YAPPER
A short and scary treat for Halloweenđ€
For all the yappers. But mostly for the dogs who makes our dark hearts and dark days just a little bit brighter. đ¶
Yapping should be outlawed.
All forms of it.
The gals on a night out, their slippery tongues wagging, lips open close, open close as they bark bark bark the latest gossip. Or the babies, their mouths in an O, a yowl of some simplistic discomfort, basic and human but still so God awful annoying. The men with their howls, like coyotes in a cemetery after a long evening hunting kitty cats who shouldnât be out.
Yapping should be outlawed, but it wouldnât matter if it was.
In the end, the law made no difference here.
LeAnne had been listening to the neighborâs Shih Tzu, Margot yap in their yard since sunset. She was sick of the racket, but she was sympathetic to the reason.
In this neighborhood, Halloween out shone New Yearâs Eve, it rivaled the Fourth of July. The chaos in the streets was only matched by the chaos in the skies. Well past the witching hour, from every backyard, front yard, the middle of the street in some cases, the bang of fireworks shooting like mini rockets on high could be heard, seen, felt.
That ordinance, no fireworks within the city limits was ignored.
Cops were out there lighting the match, watching the fuse burn until that glorious boom. They were in on it, part of the mayhem, and they only cared about having their fun.
Every crack rattled in LeAnneâs bones and she wondered if Margot felt the same way. She had been sitting in the dark den of her house, all the curtains drawn closed and all the lights down low, since the children were released from their houses.
Almost as long as Margot had been yapping.
LeAnne hated this holiday just as much as Margot hated the fireworks.
She hated the way it brightened all their faces, the way it brought them all together. She hated how they carried on like normal, like last year hadnât even happened.
There had been a time when she had loved itâof course there had been a time. She had dawned zombie make-up, carved out the Jack-O-Lantern. She had strung up orange and black lights, set the skeleton on the porch swing, turned on the light and waited.
But that was then. Before those kids did what they did, and no one, not the law, not the parents, not anyone, cared to make sure they paid for it.
Consequences.
There were no consequences here, that much was clear to LeAnne.
She laid her head to rest against the back of her arm-chair, closing her eyes and the book in her hand.
Crack.
Yap yap yap.
The pound of her heart shot blood to her limbs as adrenaline split her body in two. One half wanted to shoot to her feet, the other had gone numb. Fingers and an arm and the half of her heart that belonged to Rusty. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She hated to get up and go over there, knowing full well that Penelope and Roger would smileâchipper and cordialâinvite her in for a cocktail, ask her about work and explain their costumes as if she had asked, or cared. Â
LeAnne was thinking of the last time she left her house on Halloween night and come back to a waking nightmare.
The last time she had let her guard down.
Pop pop pop.
Yappppp.
No, it had to be done.
She pushed up from the chair, abandoning her book on the table beneath the glow of her solitary light source. She would go to the fence they shared, peek eyes over and just ask. Surely they were home. Penelope never missed an opportunity to hand out candy, or watch the lightshow from the back porch on their plush outdoor furniture.
LeAnne glanced at her watch. Hours to go before the end of this chaos.
She would ask them to put Margot inside. They had solid, soundproofed windows and wallsâa part of the remodel job that Roger was always going on about whenever the smallest silence split a conversation. His one pride and joy, he would say with a chuckle, and Pen would roll her eyes, smack his arm because of course she was the reason for the house and the yard and the yapper. She was the reason they lived in this suburb and grilled out on Sundays and had cut flowers in vases all over the house.
This was Penâs dream, and Roger was merely making it come true.
LeAnne stepped out her back door and let it click closed. The air already smelled densely of smoke from the fireworks, but was silent of birds chirping. They had all hopefully fled to some other less inconsiderate neighborhood, where people respected life, no matter how fleeting, how tender it might be.
She walked to the fence, ears open for the sounds of her neighbors yapping, but still all she could hear was Margot. High pitched and hoarse. Desperation and exhaustion ringing through the sound.
Last year, LeAnne had left the house to see if Margot wanted to come over to sit with her and Rusty inside. It might not have quieted her completely, but the insolation of the house, the presence of another dog, there had to be some comfort in that. Pen and Roger could enjoy the fireworks and come get Margot when it was all overâdidnât matter how late.
She had left her front porch light on.
And that was her mistake.
They saidâparents, the cops, the judge evenâit was Trick or Treat gone too far. The kids let Rusty out, what happened to him after wasnât their fault.
But LeAnne disagreed.
What happened to Rusty wasnât anything but cruelty.
A crack broke LeAnne from her memory, snapping her back into herself just in time to hear Roger and Penâs back door slide open.
âShut the fuck up,â Rogerâs voice raged into the yard.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Yelp.
LeAnne knew the sound. The whimper of fear that followed that unmistakable cry of pain. She could imagine the curled over cower of Margotâs tiny white and black body, the tuck of her tail. She could see it clearly because she had seen it before.
A memory flashed through her mind. Hunched in the back of her closet, her arms around, Gracie the little lab mix. Her whisper to stay quiet, a whisper that wouldnât be enough to save them. She remembered the swath of light as the door swung open. The bark of bravery. And then that smack.
LeAnne peered through a slit in the fence.
Margot inched forward, submissive, trying to make nice.
Roger kicked her again.
LeAnne felt it hit her square in the chest.
Crack.
The door slid closed.
In this moment, LeAnne had a singular focus. Get the dog, worry about the man later. She slipped over to the gate and exited her yard, crouching low as she passed those sound proof widows all covered in fake cobwebs and plastic spiders. Her eyes strayed through a gap in the webbing.
Red all over the cabinets. Pooling on the floors.
A hand, pink nails with hand painted ghosts lay soaking in a pool of the same color.
And suddenly, she knew why Margot had been yapping this whole time.
A different crack all together.
Not some simplistic discomfort, not to spread gossip like the gals. Her yap was one of bravery. It was a cry for help. Even if cries for help went unheard, consequences not delivered. As it dawned on LeAnne that Roger chose tonight because he thoughtâand he was rightâthat he would have plenty of time to clean up his mess, plenty of noise to cover his tracksâLeAnne also realized that she couldnât hear Margot at all now. Â
The yapper had gone silent.
LeAnne didnât have to think about what she would do next. Her muscles started to move; legs paced forward, fingers curled around the metal gate handle. She emerged into her neighborâs backyard.
Her eyes scanned for a puff of black and white as her heart raced.
They landed on the tiny dark pads of Margotâs paw. LeAnne crouched, practically crawled toward the shape. She could faintly make out in her periphery, movement from inside the house, but it didnât matter to her what Roger was doing right now.
It mattered to her what he had already done.
She moved around the outdoor couch and there she stopped. Margot lay on the edge of the paver slab porch. Smaller than a stuffed toy dog. Defenseless and helpless andâ
Breathing.
Her tiny chest lifted, lowered, lifted, lowered. There was a rush of heat through LeAnneâs chest, up her neck, into her eyes. She touched the dogâs little head and almost screamed when Margotâs nose tipped up, her tongue swept out for a tentative lick.
Something was off in Margotâs body, hurting her enough to keep her from moving more, but LeAnne could help with that.
Right after she took care of Roger.
She tugged her phone from her pocket and raised it. Through the screen she saw him standing over Penâs delicate corpse. Her head bashed in, brains all over the white tile floor. He wore a clear plastic raincoat and held a jagged edged handsaw, his face all sprayed with blood, his hair peppered with bits of bone, of brain. His eyes glowed with a feral sort of joy. Â
LeAnne was glad sheâd gotten the phone with the good camera.
She was grateful for the noise and chaos and Rogerâs sense of safety in it. Â
The law may not have mattered here, but gossip always did.
As LeAnne hit send, she smiled. It was good, in the end, that yapping wasnât outlawed. It was the only way to make to call attention to the horror nobody ever wanted to see.Â