Sex and Murder Magazine

By William Penix

Although Cheryl Barlow had only been gone for an hour and a half, the autumn daylight draping over her backyard had lifted and been replaced with the monochrome hues of nighttime. She locked the gate behind her and shifted one of the grocery bags-the one containing the two bottles of celebratory wine-back to her left hand. Cheese, crackers, fruit, and a chocolate cheesecake (her husband David's favorite) were bouncing in the bags to her right. Yesterday she wouldn't have dreamed of spending so much money on things so frivolous. Even an hour ago she wouldn't have dared, but things were different now. David, after a tense few months of unemployment, had a job again.


An hour ago Cheryl had been sitting on the living room floor, playing with Dylan and his toys. Actually, she had done all the playing and Dylan just sat watching with all the curiosity and attention span that a nine-month-old could muster. All Dylan ever did was gnaw on the toys that she and David spent far too much money on. She knew Dylan would outgrow the toys before he realized you could actually play with them and not just slobber on them. So, in a feeble attempt to make the toys worthwhile, Cheryl sat and demonstrated to him that blocks could be stacked, rattles could be rattled, and squeakers, inside miniature stuffed animals, could indeed be squeaked. Behind her, the phone rang.

David answered, and she knew from his upbeat, “Well, hello!” that it was their neighbors and landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Evans. The distinction was easy since they only got two types of calls: those from collection agencies and those from the Evans. David was half smiling and half doodling on the dry-erase message board when he had stopped cold and dropped his marker.

More bad news, she thought, just before he began gushing, “Really?” a half-dozen times. Something good had happened.

David hung up the phone, strutted towards her holding an imaginary pair of suspenders with his thumbs out above his chest and, in his cockiest manner, said, “Guess who's the new IT head at Union National?”

Then it was Cheryl's turn to gush, “Really?” a half-dozen times. Miraculously, with the Evans's help, David somehow landed a job he had been turned down for weeks ago. Although he had five years of experience under his belt, he had never been head of a department, nor had he expected to become one so soon. The application, Cheryl remembered, had been made only in desperation.

This was not the first or even second lifeline the Evans had thrown them. The first was the house itself. Barbara Evans and her husband, Donald, had rented them a house that should have been way out of their price range-a beautiful home in a nice area for half the cost of what it should have been. They had nearly rejected the property knowing there had to be some catch: horrible plumbing, heating problems, bedbugs, or something equally unpleasant. It was only when Barbara told them the horror stories of the past tenants-who had either not paid for months, or vandalized the property, or even attacked Barbara-that they reconsidered. Barbara told them that she knew they were taking a hit on the rent, but it was in order to assure that they had their pick of the best tenants. More people meant more applicants which meant a better pool of people for the Evans to pick from. The house was apparently a tax write-off and, after so many awful tenants, they now valued the tranquility over the extra income. And really, she assured them, as long as they covered the mortgage they were happy.

It was for this reason that the Barlows had neglected telling the Evans about David being laid off for the last two months; they hated the idea of being next in the long line of bad tenants. Plus, they were terrified that their admission would taint the wonderful friendship they had cultivated with the Evans. They kept it from the Evans for as long as they could, but finally they were unable to pay the rent and knew they would have to tell them what had been going on. When the truth did finally come out, it had not gone the way either Cheryl or David had expected.

They had been sitting at the breakfast table. Cheryl was upset and crying over their predicament, while David sat behind her and comforting her. A loud series of knocks on the back door startled them. It was Barbara, carrying half a Key Lime pie, a six-pack of beer, and a friendly smile. They were at their weakest, trapped, and of course they had confessed everything. Cheryl and David emphasized again and again that they didn't want their moving away to affect their friendship. While Cheryl dried her eyes and David caressed her shoulders, Barbara let out one of her distinctive, brassy laughs. They were both confused and a little bit irritated until Barbara reminded them that the house was a tax write-off, and that they would be willing to let them slide for a month or two if necessary; after all, they were still quality people who the Evans adored, and who they considered friends. They balked at the idea. They loved the house and their neighbors, but pride refused to let either of them accept the offer.

Barbara quickly offered a trade. They could have two months rent free-enough time for David to find another job-provided he would do some odd jobs for Barbara in the meantime. It still felt like charity, but Barbara had assured them that they were in far more need of help than money. She convinced them, and so they had stayed.


In retrospect, it had been charity. The jobs were too few and too small to have come close to compensating for rent, and the tasks were easy and short. Barbara would ask David to format a bunch of old video tapes, to dig a trench in the basement for some upcoming plumbing projects, to box up stuff for the Evans's storage unit. Many of the projects had actually involved Mr. Evan's video equipment. He was big into amateur video, maybe even too much; Cheryl and David had accidentally overheard a few arguments the Evans had had over his cameras in the house. It was the only time they had ever heard either of the Evans raise their voice in anger.

So far, the Evans had been the only good thing about moving here. Everything else had been a total disaster. The rest of the neighbors at first had been friendly, but soon grew cold toward them. Cheryl assumed this was because of expectations that she and her family would soon move just like so many of the other tenants. Within months, David had lost his job when someone had falsely accused him of embezzling. Cheryl's dream of being a nurse had been derailed when the local community college threw her out over an inflammatory email that she had never written, much less sent. Two weeks before that, Dylan's nursery turned them away accusing David of lying about his income in order to meet the guidelines. This, of course, was absurd. They hadn't lied; their income was well within the economic guidelines for that particular nursery.

One by one the few friends they had made in town had turned on them, and for the silliest of reasons. Some never even gave reasons. They just stopped returning calls. The only ounce of sunshine had been the Evans next door. That part had been wonderful, especially Barbara's uncanny way of showing up at their back door at just the right time to cheer them up when life had turned rotten. This had endeared them to the Evans, and their friendship turned out to be the only thing that kept the Barlows from bolting and starting over again.

Their friendship with the Evans had been even more intoxicating because of the fact that both Cheryl and David lacked any real extended family, having both lost their parents fairly early in life. The new town had failed them, but what the town had lacked the Evans somehow made up for it. And now with David's new job, courtesy of another favor from the Evans, there was no way they could ever truly thank them. But, Cheryl thought, at least the two bags of party servings would be a good start.


Cheryl, feeling the exact same surge of excitement as when David had told her about the new job, quickened her step, half jogging and half skipping across the backyard. But then something strange caught her eye and stopped her. It had almost not even registered, but there was no movement in the house; worse, there wasn't even a single light on. Had the power been shut off? Was David playing some type of joke? Something obviously wasn't right. Despite what had just happened 45 minutes ago, the house-where her newborn son, husband, and the Evans should have been partying, or at least talking at the kitchen table-was completely empty.

She stood there with two grocery bags and hundreds of things running through her mind when she grabbed at a terrible thought-the worst one. It was what every mother feared immediately when something was wrong or even out of place: something had happened to her baby. Something had happened to Dylan. Why else would David leave like this, with her at the store and the Evans coming over to celebrate? Dropping both bags, she ran up the stairs toward the back door. It should have been one clean motion of opening and running through the door, but it was locked. Instead, her hand slid over the immobile handle and the entire weight of her body collided with door. She rebounded off the wood, landing on her back, her right shoulder throbbing. She sat up and looked at the door and only then did she see it: a little piece of paper taped to the door.

It was from her memo pad by her computer, and it had been taped deliberately next to the door knob so she wouldn't miss it. The note simply read, “Party's been moved.” And below that there was a hand drawn arrow pointing to her left, to the house next door, the Evans's house.
first Cheryl covered her eyes in embarrassment, then she began to giggle softly, and finally she was nearly convulsing with laughter, harder than she had in a long time. 'Dumbest thing I've done all year. Checkmark next to Cheryl Barlow and another checkmark next to today's date,' she thought. Every time she started to calm down, she would resume cracking up.
her head, she could see Donald on the other side of the privacy fence getting the grill ready, and Barbara inside holding Dylan while David watched, sitting on the couch, drinking a beer. She then blushed because she knew she would end up telling them all about her dumb moment, against her better judgment.
got up, rubbing her shoulder, and walked back to her groceries. A plastic bag in each hand, she headed to the left, through the breezeway toward the Evans's front yard. Rounding the corner, she heard faint music coming from the Evans's house, something from Motown. The party had started. She hopped up the cement front steps and rapped on the front door. She waited with her head down, looking in the bags to make sure everything was okay, no broken bottles, or smashed cake. Nope. She looked up impatiently and knocked again. Still nothing. They must have gone to the back yard and just couldn't hear her. She turned the handle slowly, hoping it wasn't locked. Bingo. The door opened a crack and the music rushed at her.
I look in the mirror, to comb my hair / I see your face just a smilin' there…
music sounded familiar. She pushed the door all the way open. “Hello?” she called out. “I've got Scooby snacks!” No answer, just music.
must all be on the back porch, she thought. She bopped her head and began to shimmy, the bags of groceries swinging back and forth. The wine bottles clanked and clacked as she u-turned into the kitchen. After laying the groceries on the counter, she doubled back to the French doors that led to the back yard.
love reaches so high, I can't get over it / It's so wide, I can't get around it, no…

The curtain had been pulled down over the double doors to the backyard, which was good; she was hoping to catch them off guard. Checking that the doors were unlatched, she swung them open, mouthing the lyrics to the song she now recognized as Martha Reeves and the Vandellas:

to run / Nowhere to hide from you, babe…

The back yard was empty. No barbeque, no drinks in coolers, no citronella torches. Puzzled, Cheryl caught herself just before another bad thought could rear its foul head again. She made her self start bopping to the music again, although she was no longer really into it.

Turning back toward the hallway, she checked in on the bedrooms. Each room came up dark and empty save one. The last door on the left held Donald's video room. The equipment was on and someone had been there recently, but at this moment the room stood empty.

Barbara didn't exaggerate, Cheryl thought. He really was addicted to amateur video. There was one shelf just for video cameras, many of which were smaller than apples. She couldn't help but ponder the price tag of a hobby like this. Two of the shelves held nothing but video tapes, some of which surely contained the tapes that David had formatted. The equipment, which included a bunch of monitors and VCRs, made up one entire wall.

Cheryl headed back to the living room, confused but attempting to stay calm. Desperately, she scanned the room for signs of where everyone was when she saw it. Another yellow square note from her memo pad sat above the television. She walked over to it. It read, 'Play me.' It was stuck to a video tape, sitting in the slot of the Evans's VCR.

She felt her lips forming a wry smile. What had they been up to now? She'd already seen the tape that Donald had made of Dylan at the park. What else had he filmed? She couldn't imagine, but she knew it couldn't be good - not when you teamed up both David and Donald's odd senses of humor. She peeled off the note and pushed the tape in to the player. She began to sit down on the floral patterned couch but decided against it when she saw the plastic slip cover.

The tape sputtered through some static and then showed a wavy black and white image. Then, outlined in blue, 'AUTOTRACKING' flashed on the screen. The black and white image straightened, focused, and became, inexplicably, Cheryl Barlow's living room.


It's at an odd angle, almost like she's looking at her living room from the ficus tree in the corner, but it is definitely her living room. Then, in the video, David suddenly runs into frame and grabs the phone off the wall. It is some type of casual conversation. She doesn't understand until she sees her husband mouthing the word, “Really?” over and over again. This was filmed an hour ago, Cheryl thinks. David hangs up the phone and runs off-camera, and then the camera changes.

What is this? Cheryl thinks.

It is her living room again but from a different angle, up above the TV. She now sees herself mouth the word, “Really?” again and again, just like David, who she hugs. Is she crying? She doesn't remember crying. On the video, she picks up Dylan. They are having a family hug. She is telling David she's going to the store for party stuff to thank the Evans. He agrees. She walks to the front door, and David carries Dylan to his bedroom. The camera changes.

How did this get recorded?

It's the front door. She walks into frame, grabbing her keys and David's wallet from the bowl. She begins to turn the knob, changes her mind, and puts the keys back and walks out of frame. The camera doesn't change. But Cheryl knows she has just walked out the back door, opting to take a walk to the store instead of driving there.

Why are there cameras in her house?

She is still watching the front door. Nothing is happening. In the Evans's house, she looks behind her, but no one is there. She turns back to the screen.

Is this a joke? She wonders. If it is, it's not a nice one.

On the video, the front door flies open, and Mr. and Mrs. Evans quickly walk in and close the door behind them. Donald is holding something. David walks into frame. Cheryl can only see the back of his head as he holds his arms out to hug Barbara. Donald, with just two quick steps, moves in front of Barbara toward David. There is something shiny. David jerks away from Donald but then they're hugging. Donald steps back and now Cheryl sees the knife and the blood covering David's chest as he spins and falls to the ground.

In the distance, someone is screaming. It's Cheryl, but she doesn't hear herself. She only sees the horror unfolding in front of her. David falls back on the tape, his body flat and his head propped up at an angle by the closed front door, and he's not moving. Barbara lunges back toward the body, visibly excited, touching David's body like a child touching a new toy.

The camera changes again.

Onscreen, Donald crosses from the front foyer to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She can only see David's feet now as the camera changes.

In the back hallway, Donald is looking for something. He seems to be scanning all the rooms while yelling something back to Barbara, his face angry now. He punches a hole in the wall. Cheryl knows that he is looking for her, but at that moment she is rounding the corner of the alley on her way to the Piggly Wiggly. Donald stops and heads into their bedroom.

The camera changes.

Cheryl watches as he trades his knife for one of the pillows on their bed. He heads back to the hall. The camera changes.

The back hallway. He passes into her son's room. The camera changes.

Dylan's room. She sees the wind-up primary-color mobile spinning around and around. David must have just put Dylan down for a nap. She sees one of Dylan's tiny chubby hands reach up and swat one of the red lambs hanging from the mobile. Donald's face is like stone, emotionless, as he heads for the crib. He stops for a second. When he plunges the pillow over the side of the crib, his face erupts, nostrils flaring, teeth barely showing. Beneath his fevered expression, beneath his clenched hands, beneath the pillow from her soft bed, Cheryl's baby is gasping shallow breaths, his heart beating its last beats.

The events of an hour and a half ago dance in front of Cheryl Barlow's cold, frozen eyes. She stops screaming. She stops moving. She is simply blank, nothing, a shell, pointing at a screen where she has just seen her baby, her family, her world... She's still breathing, however, and her heart is still pumping, but everything else in Cheryl dies. Turned off as quickly as one flicks a light switch. Maybe there had been a moment of pain. But now Cheryl feels nothing. Not fear, not hate, not loss, not even her own limbs.

Somewhere in the distance a familiar voice is speaking calmly to her. It seems so faint, so far away, even though in reality the voice is coming from right behind her. Donald's mouth is whispering into her right ear, but Cheryl's mind no longer understands words or language. He seems to be repeating something over and over again. And there's a hand across her chest, then a great pressure across her throat.

Instead of pulling back, she leans into the pressure. It hurts, but the pain feels good, and so she presses harder. It's better this way, and a great warmth flows down her chest. It starts as a line that rushes down to her navel and beyond, and then quickly it widens to her sides. Despite her numbness, the warmth feels good. It feels welcome.

Donald is speaking again, maybe having never stopped, so far away still. In Cheryl's final moment, she hears only two things: Barbara's distant, brassy laugh and another voice, Martha Reeves', singing:

I know you're no good for me / But free of you, I'll never be…


From across the street, Barbara Evans waves goodbye grandly to the Marston family, who had just looked at the Evans's rent house, and everything had gone well until they mentioned the husband's father living one town over. Barbara then hurriedly rushed them out of the house, trying to make pleasantries, but obviously not wanting to rent the place to them. She actually had been downright rude, but now on her front porch she was smiling and waving like people do on real estate billboards. She knew the Marstons had no idea why she was pretending to be so nice when she had been so curt just seconds ago. Obviously confused, the family got into their car and drove to the next address circled in red on their newspaper.

In reality, Barbara was very angry. She specifically had asked them if they were new to the area, and they had said yes. Come to find out the father had grown up in the area. What a waste. She had had such a good feeling about this family that she had wasted the last hour of her life wooing them. It was only at the end that she found out the truth. What a shame; it had been awhile since they had had any actual kids. Kids that could scream and run and be hunted. Babies just cried and crapped themselves.

It was hard to isolate people these days. E-mail and cell phones made it so that people were missed sooner. Twenty years ago, they had been able to go through couples every three or four months. Now it was taking at least that long just to find a suitable family, much less to do all the dirty work required to cut their ties to the outside world.

Barbara didn't much care for these modern times. She liked life when it was simpler and calmer, but now people were just too busy.

Barbara sighed, walked back into the house, and finished frosting her cupcakes. She still had a few more rounds to make around the neighborhood. She still hadn't finished telling all the neighbors about the newest family to take advantage of them. Yet another couple who had failed to pay rent and then just left in the middle of the night.

The neighbors would always ask why they didn't just sell the rental. It seemed to bring them such misery: people moving in, refusing to pay rent, being abusive to Barbara, or one of a dozen other things that Barbara would tell the neighbors in order to demonize their most recent tenants. She would tell them the same thing she always told them: that that they had tried to sell, but the offers were so crummy these days. They were stuck. The whole neighborhood one by one would then console her, which she would pretend to lap up. Her neighbors, without fail, always felt so bad for her and her husband-the poor, retired couple who had been cursed with the house next door.