Safety Among Scars (A story of Depression)

Prologue

  No one knew what went on at 414 Whitney Lane. To everyone else, it was just a normal household, in a normal neighborhood, in a normal town. Everyone knew there was something a little odd about the Goodman family, but not a soul in the small town of Eastborough could ever imagine the sinister activities occurring behind closed doors.

That is until one ordinary Friday, August 10th, a window salesman was working his daily rounds through the neighborhood. It was after normal working hours, but he figured he may as well try to scam a few more unlucky customers before heading home for the night.

Looking back on it, he should have never went to that neighborhood. Never went to that street. God forbid knock on the door of 414 Whitney lane. But on that seemingly ordinary Friday, John Laurence, window salesman, made one last attempt to create business on a rather slow day.

He knocked on the door of the small blue house, and was greeted by silence. Again, he knocked, and was once again unsuccessful. Concluding that no one was home, he began to make his way to the nearby houses when an splitting scream echoed from inside the house.

It was then and there that John Laurence made potentially worst decision of his life: He ran to the window. Peering inside, he looked around for the source of the commotion.

He locked eyes with the source of the scream. Paralyzed in fear, he dropped his briefcase. He tried to run, but his legs failed him. He tried to pull out his phone to call the police, but his arms felt like jelly. John simply stood and watched, as the horrific daily events of Whitney Lane took place.

Finally regaining control of his body, he sprinted across the lawn to his silver Toyota Camry, practically tearing the door handle from the beat-up car. Flooring the gas, John sped down Whitney lane, trying to erase the sight of what he had just witnessed from his mind. Finally slowing down to a moderate pace of only 15 miles per hour above the actively-enforced speed limit, John pulled out his phone to call the cops and report what he had just seen.

  Before he could finish dialing 911, however, a text message from an unknown number graced the top of his screen.

  It read "Do not tell anyone what you have seen. Forget this ever happened. Do not call the police. Should you fail to comply, you will be silenced."

  Under normal circumstances, a man like John would have a head full of questions. These, however, were no normal circumstances. John kept driving, worried they might be tailing his car. Sure enough, in his rear view mirror, John could make out a black Minivan with tinted windows. Sweat dropped down his face as he floored the gas again.

  John was only a few miles from his house when he approached a traffic light turning from yellow to red. He cursed under his breath. If he stopped at the light, he would lose whatever separation he had between him and the black car. If he drove through the red light, the obvious risk of traffic violations lay in the balance.

  Deciding he'd rather take his chances with the cops than face the people he had seen in that house, he blasted through the red light at near-supersonic speeds. In the rear view mirror, it appeared as if the car that had been tailing him had stopped at the traffic light. Breathing a sigh of relief, John let his guard down as he knew he had an extra 30 seconds of a head start in his potential high-speed chase.

Before long, the unmistakeable sound of police sirens filled the air. The salesman slowed down, praying the cops hadn't come for him to cite him for skipping the red light. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on John's side in this case.

"Pull over!" A mechanical voice cut through the air. Not willing to attempt to outrun the police, John did as he was told. The officer, a tall bulky Caucasian man tapped on the window of John's car.

"License and registration?" He asked,

Being a simple and organized man, John readily pulled out the necessary paperwork and handed it to the officer. The officer nodded, and handed it back to John.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" He asked,

"Yes. I ran a red light above the speed limit."

"You were clocked at 94 Miles Per Hour. 34 above the speed limit. Is there a reason you were going so fast this late on a Friday night? Perhaps you were late for a date? I hear there's a bachelor party down at the bar tonight."

John bit his lip. He thought about what he had saw on Whitney lane, and the text he had received from the unknown number.

"No sir, I was simply speeding because I had.. um.." the officer's eyes narrowed, "to use the restroom." John finished.

The officer looked skeptical. "Sir, please step out of the car," he commanded.

"Why?" John asked, getting impatient. He could make out the black Minivan in the distance.

"Step out of the car, sir. I'm not going to ask you again."

"Why?" John asked again, this time with a more stern tone to his voice.

The officer suddenly pulled a gun from his belt, cocked it, and pointed it at John.

"Sir, step out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them."

John practically tripped over himself scrambling out of the car and onto his knees. The officer began to search the car, evidently looking for drugs or alcohol. After a few minutes, the cop stepped out of the vehicle, and John let out a primal sigh of relief.

His complacency, however, was short lived. Parked across the street, was a black minivan, with tinted gray windows.

The officer was ranting about the potential fines John would be paying, as well as a 6 month suspension of his drivers license. John, however, heard none of this as his gaze was fixated on the car parked across the street. After a while, the officer seemed to realize John wasn't listening, and followed his gaze to the minivan across the street.

"Sir? Is something wrong?" The officer asked.

John once again bit his lip. He said nothing.
"Sir? Talk to me Mr. Lawrence. Is something wrong?" He asked again.

John began to shake. A lone tear fell from his right eye, which he quickly wiped away. He wouldn't allow the officer and whoever was in that minivan to see him cry.

"Yes officer, something is wrong. There is a reason behind my erratic driving."

The office raised an eyebrow "Go on,"
John told the officer everything he had seen on Whitney lane. By the time he had finished his recollection, he was screaming with tears streaming down his rose-colored cheeks.

The officer stared in shock, not sure whether to believe a word of John's story. Suddenly, John stopped crying. His mouth opened, wanting to speak, but no words came out. His eyes widened as he could only point behind the officer.

By the time the cop turned around, it was too late. Two bullets pierced the officer as he collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. John stood in fear, immobile in shock and confusion. The gunman turned his rifle to John Laurence, landing a clean shot between the eyes.

The man stood between the two bodies, as blood seeped into the dirt. "Oh John," he said, "I warned you, John. I warned you."

He spun on the heel of his boot, returned to his minivan, and drove off. It would be hours before the bodies of John Goodman and Raymond Graham were found. Police would try their hardest to find their killer, but no evidence was left on the scene. No surveillance tapes were found in the area at the time. No forensic evidence was found.

One thing was clear, however, there was a killer in Eastborough.

What the public did not know, however, was that said killer lived at 414 Whitney Lane. He had a secret, and he would silence anyone who dared to horrific witness the events of Whitney Lane.

John, and Raymond the police officer, carried the secret of 414 Whitney Lane to their graves. It would be months before there would be another witness to the awful things happening in that blue house.

It would only be hours, however, before another child was raped at 414 Whitney Lane.