the lawn into the development.
His had been one of the first houses they had built out there. It had been time for a change, and having the developer living in the neighborhood was always a great selling feature, especially when trying to sell houses in the six to eight hundred thousand dollar range.
His house was towards the back of the area, butting up against the green belt of the Air Force property. He could see the outline of three other houses against the darkened sky, their modern design a complete contrast to the pristine environment around them. Evergreen-covered hills rolled all around them, blocking the views of the other houses as well as the sound of the construction as they frantically worked to finish all of the other houses by their deadline.
The smell of sap from the needles of the pines all around him filled the air, carried upon the crisp winter wind. And for one moment, as the waning moon peered from behind a cluster of clouds, he felt completely at ease. But only for that moment.
Turning, he walked back into the house, closing the front door behind him. The wave of heat from the furnace was a welcome change against his thinly-covered flesh as he crossed the foyer and through the living room into the kitchen. Climbing onto one of the stools at the breakfast nook, he spread the paper out on the table.
Tossing aside the first three sections, he went straight to the Real Estate section. Every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday, it was the only section that he ever made it to. His development was featured prominently on the front page, with the logos of every Realtor in the area lined beneath the drawing of the lots. A little “Sold” sign was in the center of every lot that had already been brokered, and he could tell from the picture, even though he already knew, that there were still at least fifteen more that needed to be sold, or at least under contract, within the next week. Or, more accurately within the next six days. The bank expected the return on their investment by the 20th. They really only needed to close on four of the houses to be able to pay the bank, but when it came to doing business, especially business with six or seven zeroes behind it, it was important to prove yourself in every transaction. He had to have the development completely sold if for no other reason than he said he would. In this business, without your word, you were dead in the water.
The Realtors had set up a “Community Night.” It was an outdoor barbecue set to be some sort of meet your neighbor/ potential neighbor night. It was a grand marketing scheme: have the open houses while the entire neighborhood is in one place enjoying the festivities and the company of their neighbors. They were sure to seal the deal on at least six of them during that three-hour timeframe.
There were large posters on every lamppost in the neighborhood advertising it:
“Family Fun Night!
Bring the Kids!
Hamburgers and Hot Dogs!
Meet Your Neighbors!
Saturday the 20th at 3 p.m.
In the Falcon Ridge Commons!”
He had agreed to get the park as close to completion as possible for the event, erecting a large gazebo right by the street, and filling the manmade pond. They planned to cook beneath the gazebo, and freeze the water for ice-skating. They hoped that it would be something out of an old painting: neighbors milling around together as they ate from paper plates, their children skating on the surface of the frozen pond.
They planned to block off the street, setting up enormous circus-type tents in the middle of the road if the weather was still bad, and this being Colorado in November, there was really no way of knowing what the weather was going to be like until the time finally came. Their goal was to have lines of picnic tables in the street, but tents would suffice if the weather worked against them.
The whole thing seemed a little silly to Scott, but he knew how to get the houses built. He left the selling to those who were qualified to do so, and he would give them one thing, annoyingly bubbly and pleasant as they were, they did know what it took to sell houses. He just hoped they had what it took to clear out the remaining lots in the next week. There was something in his gut, however, telling him that Saturday was going to be a big day indeed, and he had learned to trust his gut.
Laying down the paper, he stared out the window above the little breakfast nook, past the snow-covered lawn at the line of trees beyond. A large shadow appeared right in front of the wall of pines and spruces, moving slowly out from the mass of needles onto the edge of his property. Its black outline barely stood out against the trees in the dim moonlight, but he could definitely tell that there was something there. It was the size of a horse, creeping along the edge of the lawn.
Leaning to his right, Scott stretched his arm as far as he could, flicking the patio light with the tip of his middle finger. Settling back into the stool, he peered back out the window. The two spotlights mounted to either side of the patio door, just to the left of where he was sitting, shined in enormous arcs out into the night, their thick, yellow rays creating two intersecting balls of light in the center of the yard. He caught a flash of gold, two small glowing orbs, reflecting from the far edge of the yard.
The outline of an enormous rack of antlers was framed against the green backdrop, an unusually large equine-type body silhouetted against the trees. It was the size of a horse, but that was where the similarities ended. Its body fur was a deep gray in the thin light, but there was a large lighter patch on the animal’s rear end. He was accustomed to seeing deer in this neighborhood, especially here lately with all of the construction in the neighborhood, but he had never seen one as large as this. And never one this brazen. The deer around there were skittish as a rule, dashing madly into the undergrowth at the first sign of being seen, but this one… it just stood there watching him.
Rising from the table, Scott rubbed the stubble on his chin, allowing a long yawn to creep from his gaping mouth. He shuffled across the tiled floor to the counter next to the stove, where the coffee maker sat, its empty pot stained in rings from months of use and abuse. Filling the pot with water, he poured it into the hole in the top of the unit and set it back on the small circular heating pad beneath the spout. Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a can of Folger’s, emptying three scoops into the same filter he had used the day before. He closed the lid and pressed the red button. The machine made a sputtering sound before finally starting to assume normal operations.
Turning, he rolled his neck on his shoulders and walked back over to the eating bar, deciding that today he was going to read the sports section. It was rare that he took the effort to read more than the real estate section, let alone on a Sunday, but today he was going to make a conscious effort just to peek. He missed sitting and relaxing while watching the game, a cold beer in his hand, flipping back and forth to dodge commercials. Maybe it was time that he started making more time for himself. It was the middle of the football season and he had maybe watched a combined total of a half a game since the September start, and the hockey season was just over a month in, and he hadn't even caught a single game.
Nodding to himself, he made a resolution. He was going to find a way to free up some more time, to spend just a little time each week doing something that he wanted to do. Just a little break in the action where he could lose himself in non-work related competition. Well, once he got through this next week anyway.
Something caught his eye.
There was something lying on top of his newspaper, something that hadn’t been there before he had gotten up to start brewing the coffee. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be covered with mud.
His heart began to race in his chest, each breath coming shorter and far more shallowly. Focusing intently on the object, his trembling fingers formed fists at his sides.
The paper around the object was darkening, the dampness of the thing soaking into the thin newsprint. It had a black base color, the mud crusted to the surface of it. There was a small button or knob in the middle of the top portion.
Scott glanced all around the room, his eyes searching from one corner of the room to the next. He peered out into the brightly-illuminated yard, but there was nothing out there, nothing but the small holes the deer left in the snow as it had passed through the yard on its way through the hills.
Glancing to his left, along the floorboards, he could see that the metal bar that locked the sliding glass door was still firmly in place, the locking key that kept the bar from budging engaged. There were no wet tracks on the carpet, no snowy outlines of shoes on the floor. The tile was as dry as it had been when he had walked across it
