[THE TAUNTING ON WASHINGTON AVE]

It was 9:30 pm, and the Hipsters at 34 were blasting a loud Reggae song on Washington Avenue. Enjoying the tune as she ran was 45-year-old Michelle Harper, a white woman on her nightly jog, who had made a U-turn at the Tennis court heading back to her apartment, the fourth house at the intersection of Washington and Maine. She had just pulled up outside when she decided to continue down.

Moments later, at the intersection, while waiting for the light to change, she noticed an old man staring from across the street, sitting at the Sage Town Senior Home. The man was rocking back and forth, shaking like someone with Parkinson’s.

Michelle felt cringed. But amused at how fast his hand was going. Green! The light changed, and she ran off, quickly glancing to the right at the many customers sitting at the Diner.

To her left was her elementary school, and beside that was the Lennord County library, which she was now approaching.

She was close by the steps when she abruptly stopped, for she thought she heard bawling. She spun when it happened again, but after a closer look, Michelle laughed because it was a scary movie showing inside.

[THE GAME WATCHER] – by: Andre Paul.

She chuckled, shook her head in irony, and ran off, only to charge right into a man who was coming up the library pavement. She lost her footing, lodging her face onto the man’s triceps.

Inhaling his wood-smoking scent, she coughed as it dispersed from his clothing.

“Sorry,” she said, staring up at a brute-looking man with a rugged beard and army clothing.

But what shook her the most was his tall, brown leather coat.

She apologized again when the man smiled and said.

“That is okay, love,” With a coarse British Accent, and walked off.

She pandered a little before running. She found the man's attire to be rather outlandish for the middle of July.

About a third of a mile down, an image of the man flashed in her mind, so she looked back, only to see him entering her house.

Michelle's heart had dropped to her knees, with a sinking feeling in her belly.

“Richard,” she said, and immediately ran back up Washington.

Back at the intersection, she heard a sharp cry that made her stop and quickly hide behind the bushes. Afraid to go in, she looked to see if anyone else was watching; creepily enough, only the rapidly shaking old man was outside. And even in her crisis, she couldn’t help but find the old man’s quivering intriguing.

“It is all done, mate,” she heard, as the man came out, wiping blood off his big Rambo knife and onto his coat.

“The wife wasn’t home,” he said.

Michelle's skin crawled as she remained hidden, watching him casually walk off and up Washington Avenue. She then looked at the old man, who didn’t say anything, but oddly nodded in the direction of her house, urging her to go in.

When Michelle got in, she saw her husband with his head missing, neck dug out like a carved pineapple.

Her knees got weak, with a slight wobble. It looks like she was having a silent witness moment, because up to now, she has not screamed or cried out in fright; she only dialed 911 and said:

“4 Washington Ave, Please,” she hung up, then sat next to the dead body, holding her knees, rocking as she waited.

A couple of minutes later, and unknown to her, only 2 cops had shown up!

They had parked outside, still sitting in their car. The officers seem to be in no rush, which could be a result of the limited information Michelle gave.

The two policemen were 54-year-old Barry Cranshaw, a black male with a bald head, wearing a suit, and 37-year-old Kail Hudson, a rookie white boy with blonde hair, in a faded cut and a tight uniform.

Barry was smoking a cigarette, looking at the changing lights, with no idea what awaited him inside. Hudson was tapping his fingers and looking through the window.

“Can you believe I was just getting ready to go home when I got this call?” Officer Crenshaw said, puffing his cigarette.

“Oh yeah,” Hudson replied when something else caught his attention.

“Sir, this old guy has been grilling us the moment we got here.” He said.

Cranshaw took a gander while putting out his cigarette.

“Looks like he has Parkinson's,” he replied, exiting the car.

He sighed, then looked at Michelle’s house.

“Let us get this over with,” he said, shutting the door.

The officers were about to make their way in when they heard an unexpected cry of a woman coming from the 3rd floor of the seniors’ home. Quickly pulling their guns, the officers hurriedly crossed the road, forgetting their initial call.

They were now standing by the old man, with somewhat of a surprise, because they had come to know the old man wasn’t shaking, as they had thought. There was no Parkinson's. He appears to be writing on many pieces of paper, with his eyes closed, which both officers found fascinating, but paid no attention.

“Let's go,” said Cranshaw and proceeded on.

When officers got to the 3rd floor, they saw a speaker box playing the agony of a helpless woman. Cranshaw glanced at Hudson before unplugging the box. Hudson, peering at the window, saw a big back man entering Michelle’s house, and got scared.

“Sir, Sir,” he said in a panic, pointing through the window, when Michelle cried out for help.

“Shit,” Cranshaw said, rushing back down.

On the outside, the old man was nodding in the direction of Michelle’s house.

Right away, the officers understood that he was insinuating that they should go inside.

“What a weirdo,” Hudson thought, side-eyeing the old man.

“Take the back, I will go in the front,” Cranshaw told him and ran off.

Moments after entering the house, he stumbled upon Richard’s headless body and immediately looked away, holding his mouth.

“Fuck,” he said, stepping over, when he saw his head on the chair next to him.

“Mrs. Harper,” he said.

“This is Detective Crenshaw here, are you okay, ma’am?” he asked, hearing heavy breathing coming from upstairs. When the Detective made it up the stairs, he saw the brute man slicing Michelle Harper’s throat. Long way up. And before he could pull his gun, the man cut his own throat. Long way up.

Cranshaw stepped back, avoiding the splattering blood, when his walkie-talkie came on.

It was Hudson.

“Sir, I heard another scream coming from the house next door. I think he might be another box. I’m going to check it out.”

“Okay, but be careful,”

“Something is not right,” Crenshaw thought, watching Michelle bleeding out.

“Sir, it is another box,” said Hudson, who had just made it inside and was still on the walkie. “Sir, you think someone is playing with us?” he asked.

“I think we should call it in,” he said.

“Not yet, that might draw a crowd. Meet me at the car, I need to tell you something,” Cranshaw told him, and went back downstairs.

Soon, the officers had made it back into the car when Hudson noticed an unusual amount of sweat gushing off Cranshaw.

“What happened in there, sir?” he asked.

“He got to her before I could, then kill himself.”

“Shit,”

“Should we call it in?” Hudson asked.

“Hold on, there is something else.”

“What?” Hudson asked.

“A man with his head cut off,”

“Shit, who?”

“I think they are realtors. But check this, the man's eyes were dug out and stuck back in his head.” He said.

“Why would someone want to kill a bunch of realtors?”

“Maybe they are mixed in something deep,” Crenshaw replied.

“Usually, the husband is the one who is mixed up,” he said.

“Call it in.”

Hudson quickly started the car, but it immediately died, which took them by surprise.

“What happened?” Crenshaw asked.

“It just died.”

“That is weird,”

“I will just use my phone,” said Crenshaw, when Hudson tried the car again, but the engine won’t turn over.

“Shit,” Crenshaw yelled knocking his phone on the dashboard, after realizing his cellphone had died as well.

When Hudson checked his, it was also dead.

Both men stared with uncertainty.

“Something unusual is going on, for sure,” Hudson said when they both heard:

“Bloop!”

“Bloop!”

“Bloop!”

“Bloop!”

That was the sound of all the streetlights shutting off one by one, leaving Washington Ave instantly pitch-black.

Cranshaw pandered.

“No fucking way,” Hudson blurted out.

“What?”

“This fucking old man again,” he said, with jealousy after seeing that old man was only one with lights on.

“Come on, sir, you have to find that strange,”

“Looks like everyone's phone went dead as well,” said Crenshaw, looking at the many who were exiting the diner, murmuring and checking their devices.

“Let us find a phone.” He said and exited the car.

Both men were now standing on the pavement, mentally unraveling this sudden, mysterious blackout.

The time was now 10:30 pm.

The mumbling had gotten louder because everyone had made it outside.

After about 4 seconds of asking what was going on, a single streetlight came back on at the intersection, which quickly grabbed everyone’s attention. Even Hudson and Cranshaw were looking at this one light that suddenly turned back on.

2 seconds later, a sexy white girl in a frail nightwear, with no underwear, and stiff nipples, appeared under the light with a gun to her head, and a phone in her hand. And while everyone looked at her hot body, she was only looking at Detective Crenshaw. The woman then placed the phone on the ground and said:

“THIS IS FOR YOU, DETECTIVE.”

“A MAN WILL BE CALLING SHORTLY,” and instantly shot herself in the head.

It happened so fast that it didn’t cause a panic, until they saw the two Officers coming down, saying, “Back up, nothing to see here.”

Crenshaw quickly picked up the phone when it suddenly rang.

After answering, he heard a deep-voiced man clearing his throat on the other side say:

“Hello, Detective, my name is Tarleton Cavalier, the Taunter. Nice to finally meet you,” he said.

“Who?” Cranshaw asked.

“Mr. Detective, I must have you know that I don’t have all night, so it is best you listen keenly,” the man said, and paused.

Then spoke.

“If you notice, for the past 30 minutes, there has been nothing but chaos, and you seem to be in the middle of it?”

“Yes, I have noticed,”

“Do you know why that is, Mr. Detective?”

“No,”

“Detective, they say you are the sharpest mind in Lennord County, who can solve any case. So, I’m here to approve that.”

“What?”

“Mr. Cranshaw, given your current location, are you seeing house number 4?”

“Yes,”

“Now keep watching.” He said, when the sound of a button pressing echoed from his side of the call. “See it yet, Detective?” he asked

“See what?”

2 seconds later…

“Shit, this guy is serious, sir,” said Hudson, when he saw the roof of Michelle’s house burst out in flame. Strangely, everyone who was watching seemed less affected by the fire, but more intrigued by the strange man.

The man spoke again.

“Every single house on Washington Ave is laced with explosives, but I don’t need to prove that to you, you already saw what happened to the Harpers.”

“What do you want?” Crenshaw asked.

“Detective, I’m calling from one of these buildings, and I want you to tell me which one. You have 5 minutes, and as promised, I will light up every single house like the Fourth of July if your answer is wrong.”

The man hung up.

“What!” Cranshaw said as the dial tone rang in his ears.

He was now looking at Hudson, who was quiet for some reason.

“You, okay, rookie?”

“Yeah, it was just something he said that got me thinking,”

“He mentioned something about the Harpers. Is that the name of the dead realtor?” Hudson asked.

“Yes,” Cranshaw replied.

“So, it must be Richard Harper,”

“What are you getting at, son?” Cranshaw asked.

“I don’t know, sir, but yesterday his name came up as a person of interest, something to do with gold shares in Lennord county,”

“I think we should just focus on all the buildings in plain sight. We only have 3 minutes left,” Crenshaw said.

Hudson then looked up at the clock tower: it was now 10:57 pm.

“I think he's calling from elementary school?” he said.

“Maybe,” Cranshaw replied.

“I say it is the old people's home,” said Hudson, following up with an off-topic question.

“What do you think he is writing?”

“Who?”

“The old man,” Hudson said.

“It is so weird that he is the only one who appears to be unbothered, as if he doesn’t know what is going on.”

“It could be contrary,” Cranshaw said.

“What do you mean?” Hudson asked.

“He is probably the only one who knows what is going on.”

“I see,”

“So, where do you think he is calling from, sir?”

“I don’t know where he is calling from?” Cranshaw replied, a little frustrated

“We only have 5 seconds left,” said Hudson, who started counting down:

4-3-2-1-0

They looked at each other, and the strange caller didn’t waste a second before calling back.

“Hello,” Crenshaw answered.

“Detective, what is the location of my location?” the man asked, while everyone patiently awaited Crenshaw’s response.

“You are not here,” he said, which shocked everyone, even Hudson.

“What, are you sure, sir?” he asked, with a surprised tone, when the Taunter shouted.

“Incorrect, you are not the sharpest mind,” and hung up.

It took only 3 seconds of silence before they all watched the roofs of every house on Washington Avenue go up in flames. Detective Crenshaw held his head down when something else happened. Something super strange!

The old man who was still writing had come to a stop, put his pen down, stood up, and stared only at Detective Crenshaw, then uttered the darndest thing.

“A FEW HOURS LATER,” he said and waved his hand.

When Hudson and the others suddenly vanish without a trace, leaving only Cranshaw, who saw that the flames from the houses abruptly extinguished themselves, and the sky was filled with rising ashes. He then saw the clock tower jump from 11 pm to 5 am.

“Shit,” he said, when he saw his car disappeared as well.

Cranshaw, too, had vanished from the intersection.

The old man was now drinking coffee and watching the morning grow darker with the burning ashes when he saw a man and a woman coming out from Michelle’s house dressed in black. The woman got in the car, but the man waved and walked over to him.

“Good morning, sir.” He said.

The old man smiled.

“I knew you were calling from the Harper’s,” he said.

The man laughed.

“And how did you know that?”

“You see, boy, it was the most unexpected place to search, since it was the first to catch on fire,”

“Very clever,” he replied.

“Why didn’t you tell them where I was?” the man asked.

“Because that would end the story too quickly,” the old man replied.

“Who are you, sir?” the man asked.

“I’m a writer, and I was writing a book, which is due soon,” he replied.

“What is the book called?”

“I have not given it a name yet,”

“I think you should call it the Taunting of Washington Avenue.” The man said.

The old man laughed, “Not bad,” he replied.

“So, how did the story end?”

“What?” the old man asked.

“How did the story end?” the man asked again.

“What,” the old man replied, and began to vibrate rapidly, disappearing and reappearing as a younger man, in bed in a hotel in Sicily, wearing a plaid robe, sweatpants, and a strange black helmet.

With the young man were three others. A woman sitting in a frail nightwear with no panties and stiff nipples, smoking weed while a slow Bob Marley song played.

The other two were a man and a woman dressed like scientists, asking the young man, “How did the story end?”

The man then sat up.

“Wow, that was crazy,” he said, taking off the helmet and getting up from the bed.

“It felt so real. What is it?” he asked.

“It is called the Writer 3000, sir.” The female scientist told him.

“What exactly happened before I entered the story?” he asked.

“Sir, you had requested your character to be an old man sitting at the elder home watching the story, as you write,”

“Amazing, so what is this thing truly?” he asked.

“We believe it is alien technology that transferred thoughts to paper.”

“This is dangerous. How did you get it?”

“The government gave it to us to try out, so we came to the greatest author to do so.”

“You said it is alien technology?”

“Yes, they took it from a boy from another world,” the male scientist said, pausing.

“Sir,” he said.

“Yes,”

“How does the story end?” he asked.

“I asked like 3 times, but you were already waking up,” he said.

The young man then took off his robe. Walked over to the woman sitting in her nightwear. Pinched her stiff nipple, she smiled, took up a joint, lit it, then walked to the balcony, and said:

“WASHINGTON WAS A DECOY.”

“MICHELLE HAD TEAMED UP WITH HER LOVER TARLETON CAVALIER AND STOLE HER HUSBAND'S EYES SHE DIGGED OUT TO GAIN ACCESS TO HIS GOLD.

“THEY TOOK EVERYTHING WHILE EVERYONE WAS DISTRACTED”

“DO YOU HAVE A TITLE NAME YET, SIR?”

“YES [THE TAUNTING ON WASHINTON AVE],” HE SAID, AND SMILED.

WHEN THEY ALL WITNESSED A BEAM SHOT OUT FROM THE HELMET, ILLUMINATING A STICHING LIKE SOUND, AND STARTED TO MANIFEST A PHYSICAL HARD COVER BOOK WITH GOLD LINING.