14 Aug Ironic

The president of the Canterbury Homeowners Association took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. Wished the shrill sound in his ears would go away.

It didn’t.

“Then what exactly am I paying dues for?”

“Listen, Karen—”

“Mrs. Wheeler-Browne. That is Mrs. Wheeler-Browne to you.”

The president bit his lip. Then his tongue.

“Mrs. Wheeler-Browne,” he continued, conscious of the HOA treasurer watching him with morbid amusement, “As you are well aware, your dues, as well as ours, pay for the maintenance and security of our community. Not to discriminate against those who wish to be part of our community and who meet the standards of the board.”

“And those— those—fairies—meet the standards of the board?”

The president finally snapped. “Mrs. Wheeler-Browne. This is the twenty-first century. Not only do we not refer to gay people as fairies, or by any other bigoted slurs, we happen to recognize them as people. People. Just like you and me.”

“Like you and me?” Karen snorted. “You and me? When my husband, Andrew, was the president of this association, he made sure that all the undesirables were kept—”

“Undesirables, Mrs. Wheeler-Browne?” The president leaned forward, his dark hands clasped before him on the desk.

Karen’s cheeks burned through her blush. A series of words failed to escape her lips before she finally harrumphed.

“This is not over,” she spat, her voice saturated with venom. Gripping her clutch, she stormed out the HOA office door.

“Wow,” said the treasurer. “When they made her, they definitely broke the mold.”

“If only,” the president sighed. “There’s three more like her living in the neighborhood. And you can bet she’ll be recruiting them.”

“Joy,” said the treasurer.

“Yep, she’s one of them,” the president said. “Now—back to the other matter.” He turned his attention to his laptop screen, “Does security have any leads on our vandals?”

* * * * * *

Karen sat in her garage, gripping her Audi’s steering wheel with such force her knuckles turned white.

She had backed up the driveway and halfway in when she’d noticed them. An array of flowerpots: gardenias, begonias, calla lilies, and even roses, all clustered in the covered nook that was her front entry.

Those are Becky’s calla lilies—she’s going to have a fit.

Karen simmered at the thought of her neighbors’ conjecture aimed at her. She could hear their catty little whispers in her head…

“Do you think she’s behind it all?”

“Who, Karen? Well, she has been acting strange since Andrew—”

The Audi slipped the rest of the way into the garage as the door descended.

“—had a stroke while forcing himself on his assistant’s daughter. Can you blame her for acting out?”

“Yeah, but vandalizing the neighborhood—it’s not like it’s our husbands are the ones dicking teenage girls—”

Karen clenched the steering wheel and screamed into the darkness. Rage and pain and sorrow and shame reverberated off the windows and around the car’s interior.

A second scream issued from her trembling form, this one higher in timbre, morphing from a scream into a wail and finally giving way to deep, wracking sobs.

Some fifteen minutes later, Karen Wheeler-Browne stumbled from car to house, thankful her neighbors couldn’t see the raccoon mask her mascara had created. Exhausted, she poured a glass of chardonnay, then another, then a third, before she stumbled upstairs, but not before calling the HOA-contracted security company to arrange the return of the plants on her doorstep to their rightful owners. She didn’t bother asking for discretion, knowing it was well beyond what little competence they possessed.

* * * * * *

Golden ribbons of afternoon sunlight cascaded through an open window to caress Karen’s slack-jawed countenance, her eyes cemented in fitful sleep.

Distant sounds traced their own path through the air to the couch where she slept. The distant pitch and timbre of two distinct voices sank into the depths of her slumber and pulled her from dark dreams into the hazy reality of her late husband’s office.

Blinking away fragments of her imagination, she rose and stumbled to the window, a throbbing ache developing in her temples, her gaze drawn over the fence to her neighbor’s backyard.

Them.

She squinted through the windowpane as their voices filtered through the screen.

“Higher. A little higher. High—there!” one of them exclaimed. Which, she wasn’t sure; they both looked so alike they could be brothers. They certainly didn’t fit her conception of homosexuals; neither was effeminate, quite the opposite in fact, with stocky builds and dark, trimmed beards.

Deviants! Karen thought. Pretending to be like the rest of us! Her lip curled.

The sharp strike of a hammer on a nail made her jump. She strained to see what the one in the red plaid shirt was doing as the hammer rose and fell three more times.

The plaid-shirted man stepped back to admire his handiwork; his partner, dressed in a tight black t-shirt, stepped forward to join him.

“Perfect,” said black-t.

William? Again, she wasn’t sure which was which.

Plaid-shirt spoke, “You’re sure you want it that high?”

Thomas. That one’s Thomas.

“It’s perfect,” William said, “Perfect height for the fliers.”

The fliers?

“The fliers,” smiled Thomas, as he studied the small, sky-blue door he’d finished attaching to the walnut tree. “And which ones are the fliers again?”

“The ones with wings,” William said. “Sprites, pixies, sylphs…”

“And the bottom one?”

Karen’s eyes scrunched as she focused on the small, forest-green door set into the base of the tree. She recalled watching Thomas hammer it onto the tree a few weeks ago, her thought at the time being that it was “a fairy door for a couple of fairies.”

Then the doorbell had rang, a police sergeant and plainclothes detective on her front step with bad news, her husband’s stroke, only worse news was to come, that his sudden demise had occurred during his attempted rape of an office intern.

The memory encircled Karen’s chest like bands of cold iron, leaving her choking for breath, the continuing conversation below muted, barely audible.

“Brownies, elves, gnomes…”

“And which of those are Seelie and which are Unseelie?”

A laugh. “Those are all Seelie. Unseelie are the bad fae; goblins, boggarts, doxies, and redcaps, to name a few.”

“And we’ve given them doors to come into our backyard.”

Another laugh. “Relax. If there really were fairies, the Seelie are harmless—they just like to play practical jokes, that sort of thing. And the Unseelie wouldn’t show up without a damn good reason.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” A pause. “Speaking of showing up, our guests will be here soon, and I want to have a shower.”

“Scrub your back? Just picked up a new bottle of Creed Love.”

Karen flinched in revulsion, missing the response as the two men left the yard. Her mind roiled in impotent rage at the thought of those—freaks using the same shower gel on each other that Andrew had gifted her for her forty-seventh birthday, mere months before he dropped dead in the process of raping a seventeen-year-old. And there the little door hung in azure simplicity, mocking her with its cheery demeanor, a false portal to a pretend realm of stupid, happy glamour.

Less a thought than a simple awareness coalesced in the crucible of her brain.

It’s in range.

She turned to her late husband’s mahogany desk and yanked on the bottom file drawer. It refused to open.

Fuck! she thought, followed by, Keys. Where do you keep your spare keys, Andrew?

After a moment’s thought, she went to the sideboard against the office wall and studied the collection of liquor bottles and highball tumblers situated there. Her eyes scanned the crystal and glass before landing on a small, stainless steel ice bucket.

Her hand steadier than she expected, she reached out and lifted the lid, revealing a shiny key taped underneath.

Too predictable, Andrew. You always liked your bourbon neat.

She returned to the desk and, with a still-steady hand, slid the key into the lock and flipped the tumblers. With grim determination on her face, she pushed the hanging folders to the back to reveal her prize at the bottom of the drawer.

With a gingerness bordering on reverence, she lifted the high-powered slingshot into the afternoon light.

Technically a primitive weapon, this one featured the lethality of modern engineering with its polished modular grip, golden-titanium alloy frame, and not one, but three high-tension, thick-yet-hollow rubber bands, fastened to a durable leather shot pouch.

She recalled Andrew once boasting about being able to kill a grouse with no than a whisper. Not that she’d seen the bird—or any bird, for that matter—Andrew had always hunted for sport rather than food and had little interest in collecting trophies.

Maybe I’ll end up with a trophy, Karen thought. Markswoman of the Year.

Diving back into the drawer, her hand returned with a leather pouch full of marbles. No, not marbles, she realized; too heavy.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a small metal sphere, its dark grey coloring too dull to be a standard ball bearing.

Whatever, she shrugged inwardly. As long as it gets the job done.

Moving back to the window and popping out the screen, she loaded the slingshot and sighted her target. Taking careful aim, she pulled back on the pouch—much easier than she expected—and pushing out a breath, just as Andrew had taught her at the gun range, she fired.

The cold iron ball cut through the air, soundless and, to Karen’s surprise, amazingly accurate.

The upper fairy door cracked in two, the snap resounding through the summer air. Sky blue wooden splinters and Lincoln green paint filled the air, along with the tiniest puff of smoke.

Karen blinked, unsure of what she’d just seen. Paint? Smoke?

She stared down intently at the walnut tree, where remnants of the door still stubbornly clung to the bark and the slightest spatter of green coloring glistened in the now early evening sunlight. Something transparent, but shimmery—like an oversized dragonfly wing—drifted down out of sight.

Her brow furrowed. She returned to the desk and pulled out another ball bearing. Hefted it in her hand. Lifted it up to eye level and turned it, looking for seams or sutures in the metal that might indicate where paint could have been injected into its core.

She found nothing. With a shrug, she returned the ball to its pouch.

Maybe there was a paintball mixed in to the pouch, she wondered, her mind glossing over the destruction wrought on the fairy door. Sure. Andrew must have mixed some paintballs in with the ammo. God only knows what idiocy he was planning.

Purposely not looking into the neighbors’ yard, she closed the study window without bothering to replace the screen, then went downstairs and grabbed a week-old charcuterie tray out of the fridge. On an impulse, she took the slingshot and ammo pouch with her, and a chilled bottle of chenin blanc. In an act of social defiance, she didn’t bother with a wine glass.

* * * * * *

Very bored and mildly bloated, Karen tapped the button on the TV remote and watched the screen darken. Overwhelmed with ennui, she dragged herself off the couch and carried her plate and the near-empty bottle to the kitchen, where she scraped the remnants of dinner into the garbage disposal, which in turn reminded her that trash collection was the next day, and the bins were still in the garage.

“Dammit, Andrew!” she said aloud. Putting out the bins had always been his job, which was why she’d missed the last collection. Just one more thing he’d dumped on her.

She snatched the white trash bag out of the under-the-sink receptacle and headed for the garage, snatching the slingshot and ammo pouch off the counter along the way.

She’d wrestled the garbage bin, kitchen trash and slingshot topping the near-overflowing contents halfway down the drive when she realized a Hyundai Ioniq occupied her bin’s curbside spot.

Looking around, she realized a few cars had stolen spaces along the street, though it was nigh impossible to say which one belonged to which house.

This one, though—she was pretty damn sure whose house it belonged to.

A bitter chill stirred in the cockles of her heart; burning ice slid through arteries and veins and through her temples. Stiletto eyes swiveled to Thomas and William’s front door, cracked open to allow golden light and the faint threads of some rap song to drift through.

Probably holding one of their sick orgies, Karen thought. Fucking pigs.

Anger drove her towards the distant entry, discarding any thoughts of vanity along the way, her legs unsteady and bare between the bottom of her robe and the tops of the Louis Vuitton pumps she’d hastily thrown on.

She wasn’t sure why she took the slingshot. The leather pouch of ball bearings she slipped into the pocket of her robe, as if it belonged there all along.

* * * * * *

Light and sound continued to filter through the open door, marked by the absence of human voices.

Probably upstairs. Doing God knows what.

She waited, ears strained to catch some indication of unholy acts. Nothing was forthcoming. It was almost like no one was home.

Primeval instinct whispered in Karen’s ear. She fumbled an iron ball into the slingshot and pushed the door fully open.

A small foyer with a small, bright chandelier awaited her, not much different from her own home. The subwoofer continued to pound from a room to her right, French doors taking the brunt of the volume; the music was unknown to her, some techno-crap millennials seemed so fond of.

In front of her, a hall led down to a single swing door, to the kitchen, she presumed. Beside the hall, a set of stairs led up to a landing where an arm extended limply through the balusters before continuing on to the second floor.

Karen stopped as electricity surged through her veins. With an odd dispassion, she studied the hand that dangled on the end of the arm. Not a large hand, but not a child’s; definitely a man’s, judging by the general shape and the light dusting of hair on the dorsum and knuckles.

Run, an imaginary voice whispered in her ear. Flee this house, lock the door to your own, call the police.

Or not. Hide in her bedroom instead, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.

“Excuse me, ma’am, did you see or hear anything?”

“No officer, I did not.”

“Alright, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

Easy breezy, lemon squeezy. Chenin blanc and chardonnay.

She climbed the stairs to the landing.

The young man lay face down on the Saxony pile carpet, the cream-colored fibers stained sanguine around his head and ankles. Karen stared in horror at the bottom of his black oxford-and-argyle-sock-footed legs where the ends of his Achilles tendons lay exposed, white and ropy.

She didn’t bother lifting his head or trying to turn him over, strongly suspecting what she’d find.

Again a cold electricity filled her body; it steeled her nerves and sharpened her focus. She thought again about calling the police, when it occurred to her that one of the responding officers might be the sergeant or the detective who had stood on her doorstep a few weeks ago after Andrew’s death.

Some part of her didn’t want that. Yet, some part of her did. To see them again, only from a position of power.

“Yes, detective, I investigated. They’re my neighbors. We look out for each other.”

The irony of her imagined statement was completely missed by her. What was important was that she would be in control. The one delivering the bad news.

Slingshot at the ready, she continued up the stairs.

At the top, a large hallway ran down the center of the house, flanked by rooms that looked over the front and back yards. If she was correct, a bathroom to her left, followed by a bedroom, though Andrew had converted their own into his office. On the opposite side, two more bedrooms. The door at the end of the hall would lead to a master bedroom with an ensuite.

Twenty-five years here, and I never realized things were so cookie-cutter, she thought.

All the doors, all done in the rural barn-style that she found so tacky, were open. All but one, near the end of the hall—the “office” door—were dark.

Well aware that “dark” did not equal “unoccupied”, Karen worked her way down, mimicking the various police procedurals and action movies she’d watched with Andrew as she cleared each room without actually vacating the hall.

Finding herself outside the lit room, she took a deep breath and swung out in front of the doorway, the slingshot’s bands fully extended, iron shot ready to fire.

For a long moment, Karen could only stare, comprehension refusing to fully sink in.

The room itself stood in sharp contrast to her late husband’s home office; whereas Andrew had furnished his with dark woods and leathers in a cozy, almost cramped space, this one was bright and airy, all clean white surfaces with little clutter and a few once neatly arranged books, now knocked askew.

On the wall, a mount for a sword hung empty; the sword itself, long, silvery, and unbloodied, lay on the beechwood laminate floor amongst a rainbow of pens and highlighters, all dispersed from their white plastic caddy.

On the writing desk sat a cobalt blue iMac with a darkened screen, lifeless, but undisturbed.

Also lifeless was William, slumped in his desk chair, one eye locked on the hem of Karen’s robe, the other bisected by a long, jagged-edged blade, its tattered leather grip still a good two inches from touching his face.

The creature, on the other hand, was full of vitality.

It stood a hair below two feet tall, its slate-grey skin hanging loosely on its emaciated frame, clothed in leather breeches and an oversized vest. Long, pointed ears poked out from a rust-colored burlap cap; long spindly fingers struggled with the tiny clasp of a gold bracelet on William’s wrist.

Karen found her eyes drawn to the reflection in the iMac’s dormant screen. She could make out a long, hooked nose over a pair of thin, badly chapped lips parted to reveal crooked yellow teeth. As the creature’s hands worked on the clasp, its teeth worked on its tongue, gristly red, absently chewing as it concentrated on its prize.

Karen’s mind spun like a game show wheel, racing to identify the thing before. Then, the wheel stopped, locked onto a word she’d heard only that afternoon from William’s own lips.

Goblin.

Glancing back at William, she started with the realization that he was looking back at her with his one intact eye. A faint whisper escaped his lungs, a sigh that may or may not have held the word “help”.

Oh my god, he’s still alive.

Karen swallowed in disgust.

Gross.

As if she’d spoken aloud, beady black eyes darted up to find hers in the mirror of the iMac. With a snarl, the goblin leaped into William’s lap and tugged at the blade buried in the dying man’s skull; its own head swiveled nearly a full one hundred eighty degrees to hiss at Karen.

Panicked, she raised the slingshot and fired, albeit a moment too late, as William’s eye socket released the blade and the goblin fell back. The ball bearing instead became embedded in the iMac’s screen, a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from the point of entry.

For a heartbeat the two stared at each other, the goblin flat on its back on the beechwood floor, Karen in the doorway, looming above.

The pause shattered in a flurry of movement as the goblin nipped up to its feet and Karen dashed down the hall to the stairs, one hand madly groping for one of the iron balls that had spilled in the pocket of her robe.

At the top of the stairs, she leaped, hoping desperately the railing on the landing would hold, and that she wouldn’t land on the dead young man whose life had soaked into the carpet.

Her luck held. On both counts.

An angry croak followed her to the landing; the malevolent fae did a little dance of frustration on the top step. Karen’s mouth fell open as she realized the back of her right ankle slightly stung from a small laceration.

“You little fucker!” she swore.

The goblin darted back as Karen dropped an iron shot into the sling’s pocket. The creature reappeared at speed and launched itself into the air, flying down the stairs, its tiny sword raised above its hands in a two-handed grip.

The cold iron ball bearing was enough to interrupt the goblin’s momentum, though not before Karen smelled its breath, the earthy odors of dark forests and rotting leaves.

The Unseelie fae landed on the dead man’s back, the hole in its throat issuing coal black smoke, but no flames. It thrashed about for a few moments before shuddering into stillness, the cavity in its larynx now the size of a billiard ball, every surface of it melted char.

A few ragged breaths later, Karen began a slow descent to the first floor, reloading her weapon as she went.

She’d only made it a few tentative steps across the granite tile of the foyer when the front door swung shut, pushed closed by something out of a nightmare.

Over half again the height of the goblin, it clung to the door handle with four insectile legs connected to a humanoid torso. Beetle wings folded and unfolded as clawed hands flexed and unflexed at the end of four insectile arms. Its head was the worst, though—a mockery of a human face grinned at her, double rows of needle teeth set into a lipless mouth. Large red eyes bulged outward; of a nose, there was none. Large, pointed ears, much like the goblin’s, were themselves dwarfed by long antennae; black fur covered the entirety of its body, in defiance of its otherwise bug-like appearance.

Karen didn’t hesitate. The metal ball left the slingshot before the thing could react, burning a hole right between its eyes and ricocheting off the door. The monstrosity slumped, back against the door, dead—and to Karen’s horror, still attached to the door handle.

She turned toward the hallway and the kitchen door at the end, but stopped as the swing door began to open in her direction. She elected not to see what was coming and hustled across the foyer and through the now open French doors into the living room, where the music continued to play. She closed the doors quickly and quietly behind her and stepped to one side, surveying the space before her as she did.

Lit by floor lamps in the corners, the living room had a warmth to it she hadn’t expected. Instead of the sleek modern lines of an Ikea showroom, antique honey cedar and creamy crushed velvet gave off an air of old-world charm. A stone fireplace against the far wall had been fitted for gas, and an old Mason & Risch upright piano stood beside her.

An RCA portable speaker on top of the piano proved to be the principal source of the music, Bluetooth-fed from some nearby device, presumably.

Hamilton, she thought. A musical she did not care for—too many—what was their term? People of color. Too many “people of color.” That and she couldn’t stand rap; “ghetto music”, Andrew had called it. How unsurprising that William and Thomas were fans.

Another body shared the room with her, this one splayed out on the couch.

Young or old, she couldn’t tell; the woman’s face and neck were so bruised and swollen, she could barely discern it was a woman… Lines of large black dots were visible on her jaw line through the purple; Karen almost vomited when she realized they formed a pattern identical to the teeth of the thing she’d killed in the foyer.

She prayed it was the only one.

Like the dead man on the stairs, she was dressed in business attire; not at all what Karen had expected.

A briefcase sat open on the coffee table, papers scattered about. Sensing no imminent danger, curiosity overcame common sense, and Karen stopped to sift through the abandoned documents.

A young girl, maybe all of two years old, looked up at her from a photograph paperclipped to a form.

Adoption papers. Karen flipped through forms, her face scrunched in disgust. You were going to adopt a poor, innocent child into your sick little lifestyle.

Crumpling the papers, she tossed them to the floor and turned to a second set of French doors, these set in the back wall of the living room. With all the stealth she could muster, she crossed the room and slipped across the threshold, closing the door behind her.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the unlit space. The room appeared to be a den. Bookshelves stood on one wall, flanking a flatscreen TV; a couch and coffee table faced the screen. More barn doors lined the other walls; one to the left, which she guessed led to the hall, and one opposite the French doors, likely leading to the dining room.

And possibly a way out.

No other beings, living or dead, shared the space with her.

After a moment’s hesitation, she scurried to the dining room door, which sat slightly ajar. A glance behind her told her that no one—no one she could see at any rate—stood on the other side of the French doors.

Somewhat assured, she peered into the next room.

The room was awash in light; from her restricted angle, she could make out a large dining room table covered in a sapphire-blue tablecloth.

Karen eased the door open with one foot, slingshot at the ready as she surveyed the rest of the room. A cedar China cabinet rested against the wall to her right; to her left, open space. On the far side of the table, a sliding glass patio door stood open to the night air, snowy curtains fluttering in a light summer breeze.

She checked behind to ensure she was still alone; she was. She contemplated the best way to cross the dining room to the open patio door. If she went around the inside walls by the cabinet, she might escape notice, but could also end up cornered. Going left would put her in the open with no cover, though she would have the options to retreat, attempt to escape through the kitchen swing door, or make a straight break for the back patio.

Or, she could always go straight over the table. Short, direct, but messy, with no guarantee she wouldn’t injure herself in the process. Not to mention, it would be hard to shoot anything if she was halfway across a table on her hands and knees.

The choice was obvious.

She slipped through the door and ducked left, weapon at the ready. A quick scan of the terrain confirmed the layout; a wide space bordered the dining room, with another set of open patio doors set in the back wall. A modern kitchen, pristine and white with marble countertops and chrome accents, filled the far side of the room with a large island anchoring the space.

I can’t believe it’s the same layout. Goddamn developers. I should sue.

Karen dropped low, checked under the table for lurkers.

All clear.

She glanced back at the kitchen and stopped dead. A shallow crimson puddle crept beyond the edge of the island, extending out from a pair of legs barely visible behind the far side of the island.

Noises, barely discernible over the now distant throb of the speaker, reached her ears; a voice, humming some unknown tune, accompanied by a sopping sound, like someone using a mop to clean up a spill.

With a silent breath, Karen rose and slunk across the floor towards the patio, slingshot trained on the space beyond the island. As the scene revealed itself before her, she hesitated, as confused as she was horrified by the absurdity of what she was seeing.

Thomas sat with his back against the island, legs outstretched, his face one massive collection of bruises. His upper left arm bulged strangely under his shirt; Karen guessed it had been broken. The fingers on his right hand had obviously been snapped. Blood covered his shirt and pooled where he sat, the puncture wound to his heart obvious despite not being directly visible.

Thomas had clearly suffered before death.

He was also clearly not the source of the humming.

That came from a little man, by all appearances an unkempt garden gnome sprung to life, who was busy mopping up Thomas’ blood with a gnome-size woolen cap.

The little man clearly sensed he was no longer alone; he stopped, straightened, and turned to look Karen up and down.

“Well, what do we have ‘ere?” he said, his thick Scottish brogue issued through a barracuda-toothed smile.

Karen stared at the little man, fear draining away

His eyes, large and sanguine, widened at the sight of the slingshot.

“Well, well, my bonnie lass,” he drawled, his accent so thick Karen could barely understand him, “Just who I be looking for. Laddie here was determined not ta give ye up ta save his life.”

The gnarled little man waved his dripping cap at the late Thomas. “Guess ‘e won that one!”

He turned back to Karen, a malicious grin spreading across his face, “Guess ye lost.”

Karen fired a cold iron ball bearing right between the redcap’s eyes.

“Ugh! Ghalla!” The little goblin smacked one bloody hand to his forehead and glared at Karen, who stared in disbelief.

Rubbing his head, the redcap snarled at Karen. “You got pluck, lassie, I’ll give you that. Shame for you, cold iron is not poison to me as it is to me kin.” He clicked the heels of his iron boots together.

Karen stared at the tiny, twisted gnome. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her brow furrowed, her lips curled downward, and icy fire crept into her eyes.

The redcap blinked and cocked his head.

“You—,” the anger in Karen’s voice sent the Unseelie gnome back a step in surprise, “You—this is all your fault! I see it now—all the neighborhood vandalism and everyone’s plants on my doorstep—it’s been you and your little goblin friends all along, hasn’t it? And—and the whole reason you even showed up is because these—,” she thrust her hand at the late Thomas, “—these fairies put up those stupid little doors and welcomed you to the neighborhood!”

The redcap wore an expression of genuine surprise at Karen’s outburst.

“And now—,” her face turned a deep crimson, “Now you’ve gone and killed them all! Do you know—do you know what a mass murder does to property values?!”

The very thought pushed Karen to the greatest weapon in her vast arsenal.

“I want to speak to your manager!” she yelled at the Unseelie, oblivious to the blood that dripped from his cap into clotted, syrupy pools.

“The manager?” the redcap said, “Oh! You mean Queen Mab! Well, I think she’d be delighted to have words with ye.”

“Queen Mab? Some kind of royalty? Well, get her out here immediately! She needs to hear about the atrocious behavior of her royal subjects!”

“Oh, lassie. Queen Mab be not answerin’ to anyone’s beck and call. We’ll be havin’ to pay her a visit in person.” An evil smile crept across the redcap’s wizened countenance.

Karen’s bravado faltered and she took a step back, unaware a sanguine stream from Thomas’ body had reached out and behind her. One pump had no sooner made contact when it shot out from under her, pitching her backwards onto the floor. The slingshot skittered across the floor and under the dining room table, out of reach and out of sight.

With impossible speed, the redcap was on her, straddling her in its iron boots, one hand gripping her hair with stubby, steel fingers.

“Let’s go, lassie. Time to—what was it you said? Ah, yes—talk to my manager.” He flashed her another evil smile.

With inhuman strength and unnatural celerity, he dragged her across the yard to the walnut tree. There, the lower fairy door stood impossibly open, a dark, empty space where there should have been bark. Without hesitation, the redcap marched across the threshold and pulled Karen Wheeler-Browne with him, with nary a concern for the fact that she didn’t quite fit.

* * * * * *

Detective Bown shifted uncomfortably on his haunches as he waited for the uniform to return. His eyes roamed over the scene, taking in the oddities—the broken half of a little blue door nailed to the walnut tree at eye level, the green one below it at ground, gore lining its edges. An iron ball bearing with specks of green paint lying a few feet away, identical to others found throughout the house.

And of course, the—

“Detective Bown?” a voice spoke behind him.

“Mm-hm?” He neither rose nor turned around.

“Four bodies, sir. Three men, one woman. Two of the men were the owners: Thomas and William Page. The other two are Brad Murphy and Jenny Chen; they’re with Brighter Futures Adoption Agency. Looks like the Pages were looking to adopt.

“And none of them are missing—?”

“Not a one, sir.”

“You confirmed yourself?”

“Yes, Detective.”

“Well then,” Detective Bown reached out with a ballpoint pen and prodded one of the two ragged ears at the base of the fairy door, diamond earrings sticky with blood, “Who do these belong to?”