Scaredy Cat

The woman with a walkie-talkie glued to her hand very clearly doesn’t believe me.

In her collared shirt and khakis, she leans against the large tree wrapped in caution tape, fog billowing from the now-open windows of Dusk House.

Lights from the fire truck that pulled up during my first rant about the slaughterhouse event still reflect on every available surface, and it’s dark enough that her face is half-hidden in the shadows while only briefly being lit up by the red and white lights behind me.

“You said it was a man in a wolf-skull mask?” she asks slowly, like maybe I’m just a little stupid.