, no life. What was there to wake up
to? The poster of David Beckham hanging on her closet door? (Sure,
until you get bored of seeing the same pose and expression for the
millionth time). The house that was so quiet it seemed
ear-numblingly loud? The many empty rooms which had not been
frequented for years? Not hardly.
The noises .... the voices outside. They made her
curious. There were two of them, both male, both possessing a sharp
southern accent. Someone was probably moving into the house across
the street. Finally. After two lengthy seasons. The place had not
been occupied for the past five months, despite the hoards of people
who'd taken walkthroughs. The grass around the premises was knee-high
now; the For Sale sign was bent, discolored, dirty and looked years
old.
Getting lazily out of bed, Janna stumbled across the room toward the
window that overlooked Smith Street, a narrow, paved one-way that was
perhaps the most boring, uneventful street in the U.S. With a finger,
she pulled down a slat from the blinds and peered out. The dying
leaves of an oak somewhat blocked her view of the action, but through
some swaying, rust-colored foliage she could see two black men
struggle to carry a large cider chest from the back of a Uhaul. One
man looked sixty, his short, puffy hair like the end of a Q-tip. The
other looked eighteen, his head clean shaven and covered with tribal
tattoos. They barely got the chest down the ramp. Once they did, they
paused to take a rest.
“ Yeah,
Mike, sucker weighs a ton. Gettin' too old for this shit, buddy,”
she heard the old one say.
“ Aww,
come on, Quin. You've lifted heavier than this before, for a much
longer time.”
“ Yeah,
a few years ago. Time catches up with you, believe me. Just be glad
you're young.”
Was this God talking to her? Sending her a subliminal message? Janna
thought. Was She saying, “Fall in love and get married and have
kids before you can't anymore? Start your life before you die an old
hag, alone, depressed and bitter?” Or was it her paranoid mind
saying these things with no relevance to the truth?
I am so desperate.
She waited for the neighbors to show themselves. Either they weren't
here yet or were already inside. Was it a family? A couple? Another
elderly person to add to the already ten thousand on Smith Street? A
cute, single guy?
Yeah, right. Very desperate.
The chances were slim, of course. For all she knew, the person who
was moving in could have been the next Jeffrey Dahmer.
It could have been a priest.
It could have been anybody.
But pondering over it, if anything, sure was fun and exciting.
Brushing her thoughts aside, Janna ran to the bathroom to rid herself
of the several ounces of Mountain Dew still flowing through her
system since last night. Relieved, she went downstairs to toast a
couple of waffles which she ate on her living room couch while
watching the Price is Right, her favorite game show. Plinko was her
favorite game. She could watch those chips
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