Overlooking the playground sat three birds on a wire. Two brown-and-white song sparrows practiced their intricate trills and whistles, heads up, chests out: “Sweet-sweet-sweet. Lookame, lookame, lookame. Again! Sweet-sweet-sweet. Lookame, lookame, lookame. Again!” One dun Carolina wren looked on, as though self-conscious, occasionally inserting her pedestrian chirrup, chirrup, chirrup. Then the wren – the smallest of the three – halted and began her caution call: chip-chip-chip-chip. The smaller sparrow stopped her songs and looked over at the chipping wren. With a whir of little wings, the two smaller birds bobbed off to the next stop in the neighborhood circuit. Meanwhile, back on the wire, a cloud of feathers settled, and the other sparrow was gone. Close by, a red-tailed hawk hit the ground, his head down and his wings half-extended, shrouding his deed from secular eyes. His head jerked violently up and then down three times, and then his wings relaxed and dropped to his sides. He raised his head and looked around, a small brown-and-white feather hanging from his beak. Then, like a swimmer executing a butterfly stroke, he rose into the air with one motion of his wings and sped back to his ethereal realm with one talon clutching a lifeless parcel, an offering of life for his own little ones.
*
Down below, sat three women on a bench watching their own little ones play. The left-most of the women looked up and around, her attention drawn by a faint whir of wings somewhere above and behind her head. Unable to locate the source of the sound, she turned her attention back to the playground. She noticed one boy stepping back from the jungle gym and taking off his windbreaker, tossing it to the ground.
“Kenyon!” called the first woman, sharply. She seemed less certain than the other two, nervously playing with her maroon turtleneck. “Don’t throw your jacket like that; bring it here! Bring it here!” The boy dutifully interrupted his play to retrieve the jacket and carry it to the woman. She received it, folding it and laying it neatly across her lap. She spoke, directing her unassuming words to no one in particular as she watched the activity on the playground. “Such a good kid. Had a tough year. Broke his wrist. Had to wear a cast almost four months. Just got it off, recently.” Looking over at the other two women, she smiled nervously and continued, “You know how hard that can be — for the little ones.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” said the second woman. “The girl in the jumper is yours, too?”
The first woman smiled nervously and nodded, “Nancy.”
The second woman’s straight shoulder-length hair emphasized her height and her severe, angular face, as did her black fleece vest. “She’s very pretty. Look like nice kids. You should be proud.” She turned her head to the other end of the playground. “That’s my son in the grizzly-bear sweatshirt. Can’t get enough of bears and sharks. Hoping he’ll hit on something more sociable.” She tilted her head slightly. “The other two are Mandy’s,” and she nodded toward the third woman. Looking back at the first woman, she put her hand up to her throat, “Izzy.”
“Is he what?” said the first woman, momentarily off balance. “Oh, Izzy as in . . . Isabelle?” She reddened slightly, fearing that she had missed the opportunity for a good first impression. “I’m Jessica. We’re new to the neighborhood,” she said meekly. “We’ve been in about a week now. We are so, so happy to be here. Everything has been wonderful, and everyone has been so nice.” She looked back at the other woman who was now staring intently at her. A third head and face were suddenly peering at her, as the third woman on the bench leaned forward to see around the second woman.
“Did you just move into the Brokaw house? You know, the Spencer house?” the third woman asked. As she leaned forward, her head appeared like a dirty blond bubble formed by her chin-length hair encapsulating her face and head. She appeared round in every aspect – her figure, her face, nose, cheeks, chin, the deep-set circles around her eyes.
Jessica nodded in response to her question. “Yes, the Spencer house.”
“Oh, that explains it,” said the second woman to the third. And then turning back to the first, offering further explanation, “We live right across the street. We saw your moving van the other day, but we didn’t see you or your family. Hmm. Otherwise, we would have brought you a casserole . . . or a pie . . . or a cheese platter. You may have seen a police car in our driveway. That’s my husband’s. He’s a good person to know around here. Anything you need, you just come over and ask – Izzy and Jack McCracken, that’s us.” Tossing a hand toward the playground, “And that’s Stacy.” She looked back at the first woman. “That’s short for Anastasia.”
Again, the third woman peered around the second. “Mandy Barnes.” She disappeared behind neighbor and then reappeared again to address the first woman. “You can call me Mandy . . . or Mimi . . . or Mim. Clive and I live in the yellow house at the other end of the street.” She disappeared once again like a turtle pulling in its head.
“That’s very welcoming of you,” the first woman said, relaxing.
“I’ve heard people call it the Brokaw house,” said the first woman. “We bought it from the Spencers.”
The second woman stared once again at the first. And then her eyes widened. “You bought the house without knowing –.” She bit her lower lip. “One reason it’s called the Brokaw house is that the Brokaws built it almost a hundred and twenty years ago. But it’s also called the Brokaw house — or sometimes the Minky house — or even the Johnsian Rebaptist house – because of what happened there when those people owned it.” The second woman looked straight ahead with concern. “That’s not right — selling you that house without telling you. Just not right.”
The first woman continued to look puzzled. The third woman appeared again from behind the second, this time with wild round eyes. She blurted, “It’s a murder house.”
The second woman chimed in an octave lower, now with downcast face, “A murder house.”
The third woman repeated, now whispering, “A murder house.”
The blood drained from the face of the first woman as she stared open-mouthed at the other two. “Wha-at? A murder house?”
“It’s a long story,” the second woman said, cagily, as if well-rehearsed. “First, the man who built the house, Ned Brokaw, was bitten by a rabid skunk. He contracted rabies and –.”
“Went mad and killed his wife with a shotgun!” chimed in the third woman.
The second woman looked at the third in reprimand and then continued, “And then exactly thirty years later, the family living there, the Minkys, Mildred Minky poisoned her abusive second husband. And in front of her three children from her first marriage, she –.”
“She cut him up with a hacksaw!” Blurted out the third woman. And then in an excited whisper, “They say none of the children ever spoke again.”
Staring straight at the third woman, the second woman paused and then began again in her measured tone, “And then exactly thirty years later,” she said turning slowly back to their new neighbor. “A cult called the Johnsian Rebaptists moved into the house and one by one from youngest to oldest, they took turns –”
“Drowning each other in an apple-bobbing tub!” blurted out the third woman.
The second woman looked down at the third. “Must you keep interrupting me?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“You’ll have Jessica thinking we’re rude and uncouth.” The second woman regained her composure. “And here we are,” she said, “almost exactly thirty years since the last murders.” She looked straight into the face of the first women.
The third woman looked into the first woman’s face, almost enthusiastically. Then in a high, lilting voice, “It’s like we’re due for another.”
*
“I just can’t believe someone sold you this house without telling you it was the site of a murder – multiple murders – multiple multiple murders! Aren’t they legally required to—?”
The newspaper at the kitchen table dropped enough to reveal a round, balding head and glasses.
“You knew!” she continued.
The newspaper dropped into the lap of Louie Miller, round and pink in a clean, white dress shirt and suspenders.
“You bought this house and moved us in without telling me?!” Realization came like a thunderclap. “Louis J. Miller! You. Are NOT. A serious. Human! BEING!” She seemed to lift off the ground slightly with the last word as her lower lip began to quaver.
“Well, yes.” He paused, gauging his wife’s mental state. “But you must admit, it was a huge opportunity!” He hoped his wife would pick up on his enthusiasm.
She stood in front of him unable to form words.
He spoke slowly, trying to coax her back into the realm of reason. “Think about it, Hun. First, we saved a ton on the purchase price!” He smiled, but his smile was not returned. “Second, the history of this house is itself a valuable asset. Houses like this are turned into museums. Income-generating properties. The Lizzie Borden House! The Villisca Axe Murder House! The Lemp Mansion! They filmed a movie in the Clutter house!” His enthusiasm waned as it was met by narrowing eyes and furrowing forehead. “Just think what a great place to run escape rooms? They’re very much in vogue!”
“OK, OK,” he said holding out his newspaper like a matador. “If you and the kids find that you don’t like the house – after a month.” And then under his breath, “That could actually add to the mystique of the house.”
Her eyes widened and she seemed to lean forward.
He chose his words carefully. “Then we can move.” He searched for some sign of acceptance. “Right away. That’s how much money we saved.” He fished for some sign of appreciation. “And we can turn it into a museum or an escape room attraction.” He took her fierce silence as concession.
*
Above the playground sat two birds on a wire. One brown-and-white song sparrow and one dun Carolina wren, looking like they owned the yard. The sparrow sang proudly, and she aggressively ran through her impressive repertoire while the wren chirrup-ed excitedly, looking spritely from side to side, up and down. Then the wren took a side-step – chip. And then another – chip-chip-chip. And then in a whir of tiny wings, the wren bobbed away. Meanwhile, back on the wire, a cloud of dun feathers settled past the wire and the sparrow was gone. Nearby the red-tailed hawk hit the ground, dispatched his business, and launched himself skyward, having been given this day his daily bird.
*
Down below, sat three women on a bench watching their little ones play. On the left, Jessica Miller, looked up and around, her attention drawn by a faint fluttering somewhere above and behind her. Unable to locate the source of the sound, she wrung her hands and stared off into the distance. As the other two women gave her their full attention, she recounted, “And Louie just sat there. He just sat there. With his newspaper, smiling up at me.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe him. A museum! An escape room attraction! Uhhh!” And then in a lower tone, “I could just kill him.”
The second woman, Izzy McCracken, patted Jessica’s arm as if in consolation. “A month is not a long time. And it is a wonderful neighborhood.” She gazed benevolently down at Jessica casting a severe smile. “Jack and I are just across the street whe–I mean if anything happens.” Izzy’s expression softened. “Sisters, Jessica.”
Mandy’s voice echoed, “Sisters.”
Izzy added, “Strength in numbers.”
Again, the echo, “Yes, strength in numbers.” Then Mandy Barnes’ blond bubble-do appeared again from behind Izzy. “Jessica, dear,” she offered, shaking her head, “it’s just a murder–I mean it’s just a house. The house didn’t murder anyone.” Izzy looked sharply at Mandy.
Jessica continued to wring her hands and stare off into the distance, repeating to herself under her breath, “Shotgun, hacksaw, apple tub. Shotgun, hacksaw, apple tub. Shotgun, hacksaw, apple tub.”
The third woman looked at the second. “Do you think she’s all right?” The second woman raised her eyebrows and looked back at the third. Both turned their gaze on the first.
*
Above the playground sat one bird on a wire. An unassuming wren dressed in grey and brown sang its simple song – chirrup. As if nervous, it stepped side-to-side along the wire. Chirrup. The little bird froze as a bird-shaped shadow flew out of the sun and landed silently atop the telephone pole, casting a knife-like shadow directly across the smaller bird. Chip.
Down below, sat three women on a bench watching their little ones play. On the left, Jessica Miller, looking strangely calm, was speaking with an ethereal detachment. “Yesterday afternoon, I walked through the house as if in a dream. It was as if I could hear the house itself speaking to me and the house could hear my thoughts. The children were playing, running in and out of their rooms and up and down the stairs. The stairs seemed to keep going up and up and up. The house told me it wanted . . . to be redeemed. Redeemed. It wanted to be highly valued once again. And it doesn’t want to be a . . . freak, an outcast. It wants, desperately wants to be filled with life, the kind of life only a family can give it. It wants my family. And I knew then what I had to do. I had to make it mine.”
Jessica looked over at Izzy and Mandy, leaning around Izzy. She seemed to come out of her trance and speak with a sense of purpose. “I know what I have to do.” She looked intently at Izzy and then Mandy and then back. “But I’ll need your help.”
“Mm-hmm,” Izzy nodded.
“Yuh-huh,” Mandy bobbed.
Izzy continued as if entranced herself, “Whatever you need. Strength in numbers.”
Mandy followed suit. “Definitely. Sisterhood. Strength in numbers.”
Jessica looked straight ahead and announced, “That house will no longer be the Brokaw house. Or the Minky house. Or the Johnsian Rebaptist house. It will be the Miller house.” Jessica Miller continued to look straight ahead, speaking in a lower tone now, “I’m gonna need a shotgun, . . . a hacksaw, . . . and an apple-bobbing tub.”
*
Jessica and Louie Miller sat at the kitchen table. Louie disappeared behind his newspaper. “You know, Louie,” Jessica stared at the black-and-white sheet that faced her as she measured out two spoons of sugar for her coffee. “Maybe it’s not such a big issue living in a murder house. I think it may be growing on me. I feel almost like the house . . . speaks to me. So just forget the fact that you didn’t tell me about the house’s history before buying it. Before moving us in. Before putting out babies to sleep under its roof.” Staring at the newspaper, she measured out two more spoons of sugar, missing the spoon and then tipping the empty spoon over her mug. “We belong to it now. I’ve decided to embrace the house for what it is.” She stared at Louie. “Exactly what it is.”
“I knew you’d come around.” He said folding his paper. He kissed the top of her head in passing, as he left the table. “I had complete faith in you. You are one bad-ass mother.” He headed out the door. “I pity the axe murderer who crosses your path.”
*
The next morning, Louie Miller with briefcase in hand, got into his beige Stratus and headed to work. Even as he pulled out of the driveway, Jessica Miller was dialing Izzy McCracken and Mandy Barnes.
Jessica roused the kids and herded them downstairs. They had work to do in the backyard. Jessica marked out three planting beds at the back of the yard. They dug down and turned the soil. As the first and second beds were finished, they topped it off with soil taken from the third bed. Jessica brought out several trays of bulbs and seeds and instructed them carefully in how to space them and plant them in the two fresh beds. The third bed they left partially dug, with the shovel sticking out of it. They headed inside, sweaty and dirty. As they passed through the garage, Jessica gathered their dirty clothes which she threw into a tub which sat in the center of the garage. She sent the kids up to change and play in their rooms until lunch.
Sometime before noon, a white panel van pulled into the driveway. The truck advertised “Wilkins Meats” in large red letters, and then below that a second line, “Rise, Peter, kill and eat. – Acts 10:13.” The driver unloaded a side of beef – one-hundred-eighty-five pounds of meat in cuts of five pounds or less. He packed them into the freezer chest in the garage, collected a signature, tipped his hat, and pulled out of the driveway. Shortly and in turn, Izzy McCracken and Mandy Barnes, pulled their minivans into the Miller driveway. Pulling up close to the garage door, they each loaded a portion of the meat delivery into their vehicles, taking it home with them. Jessica then spread a dishtowel out on her kitchen counter. Taking one-by-one each of the parcels remaining in the garage freezer, she removed the white butcher paper, placed each cut of meat on the towel, rewrapped it in Saran wrap, and returned it to the freezer. She did this sixteen times. Having completed this operation, she took the bloody dishtowel and threw it into the tub in the garage.
At noon, a stern, resolute Mandy Barnes stopped by to pick up the kids. As soon as Mandy pulled out of the driveway, Jessica Miller, now with the face of Ares, or an unhappy Hera, stuck her head out her front door and nodded toward the McCracken’s house across the street. Upon Jessica’s signal, Izzy McCracken with military precision issued from the front door and marched across the street with a shotgun slung over her forearm. Meeting Jessica at the door, she presented the weapon as in a military parade inspection, demonstrated that it was unloaded, and handing the gun over to Jessica, along with two empty shotgun shells. Jessica then carried the shotgun upstairs. She walked by Kenyon’s room, leaned the gun against his doorframe, and tossed a shotgun shell in the doorway, taking a mental snapshot of the room from the doorway. She continued on to Nancy’s room, tossed the other shell in the doorway, and took another mental picture.
Returning to the kitchen, she pulled out two pints of canned stewed tomatoes from her pantry and a head of cauliflower from the refrigerator. She chopped the cauliflower into large sections, opened the cans, and dumped it all into her blender, hitting pulse. Then, armed with her basting brush, she marched back upstairs with blender jar in hand. Entering first Kenyon’s room, she walked up to her mental target on the wall and painted a random spray pattern three-foot-wide with the tomato-cauliflower marinade. She repeated the process in Nancy’s room. She returned to the kitchen and dumped the remaining marinade down the disposal.
She then ran a garden hose to the tub and filled it halfway up with water, watching as the blood from the dishtowel diffused throughout the swirling water. She took a hamburger patty from the freezer stash and rubbed it along the hacksaw blade. She placed the bloody hacksaw on a wooden chair placed under one of the bare bulbs that lit the garage. She tossed the hamburger patty into the tub for good measure.
She then left a note on the kitchen table, reading, “THE HOUSE HAS WON. I CAN NOT FIGHT IT. NOW NO ONE WILL EVER LEAVE.” And then she washed her hands and strolled over to have coffee with Izzy McCracken.
Three hours later, Louie Miller pulled into his driveway. The house was dark and quiet – no lights on, no sounds. Louie retrieved his briefcase from the car and went inside. Across the street at the McCracken’s where Izzy and Jessica were having coffee, Izzy got up from the living room sofa and walked into the kitchen where a CB radio was mounted under the kitchen counter. “Breaker. The pigeon is back in the nest. The pigeon is back in the nest. Over.” A reply crackled over the radio, “I copy. Over.” Almost immediately a siren could be heard and in a matter of minutes, Jack McCracken pulled into the Miller’s driveway with lights flashing. He met a confused Louie Miller at the front door. Before Louie could say anything, Jack McCracken spoke forcefully, “Mr. Miller, we got a call that there were gunshots at this address. What’s the situation. Never mind – I’ll take a look.” He pulled his service revolver from its holster and moved into the house. “Stay behind me.” McCracken did a quick search of the first floor, moving swiftly until he came to the kitchen and saw the note on the table. He looked from the note to Louie and back. “This is bad. Mr. Miller, was your wife depressed, psychotic, overly romantic, given to flights of fantasy, a fan of bedroom dress-up games?” He looked at Louie. “Never mind, you’re in shock. Let’s make sure there’s no one upstairs.” McCracken swept up the stairs, moving swiftly from room to room until he came to the kids’ rooms. “Mr. Miller, it appears that your wife has . . . done something unthinkable with your children. No, you better not look.” McCracken grabbed Louie by the upper arm and hustled him back toward the stairs, as Louie Miller strained to see what was in the children’s bedrooms, seeing the shotgun leaning against the doorjamb, the empty shotgun shells and the splatters of red on the far walls. Louie began to assemble puzzle pieces in his mind. What had she said about never leaving? What was it about the house speaking to her?
McCracken led him quickly down the stairs and through the house toward the kitchen door that led to the garage. Opening the door to the garage, McCracken began, “Oh, Mr. Miller, you don’t want to see any of this. Stay here. Don’t move.” Leaving the door open, McCracken moved past the blood red tub. McCracken feigned a stifled gag as he passed by, diverting his eyes, as Louie Miller peered out the door watching McCracken from a distance. Moving to the far corner of the garage, past the chair with the bloody hacksaw, McCracken stopped in front of the freezer. “I hope to God I don’t see . . .” He opened the lid slightly. “Mr. Miller, had you packed this freezer full of meat? Tell me you did. Please tell me you did.”
Louie Miller stood inside the kitchen door moving his lips but unable to form words.
From the garage, McCracken ordered, “Mr. Miller, don’t move!” McCracken headed to the open door leading from the garage to the backyard. Louie’s attention turned to the backyard, which he could see from his vantage point in the kitchen. McCracken proceeded far enough into the back yard so that Louie could see him looking out toward the two fresh flower beds and the remaining opened bed. McCracken made a show of removing his cap and lowering his head to his chest. After a long pause, McCracken proceeded back through the backdoor into the kitchen. “Mr. Miller.” McCracken paused. “Mr. Miller, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid this whole house is a crime scene. You’d better come with me.” He grabbed Louie Miller by the upper arm and steered him out the front of the house toward his squad car. “You’d better stay here. I’m going to have to call for backup. A lot of backup.” He opened the rear door and pushed a dazed Louie Miller into the back seat, closing the door after him. Stepping away from the car, Jack McCracken spoke into his handset hanging from his shoulder, “Any units patrolling in the area of 38 Chestnut, I could use a couple sirens, just for fun. McCracken over.” In a matter of moments, sirens could be heard getting louder and louder. Jack McCracken strolled over across the street. Two more patrol cars pulled in blocking off the end of the Millers’ driveway. Officers emerged from their cars, milling about, looking serious. Under cover of the growing crowd of police officers and curious neighbors, Jessica Miller and Izzy McCracken emerged from the McCracken house, smiling and laughing.
In the back of Jack McCracken’s patrol car, Louie Miller sat shaking and crying, facing the house of horrors, hearing sirens around him, knowing there were additional police behind him, police milling about doing police things, comparing police notes, consulting on police tactics and procedures. Time passed inexorably. Louie’s head swam. Had Jessica really done this? Could the house really have made her do it? Was that third grave meant for me?
Finally, the door on the other side of the patrol car opened. Jessica Miller climbed in, smiling. Louie stared at her searching for any sign of a weapon intended to dispatch him as well. “Louie.” He was unresponsive. “Louie.” She continued, in a soothing voice. “Louie!” He turned his eyes to her, his face alternated between smiles and terror. “Louie, have you had enough of the murder house?”
“What? Yes. Yes,” he mumbled begging. He began to focus on Jessica’s face. “What does that mean? What’s going on? Where are the kids? What have you done?” He began to cry. “Why?”
“The kids are fine. They’re at Mandy’s house.” She leaned forward to look more directly into Louie’s puffy, swollen face. “But this is the deal: This is the end of the murder house. This is now the Miller house. And all that money we saved on the purchase price? That’s going into a new kitchen and new master bath. Got it?” She reached out and caressed his tear-soaked cheek, giving it a gentle pat.
*
Above the playground sat one bird on a wire. A fat little grey wren groomed her ruffled plumage. One claw held a large red feather with bits of black-and-white. She lifted her foot and shook it to let the feather fall. She puffed out her chest and sang, “Chirrup, chirrup, chirrup!”