Grouch, the neighbors called him.
His eyes were hidden so deep by the crags of his face, that Mary didn't notice their color. But his teeth she saw more often than she wanted to, whenever he spat. No wonder they were dirty-yellow, he smoked like a chimney. The unkempt hair, the skin, the sweatshirt, the cargo shorts and the three snarling dogs were the same grimy shade.
In short, Grouch was the kind of guy who silently glowered, then raged in some shady Internet corner about everything.
He also hated kids. Mary knew that because the only times she saw him laugh — cackle actually— was when a kid hurt himself on the playground before his house. At all other times, he hid behind half-shut door, watching the kids play, seething with silent rage at their merriment. Later on, his dogs would bark enraged for hours, as if they were his voice.
Mary always secretly hoped that he would move away. He belonged in an apartment, not in a nice cul-de-sac like hers.
And this morning, her worst fears had come to life.
His three horrid dogs ran amok on the playground, fighting over a torn doll.
Clutching her son's hand, Mary marched back to her house, chased by their baying.
That's it, I'm calling the police. Enraged dogs on the playground!
"Lilly," her son whined. "Play with Lilly."
His palm was sweaty, but she held on. "Once the doggies are back inside, I promise."
"Play with Lilly."
He dug in his heels, throwing his tiny weight against hers in a tug of war.
The dogs stopped barking.
Did Grouch apprehend his cursed hell hounds? She turned to check, and--
He didn't. He stood in his door frame like always.
Or what was left of him stood there.
Mary wanted to look away. And her neck turned to stone.
Mary wanted to scream. And her tongue was stone too.
Cold, heavy, unmoving.
The Grouch's face --what was left of it-- was stamped with rage for eternity.
His nose was a red bite wound. The ruined lips dangled by a strip of skin.
The dogs ripped his throat out, took pounds of the choicest flesh from his belly. As Mary watched in her stupor, more meat slithered off his limbs. The exposed bones glistened, stained, dirty-yellow, just like everything else about him.
His dogs killed him -- they fed off his rage. They devoured it. They...
Oh, God... The doll on the playground was not a doll. It was—
"Play with Lilly!" The little girl's name reverberated through Mary's skull.
Her son ripped his hand out of her stone-cold fingers.
Why was her cul-de-sac deathly quiet? Not a sound other than the low rumble of the growling dogs.
The time thickened to resin, catching every footfall of her son's plump feet into its amber.
The dirty-yellow dogs waited, their muzzles to the ground, their lips pulled back in the snarls showing black gums and dirty-yellow teeth.
And Mary still couldn't scream.