Maybe I fell and hit my head months back, and this is the insane dreaming of someone trapped in a coma? I muse right before a familiar grunt pulls me away from my thoughts and I look over at my companion of choice. Mr. Pickles is looking up at me from my right, and it’s an expression I’m all too familiar with on his chubby little scrunched-up face: hunger and the need to potty.
“You want to go out?” His response doesn’t come from a verbal cue, but a boop to my arm with his cold nose. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, chubby.”
Another noise of complaint before I can throw my legs over the edge of the bed, he jumps off and sits in front of the door. Mr. Pickles eyes me while I stand and stretch, little grumbles of annoyance passing through his lips while I shimmy my sleep shorts off and toss them aside before grabbing a comfy pair of sweats. I leave the plain grey tank top on with the built-in bra and rush to the bathroom after grabbing my cell, brushing my teeth in a haste while the impatient pup grumbles outside the door.
He eyes me from the threshold the entire time until we’re heading downstairs. Now, he wiggles from beside me with an extra pep in his trot until we reach the bottom step and I lose him as he runs out before me.
The back of my home sits on a decent-sized lot with no neighbor to my left and two large open yards at the side and back of the property. It’s overrun by trees planted by my uncle, and I haven’t had the heart to clear them out because they also protect me from the occasional nosy neighbor or passerby strolling down the sidewalk.
However, the closer to the door we get, my dog starts to shiver. There’s also a bit of warning in his bark. The low growl comes out, and he ignores the leash I picked up from the hook on the wall for our possible walk down the block. He’s not looking at me, but staring at the wooden door as if waiting for something to appear.
“Quit being silly and sit.” Mr. Pickles looks back but doesn’t listen. “Sit, buddy.” Again, he barks and this time bares his teeth, an action that is very uncommon for him, which puts me on edge. I don’t hear anything or see past the small shade on the windowpane so I pull it up, and everything seems as it does every day: green and more green with a hint of brown from the wooden deck. With him not listening, it’s hard to open the door so I pick him up, squirming and fighting in my hold, and walk us into the laundry room where I keep the travel dog crate. “Sorry, little guy. Let me check everything out, and I’ll be back to release you.”
In reply, his lips curl over his teeth and his eyes shift around. What the hell?
Closing the door to his crate, I step back into the kitchen and head straight for the back door without pause. My hand is on the knob and I turn it, pulling it open, and then let out a loud shriek.
Something falls back with a heavy thud. Its hair grazes my shin and when I look down, every cell in my body vibrates and a scream lodges itself in my throat, yet this time no sound comes out. Fear and shock overtake my senses and my anxiety spikes as wide, dead eyes look up at me from the floor.
His eyes are vacant. His face is a swollen, bloodied mess. The sole identifier on him is a small plastic name tag on his uniform shirt.
I take a step back and then another.
My legs shake. My chest rises and falls fast, not enough air entering its passageways as recognition strikes me.
Tim is dead. The same salesperson who just yesterday accosted me inside the art supply store and Theodore saved me from.
How? Why the hell is he here?
His throat is sliced clear across and the skin around it has what looks like small teeth marks embedded across the marred flesh. Several bites. Not human. He’s pale and tied up—a horror-struck expression on his face as the pain registered before his last breath.
“Call the cops,” I say, ordering myself with a steady voice that is devoid of the true panic building within. Every inhale is becoming harder. Every blink is failing to clear the sudden fuzziness in my vision, but it’s the slithering of something large and white making its presence known that breaks me.
My steps back are clumsy. Like a newborn colt without control of its extremities, and I trip, a helpless cry leaving my throat as I crash to the floor butt first. The sudden impact hurts, the pain shooting up my coccyx shocking me into a frozen state as I take in its appearance.
The animal’s eyes are on mine with its forked tongue flicking in and out, sensing the air around us. Its posture is unthreatening, yet it moves closer as it crawls over the dead body half lying within my home and half on the back porch.
I’ve never seen a snake like this, but I can automatically tell it’s an albino constrictor, though if it’s a python or boa eludes me. Moreover, no matter how hard my heart beats inside my chest, I press my lips hard together and remain still. Its movements are majestic, a predator knowing it has no threat here, and I’ve seen enough animal shows to know snakes sense movement and prey through their tongues.
And the last thing I want is for it to strike.
I want to appear bigger and unafraid. I want to get up and run. God knows I do, but I’m unable to so much as flinch while trapped in its gaze. The large body slides off the cadaver a few inches from me, coiling into itself while the head and a few feet of its body stand upright. Eyes a milky blue, the snake lifts its head and tilts it to the side, then waits. And waits.
No movement. No striking.
The only signs of its menacing power are the dead body and the albino skin wearing splatters of blood along the body and drying across its mouth. How did Tim get here? How did this snake end up here, killing him?
My rational mind isn’t looking at the gash across the man’s neck, but instead focusing on the bite marks and ripped skin straight across. Was it the pressure of a constrictor’s hold that forced the skin to split open, which he then further ripped apart with its jagged teeth?
A possibility? Yes. I’ve seen enough wild animal documentaries to know that they’re powerful and once the teeth sink in, tearing the flesh apart is the sole way to extract them.
Even as my mind conjures scenarios, the snake continues its perusal of me—judging my reactions while flicking its tongue lazily in and out. We stay like this for a while, without so much as a muscle twitching. A few beads of sweat dot my upper lip and brow, and yet, the animal isn’t showing any signs of aggression. His body is unmoving—watching.
I wait for the right time, psyching myself up to run toward the laundry room, when my cell phone rings. The sound is loud and the animal’s reaction is swift, turning away from me and slithering down the back porch area and then disappearing into the trees. This catches me off guard; one second it’s staring at me and the next, it’s gone, completely lost within the greenery and limbs of trees and the leaves on the ground.
I’m unable to move. I have no idea how long I stay with my eyes set on the area the constrictor disappeared to.
Again my phone rings and I ignore it until a loud banging at my front door accompanies it. Then, there’s the Ring alert telling me someone is at my door, and only then do I stand, noticing how much warmer the morning feels. My movements are on autopilot while my reaction is cold, eyes sweeping across the dead body before walking in the direction of the noise.
I don’t know how to act. I can’t even comprehend that this is real.
Is it, though? Could I still be asleep?
“This nightmare sure took a twist tonight,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at my front door as it comes into view. Someone is pressing incessantly on the doorbell, fist pounding, and I’m tempted to punch the person for making an even weirder dream more annoying. Without pause, I open the door and glare. “What now?”