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"You're miles away, Gideon."
Gideon's head rested on the cool glass of the passenger side window of the black sedan he and his partner sat in. Rain pattered outside, giving the quiet night of the suburban neighborhood they parked in an ethereal glow from inside the vehicle. Gideon had been staring out at the curving lane of housing for almost an hour now, instead of what he was supposed to be watching. He shifted his weight in the seat and looked over at Martin, then at the dashboard clock: 2:45 am.
"It's not time yet," he said, "nothing will happen until the Witching hour."
Martin clicked the windshield wiper on which squeaked away a thin film of rain. He pointed at a house across the street, "We've been told to watch this place like sneaky little hawks. So keep your fucking peepers on target, bud," he added the last part with a grin.
Gideon nudged his partner's hand to point at a neighboring house. "Keep your peepers on the right target, bud." Before Martin could react, the window he happened to be pointed at illuminated. They both froze and watched as a shadow moved across the upstairs window, then followed as it moved downstairs flicking on more lights.
-
At 2:45 am Mr. Farson awoke from a nightmare, shivering under his blankets. He lay curled up in a ball completely covered like a child hiding from monsters. Slowly he regained composure, threw the covers off himself and sat up. After putting on his coke-bottle glasses, his x-ray vision specs he liked to call them, the first thing he looked at was the portrait of his wife on his nightstand. That image never used to disturb him, because for one thing the picture used to smile at him, but now it stared at him severely. He used to say goodnight to her picture every evening, but recently he'd stopped when she'd started answering him. Old Mr. Farson had taken to laying the picture facedown at night, so he found it upsetting the picture sat upright again despite this attempt to hide her. It was a portrait of when she was younger, maybe 50 years ago, but the expression she wore made her look more sinister than beautiful.
Mr. Farson lay the picture down again, carefully avoiding eye contact with his late wife's image, then got up and decided he needed a stiff drink. Of course, he thought, the drink could be what's brought these hallucinations on. Because that's what they were, hallucinations, or maybe he was finally going senile. Still, a nice whisky would calm him, and maybe help him sleep without the night terrors. Mr. Farson considered his mental state, as a man of 70 might, and poured himself a tall glass of whisky. A voice, all too familiar, made him stop.
"Honey, won't you come to bed?" Mrs. Farson asked.
Mr. Farson's grip on the glass failed and it crashed about his feet. A nightmare, he thought. No, the feeling of wetness and sting of cutting glass on his feet assured him it was no dream. His mental state, whether he liked it or not, was top notch. He turned and looked at the clock in the kitchen: 2:55 am. Despite the gut wrenching dread he turned, walked over the broken glass, and climbed the stairs back up. Standing in the doorway of their bedroom was Mrs. Farson, wearing a nightgown and looking as young and lovely as the day he'd met her. She stood aside and pointed into the bedroom with a hand on her hip, like a mother telling a naughty child it was bedtime. Inside he saw a circle filled with angular shapes painted on the bed, and on the nightstand above it the portrait of his wife. This time she was smiling. It was the last thing Mr. Farson saw on this side of life.
-
Gideon and Martin both stared intently at the upstairs bedroom window. Martin reached into the backseat and produced a pump action shotgun from under a tarp. Gideon placed a hand on his holstered pistol. He stole a quick glance at the clock: 2:59 am.
"Steel yourself, Martin," he said.
The moment the words left his mouth the Witching hour arrived.
3:00 am.
The upstairs window flashed red, then green, then red again as if someone had started shooting off fireworks. At the first flash Martin stomped on the accelerator. The previously inconspicuous Mercedes roared forward. It crashed through Mr. Farson's immaculately kept rose bushes and skidded to a halt at the front porch. They both leapt out, with Martin taking lead with his shotgun held up. Without slowing down he fired three concussive blasts at the door hinges and slammed his body into it. The door gave way and Gideon followed, covering Martin as he rolled back to his feet. They raced up the stairs, but halted dead in their tracks when they got to the top.
There in the master bedroom a woman stood with arms outstretched in a nightgown buffeted by wind that neither men felt. A man floated above the bed, pierced through with red streaks of light. The woman's eyes burned with a fierce deep green glow. She turned her head towards the two interlopers. Another flash of blinding green light, and old man Mr. Farson disappeared from the world.
"You're late," the demon woman said in a voice that seemed to boom from inside their own heads, "you poor, misled-"
Gideon cut her off with a bullet to the throat, then unloaded the rest of his clip into the creature. Martin followed suit and the neighborhood was momentarily a cacophony of gunshots and unholy screams. The thing fell to pieces on the floor, the glow gone from its eyes and from the sigil on the bed.
"What the hell," Martin panted, "you never said those things could talk!"
"We have many questions for our friends back at the station," Gideon said. Before leaving he took a cautious look around the room to check for any other things that may go bump. He saw only a simple, comfortable bedroom furnished in an old style. His eyes landed on the nightstand with a picture propped up on it.
An empty frame. Strange.