
17 Mar The Peeper
âThe Peeperâ
Written by Geoff Sturtevant Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
đ§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
â° ESTIMATED READING TIME â 14 minutes
7:35 pm, November 28. Sheriff Ron Ball and Deputy Ernest Dingle: On-duty.
Unit 1, we got a 10-70 at Royalty Deluxe Luxury Mobile Estates. I repeat, a 10-70. Unit One, do you copy?
Sheriff Ball looked at Dingle. No more than five minutes after theyâd parked for a little snack, and here comes a 10-70.
âWhatâs a 10-70?â Dingle asked.
âA prowler. Some sick son of a bitch with idle hands and a hard-on decides to go skulking around.â
Unit One, do you copy?
Ball fingered the button on his radio. âSay, Frankie, why you always gotta call me Unit One when you know damn well there ainât no unit Two or Three or anyone else?â
Sorry, Sheriff, just followinâ protocol is all. Trailer seventeen, itâs supposed to be. A 10-70 in progress, sir.
Followinâ protocol, Ball thought. Now ainât that a fanciful idea…
âProblem is, Frankie, the deputy and I are currently responding to a 7-11.â
A pause. âA 7-11, sir? Iâm unfamiliar.â
âIt means weâre havinâ a couple hot dogs by the 7-11. They never taught you that one in dispatch class?â
Another pause. Lady of the house says thereâs some fella hanginâ around outside. Supposed to be peeping in the window while sheâs in the bathroom.
âGood heavens,â Dingle said. âThatâs not nice.â
âNaw, Deputy, thatâs not nice at all. If it were, they wouldnât have a radio code for it.â
âWhy you suppose that is? Never have a radio code for no one doinâ nothinâ nice.â
âBesides a 7-11, anyways.â
âYeah, youâre right about that, Sheriff. It sure is nice having a 7-11.â
Unit one, do you copy?
âGo ahead.â
It appears the suspect is still on-scene. Caught up somehow. Something about being stuck in a toilet bowl.
âA toilet bowl?â Ball said. âYou mean the suspect got inside?â
Negative, the toilet bowl is supposed to be outside, Sheriff.
âWell, Iâd have to disagree with that,â Dingle said. âThe toilet bowl is most certainly supposed to be inside.â
âNaw, I think what Frankie is trying to say, Deputy, is that this particular one just happens to be outside.â
âOooh. Well, that makes sense.â
Unit One, do you copy?
â10-4, Frankie. The deputy and I are on our way.â
Ball frowned at his half-eaten hot dog. âYou wanna finish this, Deputy?â
Dingle recoiled at the suggestion. âWell, I canât eat after you, Sheriff. I could catch the rona virus!â
âWell, goddamn.â
Sheriff Ball tossed his hot dog out the window and hit the cherries. Then they pulled out onto the road.
Royalty Deluxe Luxury Mobile Estates was only a mile down the interstate. Ball cut the siren and they pulled into the gravel entrance. Illuminated in the strobing lights as they approached trailer 17 was the unmistakable figure of a man in distress. As described, he had one foot on the ground and the other in a toilet bowl. By the flowers and dirt scattered around it, the commode had clearly been used as a planter. The tank still had tomatoes dangling out of it.
Ball left the lights on and stepped out of the cruiser. Dingle followed. The manâs eyes glowed in the lights like a raccoonâs caught in a dumpster. An Indian fella, complete with the turban-thing you sometimes see âem wearing. Not the usual kinda fella you see around here. Then again, it wasnât a usual thing to see a fella with his foot in a toilet bowl either. Particularly outdoors. All in all, there was nothing usual about it.
âEvening,â Ball said. âSay, you happen to notice anyone prowling around here tonight? Thereâs supposed toâve been someone sneakinâ around, peekinâ in windows at innocent ladies goinâ to the bathroom. You notice anything like that?â
âWell, damn, Sheriff. I think this might be the very man right here.â
âThis nice fella? Nah. Couldnât be. I mean, could it, sir? A nice little man like yourself?â
The man didnât answer, only continued trying to wrench his leg out of the bowl. By the depth of it, he must have had his foot jammed right up the gooseneck.
âThatâs him alright! Peepinâ son of a bitch!â
A young lady came out the front door of the trailer, clad in a cutoff Britny Fox concert tee and hotpants. Dingle took off his hat.
âLeaninâ over to put a suppository in, and I seen this creep peepinâ in the window!â
At the sound of her anger, the man intensified his efforts to get loose. A few tomatoes fell off the vine and rolled in the gravel.
âNow, you sure it was this man right here? Couldnât have been someone else who looked just like him?â
âThatâs him alright! Goddamn peepinâ Indian. And look what he done to my garden!â
âNow, now,â Ball said. âEasy enough a misstep when itâs so dark outside.â
âHe was peepinâ in my window. Standinâ on the toilet there so he get up high enough. See? Thereâs my bathroom right there!â
The gal pointed at the window just above the toilet tank. Ball took out his flashlight and shone it through the glass. He wrinkled his mustache. âWell, youâre certainly right about that. That there is indeed the bathroom. What do you make of that, Dingle?â
The deputy still clutched his hat to his chest. He was regarding the angry woman with grave empathy.
âDingle?â
âOh… Well, yes, Sheriff. Iâd say this very lovely young lady was victimized. Caught this fella red-handed. And if I didnât have such respect for the system of law and order, Iâd shoot him my damn self.â
A pause. Ball raised an eyebrow.
âPeepinâ son of a bitch!â the gal said. âGimme your gun there and Iâll do it myself!â
The Indian was thrashing wildly now.
âNow, now,â Ball said. âLetâs not make any rash decisions before we decide just how 10-70 the situation is. So whatâs your name there, character?â
He laid a hand on the Indianâs shoulder, who seemed to freeze at his touch. They met eyes.
âMy name?â
âUnless you prefer I keep on callinâ you character.â
âOr peepinâ son of a bitch!â
The man seemed to understand all at once that he wasnât going anywhere. He let out a great breath and said, âI am Hardy Sindhu. I am innocent.â
âThe hell he is!â
âWell, hold on. Mr. Hardy Sindhu, Iâm sure you got a perfectly good explanation why youâve been walking through the Royalty Deluxe Mobile Estates at night and got your foot caught in this incidental toilet. All you gotta do is tell us what that is, and Iâm sure we can all just put this to bed. And no one has to get shot, and I can go have a hotdog and not have any paperwork to do. So why donât we justââ
âHeâs a goddamn peeper! All over the park, the girls have been saying someoneâs skulkinâ around at night. Heâs a repeat goddam offender! He saw my bare ass!â
Dingle shifted uncomfortably, lowered his hat to his midsection. âIâm sure sorry, maâam. Itâs a good thing we came when we did. If it werenât for law and order, heaven knows Iâd string him up right where he stands.â
âIâve got a rope right goddamn inside!â
âWell, come on now. Let him at least explain himself. Hardy, whatâre you doinâ out here so late at night?â
Hardy looked back and forth between the sheriff and the angry woman. âLooking for spice,â he said.
âLookinâ for spice? As in spices?â
âYes.â
âThat sounds reasonable,â Dingle said.
The girl shot the deputy an angry look. Dingle changed tactics. âReasonably illegal, that is!â
âIâll go get the rope. Unless you wanna just shoot him?â
âMaâam,â Ball interrupted, âI understand youâre upset about what you believe happened. But say Hardy here was truly looking for spices when he just happened to step accidentally into your garden pot here. I mean, would that really be a killinâ offense?â
âHave a look around, Sheriff! Where you suppose heâd find any goddamn spices?â
Ball straightened up, pulled out his flashlight and panned slowly over the lot. Gravel. Not so much as a clover peeking out of the gravel. He turned the light on Hardy. âMister, Iâd like to give you the benefit of the doubt, but the more I study things, Iâve found weâre completely surrounded by no spices at all.â
Just then, another set of headlights swung into the lot. A black sedan pulled up and a woman dressed in traditional Indian garb got out of the driverâs seat.
âHardy! I knew it! You are peeping again!â
âI am not peeping. I do not do peeping.â
Disregarding everyone else, she hurried to the toilet and swatted him. âYou do peep. I know you are doing peeping.â
âI do not do peeping.â
âYes, you do.â She swatted him again. âAlways doing peeping.â
âI am looking for spice.â
âYou are not looking for spice. You do not do cooking.â
âYou do not do cooking anymore, now I must cook. That is why I am looking.â
She turned to the sheriff. âI do cook. He is lying. He is peeping. Bad man. Bastard guy!â
âI am not bastard guy.â
Ball noted Clarissaâs knees were knocking together. The look on her face had changed from purely angry to half-angry and half-something else.
ââPositoryâs workinâ,â she said.
âWell⌠Goddamn.â
âDonât you worry, Ms. Clarissa, you go right ahead and do your business. Weâll just stay right here and make sure this bastard guy stays right where he is.â
âThank you, Mr. Deputy!â And with a move evocative of The Matrix, the girl was back in the trailer, the screen door wobbling in her wake. Dingleâs eyes panned the trailer wall as if to follow her inside with X-ray vision.
Ball crossed his arms and addressed the enervated Indian woman, still staring daggers at her ensnared hubby. âWell… Now that thatâs settled, what say we just load Mr. Sindhu into the back of your car and call it a nice evening?â
The womanâs eyes went wide. Everyone paused.
âWhatâs the matter?â Ball said.
âI think you might be overlooking a few logisticals, Sheriff.â
âWell, like what?â
âHeâs kinda stuck, for one.â
Ball reexamined the situation. His stomach grumbled. âYou could grab under the tank there and Iâll grab under the bowl. As far as Hardy goes, he canât weigh so much. How much you weigh there, Hardy? A buck-twenty-five, tops? Figure weâll load you right in the trunk there and you and your lovely wife here can hash this out at home.â
âHe is criminal! Bastard guy! This is last straw. Must go to jail!â
âWell, now, now, Mrs. Sindhu. I understand youâre upset about your husbandâs little foot. But Iâm sure thereâs a good plumber can snake that right outta there. Maybe not this time of night, but you could call one right in the morning.â
âFoot? I donât care about foot! He is bastard guy. I donât want foot, donât want husband! He is peeping criminal! I want divorce!â
âNow, now,â Ball said. âIâm sure he didnât mean all those things about you not cooking. No sense ruining a beautiful marriage over a…â
Ball looked for Dingle to add an encouraging word on the situation, but he was presently preoccupied. An ever-diligent deputy, he was on tippy-toe by the bathroom window monitoring the victimâs wellbeing.
âDeputy?â
Dingle snapped back to attention, holding his hat over his crotch like the lid on some rabid animal trap. Hardy watched him with disdainfully. âUh… Yeah, Sheriff?â
âLetâs get our friend here loaded in the car.â
âI told you! I do not want him! Bastard guy!â
âWhy do you call me bastard guy? I am not bastard guy. And not peeping.â
âYou are bull shitting again! Shitting bull!â
âI am not shitting the bull.â
âI divorce from you! No more! You do cooking yourself!â
Hardy held up his hands in supplication. He regarded Ball as if they were the only two reasonable men on the planet. It occurred to Ball that might very well be the case. Although heâd never known a man with exceptional reasoning to get his foot caught in a toilet while he was peeping in a bathroom window.
In any case, as Sheriff of Splittail, this was his great commissionâto be supremely reasonable in a world incapable of reasoning itself. And the overarching fact of the matter was this: It didnât stand to reason that arresting Mr. Sindhu tonight would affect a societal good or bad.
Like any respectable profession, the best result you could hope for was to get through it without hurting too many people. And hadnât Hardy been operating within those boundaries? Because whether thereâs an Indian peeping in the window or not, weâve all got to take a shit. And who was Hardy but a little black fly perched the wall, watching your ass a hundred times over in its compound eyes? And maybe jerking off just a little.
No one worth missing dinner over, Ball reasoned.
âWell, listen, maâam⌠The way I see it, weâve only got two options. We could wait until Ms. Clarissa there gets done doinâ her business, and see if she wants to press charges, or you can retrieve your husband here and 23 skidoo before any of that becomes necessary. And Iâll remind you, Mrs. Sindhu, that even if you intend to divorce this nice man, youâre currently married to him. And any damages he may end up on the hook for may also apply to you.â
Her eyes went wide at thatâquite the desired effect. Ball wasnât sure how accurate the warning had been, but in policework, the end often justifies the means.
âAinât that right, Deputy?â
Dingle was pacing by the bathroom window. Muffled from within, quaintest reverberations. With each, Dingleâs head twitched to the window like a watchdog. Hardy eyed him ruefully.
âAinât that right, Deputy?â
Dingle turned his head. âWell, certainly, Sheriff, it is a nice night.â
Ball shook his head and returned his attention to the scorned woman. She seemed resigned at best, according to his keenest police instincts. But with the three of them aloneâdiscounting Dingle, who was preoccupied at the moment, he wondered if he couldnât offer a little help for the troubled couple while he was at it. He was here to help, after all.
He said: âNot to come across so negative, maâam. It ainât really so bad. See, what Iâm tryinâ to say is this: Tomorrowâs a brand new day. Whatâs already happened tonight canât be helped, and I guess whatever Mr. Hardy may or may not have done in the past, maybe that canât be helped either. But what good man in this world has no bad in him whatsoever? And that little bit of bad, well that donât hardly make him all bad, does it? Thatâs why everyone needs a second chance from time to time. Because each new day brings a chance for redemption. And tomorrow morning, when the sun casts everything in a new light; when the daisies and the petunias spread their petals to embrace the day; maybe you two can start things over. You can shine a new light on your marriage. Focus on what brought you together in the first place. I say to both of you this very night: When the sun rises anew, it rises on a fresh, new Sindhu household. All transgressions forgot. And by nightfall, youâll both be out hunting spices. Together. And I just know youâll do the most delicious cooking. Because together, youâre greater than the sum of your parts. Like two nice pedals on a fresh petunia. Ainât that right, Dingle? Ainât they just…â
And that was about as far as he got. Dingle, hearing his name, pulled his gaze from Clarissaâs bathroom window. His reverie broken, he noticed the lightness of his holster. On the heels of that, they both saw the glint of the .357 leveled at Hardy. His eyes got big.
âNow, now, maâam,â Ball said.
The toilet inside flushed. As if on cue, the gun went off. Mrs. Sindhuâs arms flew upward, and likewise did her husband as the round blew off his lower jaw. Strange matter specked the window. Clarissa peeked out from behind it with her eyebrows like a muppetâs.
âAww, shit!â said Dingle. Heâd dropped his hat, but his erection was quickly subsiding. The crazed woman had held onto the gun, and was composing herself for another shot.
âMaâam,â Ball said. âI was just sayinâ some real nice things to you two, and look what you went and did.â
Hardyâs face was pouring blood. His tongue lolling loosely in absence of his jaw. How he was still conscious, Ball had no idea. But he was. He held up his hands to indicate heâd gotten the message. Dingle stood flattened against the siding as if he hoped to camouflage himself there.
âI think youâve made your point, maâam. Why donât we justââ
Another shot. This one sending Hardyâs turban into the air.
âBastard guy! Peeping bastard! No more shitting the bull to me!â
Clarissa came out the screen door and beheld the mess. The toilet, in mid-tip, went over and took Hardy with it. An audible snap as his knee went sideways and left the bone peeking out his pant leg. He was quiet now. Everyone was. All eyes were on Mrs. Sindhu.
âGoddamn,â Clarissa said. âSo much for the goddamn tomaters.â
Mrs. Sindhu dropped the .357. Her eyes looked glassy. Ball indicated for Dingle to retrieve the gun.
Hardy, Ball noted with a shine of his flashlight, was suitably de-brained by the second shot, making the reconciliation he was suggesting very unlikely. But was all lost? Did no truth remain in his words?
A glance upward revealed the turban sitting on the end of a branch like a bloodied beehive. It looked strangely at home, like it belonged there somehow.
He broke the silence. âNow Mrs. Sindhu, that wasnât very nice. But then again, I suppose it wasnât real nice what he did, either. I guess the question now is…hmm…â
Dingle retrieved the gun and re-holstered it. That done, he pulled the cuffs from his belt and advanced toward the stunned woman.
âWhoa, Deputy,â Ball said. âLetâs think this out a moment.
Dingle looked back with his eyebrow raised. âSheriff?â
âWell, if you really stop to think about it, maybe what she did is more of a justified shooting. I mean, when you really stop and rub your belly and really think on it.â
âBut… But how so, Sheriff? She lifted my gun when I wasnât looking! And goddamn shot the man! Twice!â
âWell, she shot a peeper, thatâs for sure. Trespassing on this poor young ladyâs property. For who-knows-what reason. Could be he intended to rape, maybe murder innocent Clarissa here. Hell, Deputy, Mrs. Sindhu mightâve saved Miss Clarissaâs life for all we know.â
Dingle seemed dumbstruck. The formerly crazed woman did too, but in a more comatose kinda way. Shock, maybe.
âHell,â Ball went on, âShe at least saved us a heap of paperwork, didnât she? I mean, weâd have been in the office all night if she hadnât justifiably shot the man like she did. Fillinâ out forms, fetchinâ vegetarian mealsâŚâ
âJustifiable as shit, if you ask me,â agreed Clarissa. âIâd have shot the fuck my damn self if I had a damn gun. And if I hadnât been so consternated.â
Ball nodded and stroked his mustache. âWaddya think, Deputy? Sometimes situations just kinda resolve on their own, donât they?â
Dingleâs face seemed to file through its different stages of understanding. In the end, it landed on something like acquiescence. âWell, maybe they do, Sheriff.â
âAs long as someone resolves my goddamn tomaters,â Clarissa said.
Ball nodded. âDeputy, why donât you help me get this gentleman outta Miss Clarissaâs estate there, so we can go ahead and call it an evening?â
Dingle eyed the bloody and pulp-skulled Hardy dangling from his porcelain snare, his throat convulsing. Ball preparing for the effort with a series of head-shoulders-knees-and-toes. âGoddamn undignified,â he said.
The manâs state of deceasedness allowed for a fairly easy extraction from the gooseneck. One good tug, and the foot came free, its corresponding sandal sadly forfeit.
Ball and Dingle dropped the dead man in the trunk of the big sedan while Mrs. Sindhu watched stupidly. What remained of the manâs brains cascaded into the spare tire cavity. Dingle, whose Adamâs apple had been bobbing the whole way, added to the mess a gulletful of barf.
âDeputy, have some respect for the dead.â
âIâm…sorry, Sheriff mmmph!â
With that, Ball lowered the lid. And with the click of the latch, it was case closed.
Once Mrs. Sindhu was convinced to part with $20 for Miss Clarissaâs goddamn tomaters, Ball led her back to her car. The look on her face was that of a woman whose life had been changed in an instant. Because it had, he reckoned. Because situations like this happened all the time, each one with its corresponding radio-code which made things seem just as simple as that.
But things were never just as simple as that. When it came down to it, about the only way you could deal with things was to try not to make âem even worse. And with everyone creating all these situations, what good would it do to cause more damage?
No more good than doing nothing at all.
At least where getting dinner was concerned.
Ball sat Mrs. Sindhu in the driverâs seat. Her eyes in the moonlight were white all around the irises. âWill I be punished?â she asked.
As if the sheriff himself were God on high. A bearded deity among the clouds. Or a floating elephant with fifteen arms. Ball was none of those things. In terrestrial terms, he was the High Sheriff of Splittail County. In the grand scheme of things, he was no more than a man nearing the end of his shift. A man completely and utterly without a hotdogâhardly one to cast judgment. Because any way you looked at the big picture, whether through the rosy lenses of religion, or the bathroom window of some young galâs trailer, things were going the way they were going. All the way of Clarissaâs suppository.
Ball took a scratch pad from his back pocket, scribbled down a nearby address and underlined it several times for emphasis. He folded the paper and handed it to her.
âWill you be punished?â Ball said. âYou damn well may be. But not here. Not today.â
A little night bird landed next to Hardyâs turban, pecked at it a couple of times, and flew away disinterestedly.
* * * * * *
âNot at all, Frankie,â Ball said into his radio. âJust a little misunderstanding is all.â
Copy that, Unit One.
It had taken Dingle a minute to rekindle his appetite after the gory scene at Royalty Deluxe, but how long could a man sit smelling a hotdog before the nitrites of the human spirit killed off the bacteria of an impure world? Not long at all. And besides, having barfed out his previous, Dingle had a hot dog-shaped pit in his stomach no kind of moralism could fill. Out with the old, in with the new. All transgressions forgot. Old cases closed.
âItâs like my uncle used to tell me,â Dingle said, âsometimes a man uses the toilet. Other times, the toilet uses you.â
âWords of wisdom,â Ball said. âAt least I suppose so.â
âHe drank a fair bit,â Dingle said.
The two sat eating their hotdogs, watching the clock run out on their shift. Twenty more minutes, and it was back to the station and back on home. Not a paper to be filled out. Not a worry in the world. Tomorrow was another day. Second chances, blooming petunias, and the never-ending pursuit of law and order.
âHey, Sheriff, what do you suppose Mrs. Sindhu means to do with the…dearly departed?â
âWell, goddamn,â Ball said. âI nearly forgotâŚâ
Ball set down his hotdog and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and held it to his ear.
âEvening, Mr. Laundry, this is Sheriff Ball. Yessir. About that favor. Obliged? Well, Iâm glad you feel that way. See, a nice young ladyâll be popping by in a little while. Thatâs right… Well, I hope those pigs of yours are hungry, Mr. Laundry. âCause tonight, theyâre eating Hardy.â
đ§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
đ More stories from author: Geoff Sturtevant
Publisher's Notes: N/A Check out Geoff Sturtevantâs critically-acclaimed collection of short stories, Occupational Hazards: The Blue-Collar Omnibus, now available on Amazon.com. Occupational Hazards is an omnibus of acclaimed novelettes from the âReturn to the Dirtâ and âJust Speculatingâ collections, and new, exclusive stories only available in this book. The stories exemplify the unsavory side of our everyday existence. Existentialism, absurdism, and outlandish humor merge with ordinary, workaday life for a unique and hilarious perspective of the human experience. Occupational Hazards is an unflinching ride through the absurdity of it all. Not recommended for the faint of heart or easily offended. But if meaty stories are what youâre after⌠I hope youâre hungry.
More Stories from Author Geoff Sturtevant:
Related Stories:
You Might Also Enjoy:
Recommended Reading:
Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
Why are so many pigs eating so well in these stories