The Ghost of Barnaby Lane

The little girl ran to her parents, trembling, and her face pale as the ice water. She was crying and muttering at the same time. The warm tears flowed down her cheeks and onto her mother’s hand. The man had appeared again.
The mother consoled her, telling her that it was just some old man playing a joke on her. She promised that she would visit Thomas and put him in his place. She would make it clear how cruel and perverse he was.

The father was more voracious and folded his fists in threatening signs, as he vomited angry threats against the old man. He would take it to that old pig; he swore, promising the little girl that the next time he would make the streets run red.

She stopped crying. She looked at her father through tear-filled eyes. She felt proud of her parents. They were ready to die for her. The old man was better off that her brother was not home. She dried her eyes as a group of bells jingled in the distance. Her gaze met those of her father. It was ice cream time. Yes! It was Sunday and everyone would be eating ice cream. She waited impatiently as the truck made its way toward them, stopping at almost every gate.

Barnaby Lane was a cluster of residential buildings, most of them two stories high. Just pegged neatly together, awaiting the next natural disaster. More than three thousand people were living on this rather long avenue. It connected Sonnets Avenue and Ridgetown Square.  There were no parks, shops, bars, or one selling hot dogs on the corner. There was a little church in the middle of the street, one of the few low-rise buildings that formed this town.

The church was rather old and the youth cared nothing about it. Yet, this was a rather large and important street.
Decorated with three lanes, two entering and one pointing out, it was almost a place for races. The people must have grown tired of it. They placed sleeping police all over the stretch, making it impossible to speed.

That night, Doris went to bed early but was unable to sleep, so she silently crept into her mother’s bed. The mother knew that her twelve-year-old daughter was still frightened by the events earlier this evening.

She cuddled her in her arms and swore in her mind, to put an end to this. Nevertheless, she was tired and soon fell asleep. Doris was left alone again. However, she felt a little better in her mother’s arms. Peebles turned off the lights downstairs and the room grew darker yet. It was still early, she told herself, and she had company with her.
She listened to every single sound that moved in the darkness of the solitary night. Dogs were barking as usual, and vehicles passing by the window on the still, busy street. A few people walk by, chatter, and laugh. A motorbike, or even an ambulance.

The night was her friend. In a way, she knew it more than anyone else. She listened to it. It told her things that no one else knew. She learned last week that a gang was forming at the lane’s end. They were werewolves, but not yet ready to feed. They would wait for the full moon.