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The couple approaches the front door with the hop-skip of newlyweds, holding hands and quivering with quiet giggles. She rings the doorbell excitedly, her broad smile somehow stretching a bit further. He taps out a merry rhythm on the porch with his foot, unable to stand still.
The chimes ring through the house, one after the other. Ding-dongs bounce off the walls and the floor, as giddy as their senders. They reach the master bedroom with ease, where they are received by surprised homeowners.
The wife says she’ll see who it is. Her pink bathrobe sways with her hips as her fuzzy slippers pad down the hall. Her hand trails down the handrail of the twisted staircase, passing through the spiky plastic garland that wraps around it every other step or so.
She glides through the kitchen and dining room, arriving finally at the foyer. It is half-lit with the glow of the magnificent Christmas tree in the adjoining family room. She smiles at the sight, pleased once again with her eye for seasonal interior design. The smile is still on her face when she opens the front door.
The door opens in, the wife leans out. A couple in tacky Christmas sweaters greet her with huge smiles.
“Becky!” they exclaim with glee.
“Can I help you?” the wife asks in return.
The woman leans in and whispers, “That would be in the spirit of the season, after all,” holding a knife to the wife’s throat. The man pushes the door back and motions for his accomplice to enter first. She nods and takes her hostage into the foyer. The man closes the door and locks it, a series of faint clicks that signal the beginning of the night’s festivities.
“So,” the man says, turning back to face the others, “anyone else home?”
Becky shakes her head with a whimper.
The woman presses a gun to Becky’s stomach and whispers, “Lying is a sin, darling.”
The man moves past them and towards the arrangement of family photos required of all standard suburban homes. “Lovely family you’ve got, Becky,” he says, a framed picture of them in Florida from this previous summer in hand. “Did you stay at the Marriot? We stayed there a few years back.”
Becky doesn’t say a word. The man puts the photo back in its place and moves to the woman’s side. “Give me the pistol, love,” the man says, extending an open palm. The woman frowns and hands it over.
“Now, if you don’t mind, Becky,” he says, “I’m going to go find dear Peter.”
He takes the stairs with a hop. His feet once more tap out a jovial tune, a bouncy upwards march. He plays the cheery melody on the banister with light taps of the pistol and it is an eerily wonderful accompaniment.
The percussion doesn’t stop at the top of the stairs. He snaps his fingers and clicks with his mouth as he twirls down the hallway, now humming lyrics to the tune. When he stops at the door to the master bedroom, the tune reaches its end.
The woman puts a comforting arm around Becky and whispers calming thoughts in her ear.
The man leans out over the banister and whistles. “Let me just say, Becky,” he says, “Score. No, really, that’s quite the specimen you’ve caught yourself. A+, honey.”
“What did you do to him?” she asks in a shaky voice. “Why are you doing this?”
He throws his head back to laugh for a moment, and bring it back when the laughter subsides. “The fun’s only just begun, sweetheart,” he replies. Spinning on his heel with a snap of his hand, the man disappears from view.
The woman pulls Becky into a hug, still holding the knife to her throat. “It’ll all be over soon, my sweet,” she whispers. “Hold in there for me. Can you do that?”
Becky whimpers and nods against the cold steel.
“Good. Now, I expect your dear hubby will be arriving at any moment.”
A few seconds after her statement, Peter sails over the banister. He crashes onto a small table in the space between the women and the stairs.
“He’s a heavy one!” the man exclaims from the banister. “I sure hope he’s face up sometimes, for your sake.” A conspiratorial wink accompanies this last comment.
Becky shrieks and the woman lets her go to her husband’s side.
The man hops back down the stairs, sliding down the banister instead of taking the last few steps. He strides over to the prostrate Peter, who is understandably dazed atop the table. Becky backs away, not taking her eyes off Peter. The man pulls him to his feet and drags him into the living room. Becky trails behind her staggering husband and his newfound attendant.
The woman is already there. She gestures to the couch like a proper and gracious hostess. Peter and Becky sit hesitantly, Becky breathing quickly and Peter trying to catch his breath. The woman offers them beverages and takes their silence as timid refusal.
“Now, the woman says, “there’s a matter to discuss.”
“What do you want?” Becky asks between breaths.
The man wags a finger at her, leans in with hand on his knees, then says, “Becky, please. What we want is hardly relevant. You are our guests, after all. We were just going to ask if the kids have anything to do. You didn’t mention you were bringing them along.”
Becky gasps. “What? What are you talking about?”
The woman sits on the coffee table in front of the couple and takes one of Becky’s hands in her own. “Please, my dear. Just tell us how we can keep them entertained. Oh!” she says, head popping slightly up in realization, “Are they potty trained?”
“They, they’ll be fine,” Becky stammers. “Just leave them alone. They uh, they’re, they should be able to take care of themselves.”
“Okay, then,” the other couple responds in unison.
“Could have just said so,” the man says with a smile.
“Jeez, Becky. Allergic to straight answers now, too? The woman asks, also smiling.
“So,” Peter asks, “what happens now?”
The couple exchange giddier smiles before the man replies, “Now, we’re going to have some fun. Becky, you’re with me.”
Becky doesn’t move. She looks at Peter with tears welling in her eyes, heart beating fast.
“Oh, be on about it!” the woman exclaims, waving her knife between Becky and the man.
Becky stands nervously. The man offers her his arm and whisks her away. She looks over her shoulder just before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
The woman snaps her fingers in Peter’s face to get his attention. “Your turn, honey. Come along.”
She stands and walks toward the kitchen. Peter follows a few paces behind, his shuffling feet not yet sure of themselves. He debates different courses of action, deciding to play along for now and following her into the kitchen.
The man pulls Becky upstairs. Her anxiety worsens with each step, reaching its climax when the man stops once more before the bedroom door.
“Are you ready for this,” he asks, looking down at her.
She shakes her head and murmured pleas for mercy slip from her lips.
He looks away, straightens his posture, then pushes the door open. She tries to cry for help as he pulls her across the threshold, but the hand he puts over her mouth stifles the potential outburst.
The door clicks shut behind them. The man holds Becky in front of him, his pistol pressed to the small of her back. He orders her to sit on the bed and warns her to remain silent as she leaves his grasp.
She sits on the edge of the bed and stares blankly at the floor. Tears run down her cheeks and her breathing is all starts and stops. She raises her eyes to meet his when he steps towards her, having felt all she could possible feel in one night. She knows where this is going.
He stares back at her, puzzled by her expectant look. “What exactly do you think I intend to do?” he asks.
“You…you’re going to have your way with me,” she replies. “You’re a monster. You think you can just do as you please with no regard for anyone else.” Her voice rises slightly in volume with each accusation. “Except for your creepy wife or whatever it is you have. Is that it? Does hurting people get you both all hot inside?” She is yelling at this point and waving her arms about. “You need pain for pleasure and you’ve got no idea how to get it anyway and you’re, you’re disgusting!”
With this final exclamation, she lowers her arms and collapses back into the husk of her former self.
The man blinks, not saying a word. He stares at her until a fresh wave of tears course down her cheeks, then speaks. “Look, Becky,” he says, sounding bored with this interaction, “The truth is, you know nothing about us.”
She wipes her cheeks with the sleeves of her pink bathrobe.
“Anyways,” he continues, “it takes swine to know swine. And you know what happens to swine?”
Her breath catches. He steps aside. She runs across the room. Her shoulder slams into the doorframe. Sweaty fingers fumble with the doorknob. She finds purchase and flings the door open. She runs.
Her sprint ends at the top of the stairs, where she leans over the banister and sees Peter in the kitchen with his man’s accomplice. She yells his name and he spins to look up at her, utterly terrified.
“They’re just going to kill us!” Becky shouts.
“The kids!” he bellows before turning to face the woman. The tray of cookies is half in the oven. The oven mitt she had used has been discarded on the counter. She is right there in front of him and receives him in a loving embrace, her knife plunged deep in his chest.
“It’s alright, love,” she whispers. “We can have Christmas without you.”
...
Devin Griffin is a student of Colonial Forge High School in northern Virginia. He is an aspiring cinematographer and writes on the side for fun.
