Peripheral Vision: A Supernatural Thriller
Timothy Hammer, Courtney Zito
Dedication
To our spouses, for their unconditional love and support
of our dreams.
To our children, for being a reason to fight
for those dreams.
Chapter 1
The Bayard House
1965
Elizabeth was helping her mother, Grace, with the evening dishes. Grace was smiling. She was happy to have her Lizzy back home. It had been over four years since her eldest child of three had stood in her kitchen, let alone slept under her and Eli’s roof. But Elizabeth's time at the State College had finished, and with it, came a teaching opportunity in her old town. So once again, Elizabeth found herself back in Homewood and the white farmhouse by the twisting river.
Jason, the youngest of the three children by ten minutes, was seated at the kitchen table. His twin sister, Michelle, was currently out of town on an extended school trip, although secretly, Jason knew that she was actually at another rally. This one in Omaha. Michelle’s stance didn't sit well with their veteran father, or with the many pro-LBJ residents of Homewood, Nebraska.
Jason was glad he wasn’t quite old enough to worry about standing on Whitehall Street and putting a cigarette lighter to his draft card. He had one more year for that. Unlike his sister, Jason tried not to think about Vietnam. Tried not to think about his buddies from last year’s senior class that were finishing basic training at Fort Blinn, and soon would be on their way there. Instead, he thought about baseball, and his grades-which weren’t very good.
Although the opposition group that Michelle rallied with was small, they made a lot of noise, traveling from town to town and organizing peace rallies around the state. But unfortunately, sometimes when noise gets too loud, it leads to someone trying to make it stop. That someone came knocking on the screen door of the Bayard’s kitchen on that cool October night.
Jason stared hard at the page of his book, slowly rereading over his latest Algebra assignment, but mostly trying to tune out his father, who was going off once again on one of his many life lectures.
“...and these choices can affect the rest of your life, Jason. Jason? Are you listening?” Eli Bayard asked.
He could see that his son wasn’t, but it was just one of those things that you ask anyway.
“Yeah, Dad. I'm listening. I just need to finish these problems.”
“Well, this is more important than-” Eli didn’t finish as a loud knock on the screen door startled him.
Eli, still trying to regather his thoughts, walked over to the kitchen door and looked out. Standing on the other side of the screen door was a lanky, clean cut boy of maybe fifteen or sixteen. Yes, ‘boy’ is the right word, Eli thought.
A lean baby face, with the first signs of acne, was stared back at him. The boy looked nervous. No, that wasn't it. He looked almost frightened, and he was sweating. Sweating uncontrollably. In the crisp Autumn air, steam seemed to be rising off the boy's skin. It created a grey-like halo above his head. That's when Eli's eyes moved down from the boy's face, to his hands. And that’s when he saw the gun-an M1923. Just like mine from the war, Eli thought.
“Mr. Bayard, sir? Is your daughter home?” The boy asked. Eli started to shake his head and slowly put his hands up all at the same time. “Michelle. Is Michelle home?”
“Son, now...you need to just-”
But that's when the gunshot rang out and took Eli's words away. The bullet passed clean through his abdomen and shattered the blue flower vase that rested on the kitchen table. The same blue vase that had been the centerpiece for so many family breakfasts with eggs, and bacon, and pancakes. Grace screamed. The screen door flew open and Eli stumbled backwards and crumpled to the kitchen floor.
“You tell her to shut her lying, little bitch mouth,” the boy yelled. “You hear me? You tell her… no more, NO MORE!'”
With that, the lanky gunman pointed the barrel of the pistol at Eli's head, and went to pull the trigger. But before he could deal the kill shot, his eyes betrayed him, and strayed over in the direction of Elizabeth. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, he let a breath of new air slip through his cracked lips and refill his thirsty lungs. Something's wrong with her eyes, he thought, and then there was a loud cracking sound, and he fell to the ground.
The wooden baseball bat had made contact with the side of the lanky gunman's head, and he fell just like Jason knew the long-necked bitch would. The cracking sound made Jason long for the dirt of the baseball diamond, but alas, it would be another five drawn-out months before he suited up again for the Homewood Eagles. Jason looked for the gun, but in the fall it had slid across the kitchen floor and stopped at the feet of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth just stared at the gun for a moment, thinking of the cold barrel, and wondering if the grip was still warm. And then she bent down and picked it up. It was still warm, and it felt heavy in her hands, but she thought she could handle it, if she had to. She had to. Elizabeth pointed the pistol at the skinny teenager who was now sprawled out on her mother's kitchen floor, bleeding from the side of his head. She looked up at Jason, who seemed to be lost in thought as well, and then the screaming began again. Mother? She thought.
Grace had waited for Lizzy to pick up the gun, and then she dropped to her knees next to her fallen husband. The wound didn't look that bad really. Just a small hole, and a few drops of blood on his shirt. Then she noticed the crimson pool that was quickly growing beneath Eli.