The summer Peter Collins moved back was the summer all the pets went missing. 

This also turned out to be Hannah’s last time on Whoartin Road.

As Hannah drove home from a late night graduation party down her dreary street she noticed a light. The single light flowed from the leading house on Whoartin Road. Its newly red painted door stood open with the figure of Peter Collins in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishcloth, and waving goodbye to the newly wed couple who lived down the road, the Mckenlees. Hannah checked the time. It read 3:54 AM. What are the Mckenlees doing at the Collins’, she squandered. The event was odd and by no means typical. The run down street in its sunken valley was a quiet place. The only thing that broke the silence past 10:00 was the howling of dogs and the scampering of cats. Yet, here the young couple were, bidding the young real estate graduate farewell at nearly four in the morning. 

After parking in front of her house- which was at most a glorified shack with two bed rooms, a bathroom, and a living space- Hannah crept to the back screen door to avoid waking her parents with the screeching of the front doors rusty hinges. She noticed the fluffy golden face of Max, waiting for her in his place on the bed. Without changing Hannah rolled into bed. Seemingly, as soon as her eyes closed, she was awakened the next morning by a knock.

In the door frame was Hannah’s frail next door neighbor, Mrs.King. “Have you seen the bobcat’s kitten?” she sniffled. “She was asleep on my front porch last night and wasn’t when I set out her milk.” Desperately she looked at Hannah. “I thought she might have gone to your back porch.”

As if called, Max leaned upon Hannah and placed his head under her hand. She scratched his ears. “Max would have known if there was a cat that close, so I doubt that the kitten is here.” 

The woman recoiled, her last ounce of hope had left. Trying to inspire more, Hannah added, “I’m going out later, though, and I’ll be looking for her.” But Mrs.King had already left with silent tears in her eyes. 

As she turned towards her house, Hannah spotted Mr.Mckenlee hunched over a bucket of paint. As the brush touched the wood of his front door it left the impression as if it had been stabbed, bleeding out. Red streaks danced across the entryway, looking much like the Collins’ own. Mr.Mckenlee painted the door with the smile of a hopeful man.

Hannah regarded that red again-that deep crimson, like blood- when her, Max, and a neighborhood boy, Eddie, sat on the cracked sidewalk. They conversed over popsicles from what they would call an ice cream truck and others would call a van with a freezer that attracts kids. Each of them gazed forward, looking at the Collins House. Not only was the door red, but now also the rustic porch swing.

“When do you leave for college?” Eddie questioned.

“Well, there’s this acceptance thing in a few weeks, but I don’t move in for another month and a half.” As Hannah spoke she watched the Collins Family on their porch.

“Hannah,” Eddie said. “My parents are having dinner at the Collins’ house tomorrow.”

“Why are you telling me?” She asked.

“I might be younger than you, but I’m just as observant,” Eddie insisted. “I see the way you look at them. You’re skeptical of their every move.”

“Well of course I am. I grew up on this street.”

“Still, you see something is off with them.” Eddie stated, but as if he was asking a question.

Eddie’s observant eyes fell behind compared to Hannah’s at that moment.  Mr and Mrs.Collins have always been strange, but everyone on Whoartin was strange. They were all working folk and con artists just looking for a better life, which for most would be found some place far from here, at least for Hannah that is. “Not really them, but more with Peter.” Hannah corrected. When Peter came back he was different than before, and different than everyone else. His real estate degree gave him a prestige no public school ever could. It made him a clean cut man, with laid over hair and pants belted at the waist. When Peter came back things were weird, things were red.

“So, Peter.” Eddie continued, “something is wrong with it. I don’t want my parents going out to eat with him.” His face sunk low, reaching out for help, but his eyes stood in Hannah’s, moving her. 

“Okay, Eds,” Hannah started. “I don’t know what I can do, but you can try faking being sick to see if they’ll stay home.”

“I really doubt they would.”

“It’s still worth a try, isn’t it?”

Eddie did try, and Eddie did fail.

In wake of their failure Hannah and Eddie schemed again. They planned to watch the dinner through a large unpruned bush that flushed with the Collins dining room window. They met under the street light in front of Eddie’s house, both wearing dark clothes and quiet shoes. Eddie’s parents had left an hour before him and Hannah went on their mission. Their goal? Eddie might say to see why everyone is so friendly all of the sudden. Hannah would say to find out what is happening. To find out what is happening in that first house on Whoartin Road. The one decorated in scarlet. The one where- she would later find out- things go to die.

Yet, another one of their plans didn’t work out, not fully at least. The leading house was dark when Eddie and Hannah found shelter in the bush. The backyard was where the light was. They walked quietly over the crispy summer grass to the tall creaky fence. There were wide split boards leaving room for peeping eyes. 

The yard had torches set up around a patio. A patio dressed in red. Near the house a table was laid out with five plates of food. It had been picked off, but it looks like no one truly ate. The five who had once sat at the table now stood around a large concrete fireplace. At the head stood Peter Collins, with a conniving grin on his face and a knife in his hand. Behind him stood Mr and Mrs.Collins. On either side of the fireplace were Eddie’s parents. Orange firelight lit their faces, both eager.

Hannah and Eddie circled the fenced in yard looking for a clear view of the scene. At a frantic pace, Eddie led them. He suddenly halted and Hannah slammed into him. Her head spun. When she found herself she was staring at the fireplace and what she could see on the other side of the flame in Peter’s arm. Eddie pressed himself against the fence. “Oliver,” he whimpered. A frail orange cat wiggled against Peter’s strong grip.

“Eddie,” Hannah whispered and attempted to pull him away from the fence, but he wouldn’t budge.

Peter called his parents forward. Each grabbed a side of Oliver and restrained him. Oliver started to cry and with him so did Eddie. Hannah placed her hand over his mouth; nonetheless, he continued to squirm, fighting her grip. They can’t know we’re here, Hannah thought, they can’t.

Slowly, Peter readied his knife, a hand forged bowie. He brought it down slowly, with the regard of a surgeon, against Oliver’s neck. Eddie twisted and jerked in an attempt to escape from Hannah’s grip, in an attempt to help his poor, helpless cat. Hannah felt his tears on her hand. They ran down steady and warm. Just like how the blood of Oliver was running down, steady and warm, into a bucket. A bucket of red paint.