The Street Between the Pines: A Southern New England Horror (Book I) by J.J. Alo

Author:J.J. Alo [Alo, J.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SNE Horror LLC
Published: 2023-03-14T00:00:00+00:00

twenty-one

The burned, apricot glow of the nightfall horizon peacefully lingered as the truck backed up the driveway into half the garage. Curtis pulled the material he purchased at the warehouse from the bed and hauled it inside.

His first order of business: set up the sump pumps in the basement—and he didn’t look forward to it. With the shotgun in hand, he quickly inspected the space from atop the landing in front of the busted door, uncertain if the Norwaukus was still there. All seemed quiet. Carefully, he climbed down the broken steps and jumped into the waist-high lagoon as if he had entered the cabin of a partially sunken ship. The shock from the raw cold sent chills through him, a quiver, waking caffeine-numbed nerves. The water gleamed, black. A thin layer of dust coated the still surface, with many of the Reynolds’ possessions submerged beneath while other small items delicately drifted by.

A school of tiny fish swam just below the dark surface as he inched toward the back. Several light splashes drew his attention to a couple of frogs jumping in from his workbench. He drew in deep breaths, shivering, panning the room, still in utter disbelief; what used to be the basement was now an ecosystem for aquatic life—a swamp. A slight, salty aroma lingered in the stale, musty air.

He needed some time to get everything connected, and after he finished, he sporadically returned to check and make sure all pumps ran. Twenty feet of an inch-and-a-half hose were rigged with duct tape to each pump, fitted for maximum efficiency to rapidly expel water. With each trip down, he noticed the water level slightly dropping, still having a ways to go. With no reason to wait, he got right to work on the next thing on his list.

Curtis turned the dial to Radio 104 on a little AM/FM stereo found inside a partially destroyed, water-damaged storage box—the only salvageable item inside, and at the immediate moment, the most important. The station played 311, a favorite band of his and Amy’s. The song reminded him of the grandiose Radio 104 Festival at The Hartford Meadows Pavilion he’d attend every other summer. The one where he proposed to Amy. He sighed, remembering that romantic evening. Other delectable tunes followed as he started to get into the project. The Red Hot Chili Peppers played in the background, then Blur, Collective Soul, and Everclear—all bands he recalled seeing, barely. Three sheets to the wind, as they say?

In his two-thousand-square-foot Cape Cod-style house with limited space, in need of considerable renovations, the dining room seemed like the most practical place to tear a giant hole in the floor. He dragged out the rarely used eighteen-inch, oak IKEA table they received as a wedding present from Amy’s parents. Curtis fucking hated the constant reminder of how frugal his in-laws were—only gifting cheap furniture or old hand-me-downs. The chairs followed. And while he was at it, he pulled out the matching glass-door cabinet buffet chest and gaudy Oriental rug from underneath.

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