Blood Runs Cold

The pair of them stood out on the narrow porch and stared deep into the night. The distant city lights twinkled around angry red and white streams of opposing traffic. Far off voices carried on the wind, rendered shapeless whispers. The summer heat lingered from the long past sunset. The humidity held scents close, of wetlands nearby and rotten underbrush.

A howl cried out.

“Dog.”

“Mmm.”

The silence bloomed with imagined violence; the horizon threatened light. A glance pushed that back. One stood very still, the other’s face lined with a question. The night grew still again; their words filled the silence.

“The estate agent assured me this is a safe suburb.”

“They always do.”

“Middle-class too.”

“Good.”

Their boots scraped and scratched on the dusty floorboards, each loud creak bringing a fleeting hush to the rushing of the cicadas in the dark trees edging the property. Step and listen. Step and listen.

“It comes with a spacious basement.”

“Mhmm.”

“The windows can be blacked out.”

“Seldom a problem.”

The porch surrounded the home, swing bench on one side and two armchairs on the other. Perfect to while away the warm nights drinking a full-bodied, deep red. Across a thick, lush lawn stood a high palisade with concrete pillars that ringed the property and wrought iron gates to secure the single entrance.

Not much of a deterrent at the worst of times.

Another howl, much further away this time, its direction lost in the hot breeze that dragged more scents with it. Hints of the city now, fumes, smog, cars and trucks. Dry ash, chalky with an undercurrent of old pepper.

“There aren’t any living nearby.”

“And they would know how? They go door to door?”

“The census.”

“Hmmph. No privacy for us too then.”

The neighbouring homes were lit outside, the inside lights off or muted this time of night. Some flickered blue and white, lone night owls watching.

“Well, we fit in a bit better than they do.”

“That’s about timing.”

“For them as well.”

“Dinner parties over barbecues.”

“We won’t be short of invites.”

“How long do we have here?”

Again a glance to the horizon, not even grey. They circled the dark house once more, peering in through the windows. The sinking silver crescent lighting it clear as day. It had a too-large kitchen, a wasteful family room. But there were other charms too — a welcome dark corridor with small windows limiting excess natural light. The trees again lending their own shadows to help matters.

“Hours at most, I’m sure it’s been a long day for her.”

“Are there any other offers I mean?”

They tested the doors and found them locked.

“No, none as yet.”

“Can we keep it that way?”

“Darling, you like it that much?”

“Well, it is a nice basement.”

In an overly lit dining room, the two couples finished the second course of a very well attempted meal, for the times at least. The hosts’ children slept in their rooms, their breathing and quiet dreams audible to the guests. The conversation fell at that moment, only the sound of steel cutlery on emptying plates.

“Are you sure you had enough?” asked the wife.

“Plenty, thank you.”

The blade sliced through the remaining bare and bloody steak, grilled vegetables a nod only to civility, lay undisturbed around the side of their plates.

“Was it rare enough?” asked the husband.

“Almost kicking,” said one.

“Just how we like it,” said the other.

“Me too,” said the husband, chewing on his far-too-cooked medium-rare.

A dog barked, cutlery clattered onto the floor.

“Please, don’t worry, she’s locked up in the back.”

“Good.”

The errant knife and fork were replaced with new ones, the dirty ones spirited away to the kitchen.

“I don’t mean to pry, but was there an issue before with — ?”

“With canines? Yes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s sad to hear,” said the wife.

“Our Sally, is lovely though, you have nothing to worry about,” said the husband.

“People always say that.”

Last morsels were shepherded around plates holding their intense focus until finally eaten. Filling the drawn moment. A gentle elbow reminded one that the other had said they were trying to be different this time.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. It’s not even dogs really. They’re just a reminder of a rougher sort. But thankfully, I’ve been told by everyone we’ve asked around here that we don’t have to worry about them in our neighbourhood.”

The nudger smiled and placed the knife and fork down gently, wiping the bloody corners of the mouth with the stark white cloth of the napkin.

“We’re delighted to live in such a safe and peaceful neighbourhood. With the right sort of neighbours. You know.”

“We don’t like mixing too much. We prefer a certain kind.”

The husband and wife shifted in their seats and shared a glance.

“Which kind?” said the wife.

“Well, it’s impolite to say. We’re not, you know, keen on the rougher sort. They’re not refined like present company.”

“Impoverished, ill-disciplined, crude, lazy, languishing behind the rest of us — “

A firm nudge now silenced the other, a frown flickered across pale and unwrinkled skin. A deep breath and a polite smile forced clear the furrows so fast they might never have been there.

The wife looked at her husband.

The husband sent a question back with a tightening of the skin around his eyes. His wife answered with an urgent widening of her already large eyes.

The husband turned to their guests, wiped his mouth and looked at them. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, sat up taller in his seat.

He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, but do you mean black people?”

Again the frown returned, and their spines stiffened.

“Oh god no, what difference would that make to us? No, no no, I mean Howlers.”

The guests’ posture relaxed. They shared a smile, their hands resting in their laps.

“What?”

The hosts frowned, the guests shared a glance.

“You know, werewolves.”