PEEK

[Chapter One:] A Call From Nowhere

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I pick up shit for a living.

No, literally. People sometimes misunderstand me about this, especially my cutthroat of a roommate, Greg. You might think the adjective 'cutthroat' and the name 'Greg' doesn't fit together, but wait until you meet the man. He eats paradoxes for breakfast.

'You mean, help people pick up their things?' He would ask me, while usually chewing another wad of mint gum. It doesn't entirely remove the scent of tobacco from his breath though. 'Like getting some shit they've forgotten and delivering it to them?'

'No,' I would insistently tell him. 'I mean, I pick up shit. From the ground.'

At this point he would go all blank stare on me, and I would spend hours explaining to him that I walk dogs for owners too lazy or having no time to do it themselves, and spend ninety percent of it picking up dog shit from the sidewalk lest I get a fine. Greg will still ask me about this the next morning though. Which is why our breakfast usually consist of extensive discussions about dog shit.

Story of my life.

'Hey Jessie, you want to sit around for a bit?' I ask the collie, although its owner thoroughly emphasized to me that it was a Shetland Sheepdog breed. I have no idea why on earth he would prefer to have his dog branded with a name that sounded like feces and lamb put together, but I have long since realized all people were eccentric in the inside, whether they knew it or not.

Jessie doesn't reply, just continues on sniffing the ground. We were strolling around Sinnissippi Park, its name always making me feel like I'm saying Parseltongue and insulting Mississippi at the same time. It was a gorgeous day; the sun was shining and clouds that actually resembled what I drew during my elementary school days floated on the sky. There were birds plucked straight from Disney chirping on the branches of trees, and fitness enthusiasts jogged along the paved path.

What I would do for a hot girlfriend, a checkered blanket, a stash of dollars in my wallet, and a box of pizza.

Jessie barks, then abruptly gallops off. I try to hold onto her leash as I chase after her, hoping she would avoid the only place in the whole park that all of the dogs I walk seem to be fond of going to -

The small bungalow house at the end of North Second Street.

On the outside, there is absolutely nothing wrong with the house. Typical low-slung roof with wide eaves, shuttered windows, and a full-width porch. Just your average, friendly neighboring home, with a small average family living happily inside.

Except there was no family living there, and the house gave me the creeps.

There was a single window on the attic that was facing out, like a bizarre third eye. I stare at it, as Jessie sits down on her hunches beside me and barks. I have no idea why dogs seem to be sensitive to this house. The first time Mac - a crossbreed between a Labrador and a Doberman and also the first dog that had been put into my care - dragged me to this house, I instantly knew something was wrong.

I had that feeling sometimes - of things being off. Just something I couldn't pinpoint, or feel with the senses, but knew it was there - the ambiguity of the ordinary. Like how your bedroom abruptly spooks you out of a sudden, the very air seeming to breathe around you. Or just lying by the bed with your legs falling out into the sides and suddenly drawing them back, afraid of something grabbing them. It was something ordinary people experience, but for me it was tenfold. The reason why I got fired from being a cashier on an ordinary appliance store, for example - I froze everytime I saw my reflection on the dark screen of the television, wondering if the shadow behind me was real.