(A/N: Definitely not one of my greatest works but I’ve been a writing slump lately and needed to post something. Please tell me what you think and give any suggestions so I can make it better, I’m not altogether happy with the ending at the moment, so please R&R!!!)

The Red Fence

The house sat in a coffin of security, bolted tight again invisible predators that the owners believed to lurk in the hidden corners of suburbia. The doors were decorated with locks, a porch (closed off with a screen door) surrounded the entire front entrance, and the whole house was enclosed by a tall wooden fence, un-painted, but for the contradictory picket fence that bordered the front. This small portion of the fence was painted bright red, glowing in the afternoon heat with the fresh paint.

A woman sat at the far side of this fence, paint brush in hand, finishing the job. She hummed a childish melody as she painted the last stroke, and stood up to examine her work. It looked better than it had before, but she still wondered if the colour needed some toning down. Gazing up at the house, she compared it by eye to the red on the houses trim, it was almost exact.

Sighing, she moved on to the tall part of the fence, blaming herself for buying a house with a red trim. She wanted to re-paint it a nice light blue, but her husband loved the red and insisted on keeping it. She often joked with him that they were living in a barn, but still his opinion wouldn’t budge.

Beginning a soft stroke up the tall wood, she dreading painting the rest of the fence, but it needed to be done. She wiped sweat off her forehead with her arm and continued to work in the sweltering heat.

Beginning to hum again, she tried to ignore the heat and finish her work. It was then that she heard a crash, coming from the front of the next house over.

She shifted her knees over on the ground to peer slightly over the corner of where the short fence met the tall one; the neighbors’ front lawn was silent, but for a garbage can that rolled silently on its side, swaying in the slight breeze.

At seeing this, she moved back to her painting spot suspiciously, but silently.

“It’s nothing...” she told herself, “it must have just fallen over on its own...nothing suspicious here.”

She shook off her fears and continued to paint, slightly more cautious of here surroundings. They lived in a good neighborhood, but who knows what kind of psychos might be lurking around the corner? Waiting to kidnap her children or rob her house... She had seen it all on television before, to ordinary people like herself...

“I never would have thought...it’s such a quiet neighborhood...for something this horrible to happen? I never would have thought...” the voice of the latest victim of home invasion, lamenting his tale on the evening news, rang in her head. It could happen to anyone.

That was why they had built the tall fence, the one that had stood in its place before was too small, and too weak...a predator could hop it with ease.

She mulled over her homes security and possible areas of weakness when a scream erupted from the other side of the fence. She started and dropped her paintbrush on the ground, standing up in her fear of what was happening past the two inches of wood and into the neighbors house.

Breathing heavily, she convinced herself that it was nothing, that someone had merely turned up the volume on the television too loud, or stubbed their toe on a corner and were venting at the pain. Still, she could not remain outside; she grabbed the dripping paintbrush and paint can and quickly escaped through the front garage.

As the garage door jolted to a close slowly, she thought she heard another noise...a thumping or from the neighbors house as well, but the door closed out the sound before she could think of it further, and she rushed to the sink to rinse off the red paint from her brush.

The next day began much as the last did; quiet, peaceful, and meaningless. The sun glimmered over the horizon, to promise another hot summer day, and a red fence sat still unfinished in its rays.

She sat at the kitchen table, peacefully sipping her tea as if nothing was bothering her, her ruse only given away by occasional glances out the window to where her previous days work screamed unfinished. She hated unfinished things, it looked un-orderly. But not even this persistence would force her to get up and finish painting.

Something had happened to her the other day...it wasn’t fear, no, it couldn’t be fear, it was just a simple red fence after all, but it was something...something unusual.

She cringed at the word, but it was all that could be said about how she felt. That fence was hiding something, and she refused to go near it.

Trying to shake off the feeling, she laughed at herself, she was being so absurd. What could a fence be hiding from her? It was a fence after all...just a fence, nothing more.

The ring of the front door bell startled her, why had she heard the screen door open? She always heard the screen door open.

Peering through the peep hole on the door, she was met by the sight of two police officers, a very unusual sight indeed. Feeling safe enough by there presence, she cracked open the door and asked a polite “yes?”

The officer on the left cleared his throat before speaking, “pardon us ma’am, but we need to talk to you about a...disturbance that occurred in your neighborhood yesterday evening. Do you mind opening the door fully?”

“Of course,” she obeyed, pulling the door open until no barrier stood between her and the officers.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of what happened ma’am but your neighbor-” the other officer began before she inadvertently cut him off.

“My neighbor?” she croaked, “what...what happened?”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but he was the victim of what appears to be a home invasion...he’s dead.”

These words froze her, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even hear the questions asked by the strait faced officers. The noise...the noise... All she could think of was the noise...the scream.

The officer told her that the neighbor had been found at the screen door...his hand still in a fist, banging on the glass for help. The knocking...the knocking...

Thoughts swirled in her head, and with the officers’ departure, she slowly made her way back to the center of her home, managing to find her seat at the kitchen table, her tea cup waiting as if frozen in time.

The scream...the scream... she had heard the scream. The knocking...the knocking...she had heard the knocking...

Looking out the window, her face blank with expression, she saw it, she heard it. The screaming...the knocking...and the bright red fence.