Better Homes
By: Thomas LeBeau
Previously published in Twisted Dreams – October, 2010
Copyright © 2011 by Thomas LeBeau – Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Rich Fannin sat on the leather couch, sweat dripping off his brow as he nursed his beer. He shifted in place, attempting to peel his damp skin off of the material. It was so hot out and the damned air conditioner was crapping out on him again. He slammed a meaty fist into the AC unit, rocking it in the window frame. A wry smile crept across Rich’s face as the fan inside whirred back to life, blowing a tiny stream of cool air about the room. He wiped a hand across his forehead, and shook it, flinging drops of sweat across the carpet. He drained the beer, belched, and tossed the empty can onto a pile in the corner.
Something slammed into the side of his house, and his lips curled back in a snarl. Damn kids and their baseball. If they broke one of his windows again, there would be hell to pay. He snatched the TV remote off the arm of the sofa and turned the volume up. Couldn’t a man watch the game in his own home in peace?
He watched as a pop fly curved off to the right and landed deep in foul territory, fans swarming over each other to grab the ball. The camera zoomed in, focusing on the lucky spectator holding the ball aloft, and something rustled outside the picture window. Rich lowered the volume again, and cocked his head, listening. There was a soft tapping sound, like branches hitting the glass, and Rich got up and threw the curtains open.
Outside the picture window were the rosebushes. His ex-wife had planted them many years ago, and despite Rich’s calculated neglect, they continued to thrive, climbing halfway up the side of the house, drawing attention from the whole neighborhood. Every now and then he had to answer the door and chase off some snooty flower expert who had “happened” to drive by and notice them, despite them being at the back of the house. What a pain in the ass. Someday, he would just tear the bushes out by the roots and be done with it.
The roses were swaying back and forth, a handful of leaves and flower buds scratching across the glass. Rich frowned. There was no wind, not even a breeze. That’s why it was so ungodly hot out. He stared out the window for a moment longer, and shrugged, turning back to the game.
For crying out loud, he had missed the end of the inning. Cursing under his breath, Rich threw himself back onto the couch. He managed to make it through four batters before the scratching on the glass returned, and someone started giggling outside the picture window. With a snarl of rage, Rich hurled the remote to the floor and stormed across the room, throwing the back door open.
The bushes were moving again, and he could hear stifled whispering coming from somewhere inside the leaves. What kind of lunatic would crawl in there? The thorns were the size of his friggin’ thumb nail; you’d get torn to ribbons.
“Hey! Who the hell is in there? You better get out and get off my property before I call the cops!”
He waited for a response, for some stupid kid to come darting out the bushes, laughing. The leaves and flowers rippled, leaving a wake, like something was moving through them, trying to run away from his voice. Rich jumped down off the back step, and darted over towards the movement, scanning the bushes, trying to find out who was inside. The foliage was so thick that he couldn’t even see the side of the house. He sprinted inside, and grabbed a broom from the closet.
As he passed through the back door again, his gaze passed over the bushes again. All was still, and he slammed the broom down into the grass in frustration, and stamped on it. The little punk must have run away while he was getting the broom. Rich drew in a long breath, and let it slowly. Just let it go. It’s not that big of a deal.
The giggling came again, much louder, and there was another rush of movement from inside the bushes. Rich snatched the broom off the ground and swung it at the leaves, knocking flower buds and stems into the dirt. He didn’t care if he damaged the stupid plant, but he wanted that kid to get away from his house. The ridiculous heat outside and the physical exertion combined with the alcohol, and Rich felt a little dizzy. He took in a couple more deep breaths, and squatted down, resting. The sunlight reflected off of something in the dirt under the bushes.
Rich scratched his head, and reached in to grab at the object, snagging his arm on a thorn. He hissed in pain, and watched as the blood welled up and began to drip into the dirt.
“Damn roses,” he muttered. “Damn thorns.”
He stuck his arm back under, being careful to avoid any more injuries, and snagged the item in his fingertips. It was a piece of collar, with an ID tag still attached. Rich read the details, and realized it belonged to his neighbor’s dog. He remembered the mutt, giant thing, some kind of Great Dane or Mastiff mix or something.
Rich stared into the bush, unease creeping up his back. The giggling came again, directly to his left, and he jammed the broom handle into the plant like a sword, hand stopping inches from the leaves. Something grabbed the broom handle, and yanked him forward, dragging his arm into the branches. Rich screamed in pain as thorns tore into his skin. He jerked his arm backwards, but something held it in place, gripping it tight enough that he began to lose feeling in his fingers. Shouting a string of curse words, he pulled backwards again, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process.
The giggling turned into a high pitched laugh, making Rich think of a dentist’s drill. He stared at the bush in shock as the flower buds swung down, coming even with his face, shaking and swaying with mirth. As his throat locked up in terror, he scrambled to get away, clawing at the lawn, clumps of grass and dirt coming free as he tried to pull himself back.
The rosebuds began to split apart; petals peeling back to reveal an eye set deep inside of each flower. The eyes had no lids, but were nestled inside the mass of petals like a pearl in an oyster. They were a brilliant, glossy gold color, with horizontal cat’s eye pupils that dilated in the sunlight. They stared at Rich, and he saw himself reflected back in the emptiness at the center of each eye, dozens of tiny mirror images from all angles. As the eyes danced and commanded his attention, Rich began to feel calmer. There was nothing wrong at all. A beaming smile broke across his face, and he relaxed, sagging to the ground.
The laughter of the roses subsided, leaving the backyard silent, and Rich’s arm was pulled deeper into the bushes. He let out a soft moan as his face was pulled through the fence of thorns, and his legs moved feebly before they too were consumed by the leaves. From inside the bush came a wet grinding noise as the thorny branches constricted around Rich, turning him into a shredded ruin.
The soil below absorbed the blood like a sponge, and soon there was no trace that any had even been spilled. Gnarled roots broke through the dirt, and twined around the husk that had been a man, pulling the remains underground. The rosebuds gave a contented sigh, and settled back into place, completing the camouflage. The leaves twitched once, and Rich’s wallet dropped onto the dirt below, nearly hidden in the shade. A root poked up through the dirt and nudged the wallet forward until the worn leather snatched the afternoon sunlight and winked back, begging for someone to come and pick it up.
Thomas LeBeau was born in 1985 in California, but currently resides in Upstate New York with his fiancée, two cats and a chinchilla. He graduated from the University of Rochester with a bachelor’s degree in English, and currently works there in the financial aid department. He writes fiction and plays guitar and bass. His first novel, The Hive, is available online.
You can visit his website at thomaslebeau.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @TomLeBeau19.