Cades Cove 01 - Cades Cove: A Novel of Terror (56 page)

There’s nothing like that going on tonight. No weird feelings, like being watched from all directions, and no cold spots. Just the beautiful glow of polished pine logs under the dimmed accent lights in the ceiling’s apex above. Fiona looks so peaceful. But the dog looks on edge, and I can hear her growls from up here, dwarfed only by the air conditioner and the collective snores from both floors.

“
What’s up, girl?” I asked her, sweetly, once I returned to the main level.

Gypsy’s a smart dog. A breed that understands several hundred words from the English language. According to my wife, our pooch really only responds to
how
we say something. Correctly interpreting the words is more hit and miss, depending on tone, like my sugared approach a moment ago.

Gypsy trotted over to the back door and whined. Maybe she needed to go out. Just the same, I grabbed the .44 magnum we have registered with the local Sheriff’s Department from the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard and a couple of rounds from the utility drawer. The gun loaded and ready, we stepped out onto the back porch together.

A great view in the daytime, our property sits on six wooded acres. My dream home, I truly believe I could live here forever, as long as I can pay the bills. I love the quiet solitude. Unlike me, Fiona dreams of an old home in historic Franklin, where the essence of the Civil War and a world long forgotten in much of America still thrives. No, it’s not redneck racist. Not at all. But the quaint shops and restaurants near the downtown square make most anyone think of Mayberry or any of the other quaint towns that defined the 1950s golden age of middle class America. Not to mention the stately mansions and smaller Victorian homes near the square.

Maybe someday she’ll get her wish...though I’m not a neighborly guy. Hence the preference for our cabin in the woods. I’m not into sharing my pad with any ghosts, either, which is almost an assured reality if you own an older home in Franklin. Most owners of a place that predates 1900 are proud of their spirit buddies and can readily provide the departed entity’s earthly name.

Anyway, after sniffing the air and checking the deck’s perimeter, Gypsy ran down the steps to do her business. On alert for her barks that could flush out a prowler’s location, I held the pistol in front of me, loaded and ready to go.

But all she offered was a low grunt before coming up the stairs. Enough to make me linger on the deck for a moment, I tried picturing the layout of the brush and shorter trees closer to our home, since I couldn’t make out a damned thing beyond the back security lights’ reach.

I gave the dog her treat once back inside and took one last stroll around the main floor. Still nothing amiss...I wondered if it was just a coincidence I woke up when I did, and that my overactive imagination had gotten the better of me.

Then I heard footsteps on the front driveway, pressing softly against the gravel, and moving away from the house. I thought about running outside and waving the gun...maybe even firing a warning shot. Then I’d demand whoever was out there to reveal themselves before I….

“
Before I
what
?” I wondered aloud.

Before I got myself killed? Lord knows I have a good enough aim to hit something dead on from a hundred feet in daylight. But at night? Hell no. I’d be lucky to hit anything from thirty feet. Damned lucky.

So I peered through the front curtain instead, pulling it back ever so carefully. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a dark silhouette was crouched, backing up slowly toward the street. Of course, now the dog figured out what I was up to and let out a shrill yelp. Loud enough to wake Fiona again.

“
What’s going on, hon?” she asked, groggily, half asleep.

“
Nothing, babe,” I told her, while giving Gypsy a threatening
shush!
to make sure she shut the hell up.

I had to be careful and quick, or else my wife might catch on to what I was doing. Thank God she hadn’t noticed the pistol in my hand.

I peered though the curtain again. I couldn’t be sure if the figure heard my dog, but that’d be my assumption. Whoever it was now stood at the edge of our driveway, in the street, and probably saw me too, despite my efforts to remain concealed. Right before they disappeared for good, the sucker shot me a bird.

Definitely not the Good Humor Man.

A minute or so later I heard an engine start up down the road. I waited nearly half an hour—long after it faded away—before going back to bed, which tonight remained the sofa. Snuggled up against Fiona with Gypsy curled near our feet and the gun tucked safely under a pillow, I kept my ears open for anything else…for our dark-clad visitor to return. It would be the last thing I remembered from that night, other than the dawn’s light creeping in through our living room window, announcing its promise of a long and weary Thursday.

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