Chapter 7: The Killer at the Door

Akewillow Chapter 7 The Killer at the Door The hair on the back of my neck raises and prickles with every ring of the door chimes. There's no reason for me to feel this way, afraid and nervous. There are still a handful of patrons in the cafe, and despite the enormous truck blocking out the sun, casting its forbidding shadow over the Aquilo, it's still daytime. Fear, however, isn't the kind of emotion that bows to reason. It's primal and raw, a fundamental building block of the human experience.

What does it matter how safe I am when my paranoia sits atop an emotion that kept our entire species safe from what prowled in the night? Detective Wilson made his implications clear. Gulliver may very well be stalking me. Might have been stalking me since before I even heard of Aquilo. Now he's here, walking in and out of my cafe, pushing a trolley stacked high with boxes.

Labels announce contents like eggs, more flour, spices like ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon. So much cinnamon. There's also almond milk, cow's milk between 0% and 5%, Soy milk and crates of bottled water. There's also ingredients for sandwiches, like meats and cheeses, condiments, kale, spinach, lettuce, tomatoes, the list goes on, including many of the perishables that were lacking from my menu.

There's also a never-ending variety of unground coffee beans. I wish I could be excited by the possibilities opened with every trolley of food and ingredients, but instead I fidget and jump with every chime at the door. For the first time in almost a week, I remember that my bag has my fillet knife still inside. Wrapped in a piece of cloth stained with a drop of my blood, it waits to defend me from any would-be attacker. Last one.

Gulliver announces, setting down the largest, heaviest-looking box yet. He doesn't put it in the kitchen with the others, leaving it instead on the counter. This one is unmarked, apart from the logo of an appliance manufacturer. Does this need to go there? I ask, trying to mask my worry with irritation. I'll move it wherever you like once it's open, but we can do that later. Right now, I'm famished.

I want to protest and have him move that dumb box out of the way immediately, but he's already leaning over the display, eyeing the muffins and croissants like an ogre at an orphanage. Your usual, I venture, unsure what that's going to be. What? Oh no. Gulliver laughs, loud and guttural. I don't have a usual. Varied is the spice of life and all that. Just give me three of these croissants and are those oatmeal muffins?

I ring up his order and watch the giant man settle in at a table next to the window. It doesn't escape my attention that he's positioned in a way where he can keep an eye on his truck. And on me. It's not the first time I see him eat. When we shared breakfast on our way to Aequilo, Gulliver positively annihilated a mountain of food. I expect him to do the same with the croissants and muffins, but not so.

Instead, he savors each one with the kind of attention a literary critic gives a good book. I see him close his eyes like an audiophile trying to pick a particular instrument out of a symphony. And instead of a novel or music, it's my baking that he's enjoying with such passionate care. The honest joy in his face as he samples my wares anew with every bite isn't quite enough to disarm my paranoia. But so far, Gulliver hasn't done anything concrete to justify my worry. It's all circumstantial.

Meanwhile, Detective Wilson, the one responsible for so many of my fears, damn near kidnapped me to another country through trickery. Once the cafe is about to close and I start to collect leftover plates, mugs, and other debris, he gets up and starts helping me, going so far as to put chairs on tables so I can sweep the floor. During the lengthy stay, his truck remains in the street.

drawing more than a few disapproving glances from the other patrons. On the other hand, he came back to buy food twice, always with a generous tip, so I can't bring myself to ask him to move. By the time I have to close and lock up, we're the only ones left in the Aquilo, but the pangs of paranoia are all but silent at that point. So, I ask, putting a hand on top of the mysterious box on the counter,

What's this thing? That, he says, walking back from across the dining area, having put the last chair back on the ground, is a gift. For me? I try to sound nonchalant, but I've never been comfortable with gifts. People don't give things unless they expect something in return. Gulliver's been paying generously for all his food, so I don't think money's what he's after.

Paranoia knocks at my mind's door. Not exactly. This is something I bought for Doris earlier this year, but she passed before I could bring it over. I wasn't sure her replacement would be worthy, so I waited. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out one of those big yellow retractable knives. With a practiced twist of his thumb and flick of his palm, he extends the blade and slices the top of the box open.

This is far from the shaky grasp on the fillet knife I had while confronting him. He holds that knife with the confidence, well, with the confidence I have when I'm filleting a fish. The item he pulls out looks like the coffee machine's long lost evil cousin. The same brass and copper covers every component, reflecting Gulliver's eager grin a hundred times over. Where the coffee machine is all tubes and pipes, this one looks like a mean-spirited Victorian funnel atop a large wooden box.

Gulliver kneels down, bringing his face level with the brass handle of the device, watching himself in wonderment. It's a coffee grinder, he says, suddenly somber. Doris had wanted one for ages, but... She had a thing about getting things for herself. I walk over to the machine. There's no button, no cord. It looks like a music box that fell over, but instead of a song, it spits out freshly ground coffee.

It's beautiful, if maybe a bit inconvenient. At the coffee shop in Montreal, we have a coffee grinder. It's a large tub of brown plastic with an electric motor. Dump in the beans, press a button, and let the device do all the work. The lever turns in my hand, offering no resistance, begging to be used. It would be tedious to use this contraption.

but I know I want to. What's the deal with you and Doris anyway? His answer is slow to come. Instead, he walks into the kitchen and comes back with one of the bags of coffee beans he carried in earlier. Without effort, he pulls it open, emptying half the contents into the grinder. A rich aroma of roasted beans with hints of French vanilla fill the air, teasing at the delicious smell to come when the handle is turned.

Everything I have, I owe to Doris, he finally says, giving the handle a firm twist. A crushing sound escapes the wooden box amplified by the copper bowl on top. I was broken. And she fixed me. The good humor that usually permeates every word from Gulliver is now gone. His attention is riveted on the machine as he turns the handle, grinding more and more coffee.

I want to press to find out what he means by broken and how Doris fixed him. I assume this is all metaphors for a difficult life or psychological or behavioral issues. Maybe Dora served as a mentor or gave him his first job. Could be she sponsored him for school or gave him money so he could put a down payment on his truck. There's a plethora of possibilities, but I feel that further probing would be unwelcome. This is the kind of subject one draws out slowly.

Like you can't rush a reduction, you can't force sensitive subjects to the light too quickly. Tell me about her. About Doris? He looks up from his task, the joy returning to his eyes and his bright white teeth gleaming through his lips anew. I gently push him away from the grinder and pull the grounds out.

Feed them to the coffee machine and let the beast purr gently as it bruises up a cup of fresh vanilla coffee. Yeah, I've been wearing her apron and sleeping in her bed and operating her business, but... I don't know the first thing about her. I see customers walk in here asking for their usual like Doris never left. So far, no one's had a bad thing to say about her.

I get that it's bad luck to speak ill of the dead, but she must have been formidable to garner this kind of respect even beyond the grave. Formidable, Gulliver says, tasting the word, and then the coffee. He nods approvingly of both. She would have liked that. I nod and walk around the counter to sit beside him, breaking the line that separates barista from customer. Doris, he continues.

Doris was something special, the kind of woman you see maybe once in a generation. There's hardly a person in Aquilo that she didn't help at some point, but she never asked for payment. never demanded her support be reciprocated. She led a simple life, as far as most people knew, but I think you could say she carried the weight of Aquilo on her shoulders, if you knew her well enough.

Doris had her share of enemies, but none so stupid as to admit so publicly. Gulliver pauses, looking around the cafe as if looking for Doris's approval of his description. There's a fondness in him, but that soon turns to satisfaction as his eyes rest on the apron I'm wearing. I mean it, he says. It does look good on you. I'm not staying. My refrain sounds more like a dirty admission than the firm decision it's meant to be.

If Gulliver wanted to convince me to stay with his elevated description of my great-grandaunt, it backfired. The shoes he described are much too big to fill. Perhaps if Doris had been a great chef or known for her unparalleled culinary delights, I would have fallen for it, attracted by the challenge. Or at least have been interested in hearing more.

As it stands, her role in Aquilo is too big and important for me to attempt to fill, and ultimately fail at. Then why haven't you left yet? He winks at me, and I can't help but smile. I'm waiting for some paperwork to go through, but as soon as it's all taken care of, I'll be putting the cafe on the market and moving back to Montreal. There's no pitiful disappointment or rueful sad puppy eyes.

Instead, he shakes his head like I'm the one who doesn't get it. Say what you want. I don't think you're ever leaving. It sounds almost like a threat, and just like that, my paranoia bursts through the door. Gulliver probably senses that something's changed and that the air in the cafe has lost its warmth. I don't want to say he's no longer welcome, but I also want him gone.

He stares for a moment, hoping perhaps that a second or two will dissipate the discomfort. Well, I should probably get going then. It's getting late and I still have a thing or two to take care of tonight. He pushes himself back to his feet, stepping off the stool slowly. His eyes don't leave me, as if he's expecting me to try and stop him or say something to lighten the mood. But you don't unbreak an egg.

Can I have the keys to the café back? What I had thought was a simple request seems to hit home a lot harder on Gulliver than I expected, and a shadow falls over him. His entire body, which I'm reminded dwarfs mine by a significant margin, tenses up. He steps forward, and I can feel the lights from the ceiling being eclipsed by his bulk. the same way the Aquilo has been in his truck's shadow all afternoon. I've had those keys for years, he says, more terse than sad. Doris trusts me with them.

I don't want to argue with him. What do I care if Doris trusted him? I barely know who Doris was. Or do I not want to have the discussion because I'm afraid I'll relent and let him keep them? Either way, all I can do is stand there, mulling over how to handle his reluctance to part with the keys to my cafe, hoping he doesn't get weird about it. I wince as he steps close, closer than I want him to, and reaches behind me.

His hand slaps the counter and when it raises again, I hear a metallic click left behind. Here you go, he says, cold resentment under his breath. For a moment, he stares at me. Brown eyes a mere few inches from mine. He's frowning but it seems as much from frustration as it is from an effort at reading me. It's like he's looking for that resemblance to Doris he saw a few days ago.

unable to get a grasp on it again. Then, without a further word, he walks away and out of the Aquilo cafe, letting the chimes sing to me as if in reproach. Ugh. Why do I have to be like this? He was probably joking about me never leaving. Or maybe he's just that confident that I'm so much like Doris that I'll fall to Aquilo's charms.

Of all the people I could let into my head, it had to be Detective Wilson. Why do I care anyway? By the time I'm done with this place, I'll never see Gulliver again. The whole point is to leave Aquilo. I'm not some pretty city girl to be charmed by the rugged ways of a small town, only to uproot herself and move to the country. Not for a boy in a romantic comedy, and not for a coffee shop in Aquilo.

In fact, forget Gulliver and forget this entire town. A bunch of weirdos anyway. I lock the front door and kill the main dining room lights. The floor is swept and the table's cleaned. All I have are the cups from the coffee we shared and to set some dough to rise for the morning. I also contemplate soaking some lentils for a lunch salad tomorrow. Something with...

balsamic vinegar and dried cranberries I've been dreaming up. But that's exactly what they want, isn't it? For me to get comfortable to start having fun. Then Gulliver's prediction will be correct, and I'll end up living here until the day I die. I'm still going to soak the lentils and make my stupid salad, but I'm on to you, Aquilo. I see your trap, and I'm not falling for it.

Angry, I snatch the cardboard remains of the box to the grinder along with the foam that kept it protected. I damn near kick the back door open, intent on putting all this cardboard in the recycling bin and tossing the rest of the garbage out. Soon as I'm done getting rid of all the rubbish, I spot it. It's a little hard to see in the evening darkness with just the weak porch light over the back door. But it's there. When? How? I mumble.

Bending down to pick up my box of salt? Again? The damn thing is empty with all the contents spilled around the two dumpsters in a circle. What the hell were these little vermin up to? Were they chasing each other while carrying the salt with them? It's not even about the salt. How much is a box of salt? Five dollars? Less? And I never really paid for it. It's all Doris's salt, but I hate the idea that these little...

bastards keep getting into my kitchen without me noticing. Do I even have to mention what kind of health code violation that is? I lift the top of the garbage bin, letting light flow in. There's the trash I just threw out. A big plastic bag filled with all the uneaten food left by sated customers. I should probably be composting all that stuff, but right now my mind is on the little furry jerks tearing at the black plastic to pick at the contents.

I count six of the little thieves. There's the one with the red tag on his ear and a smaller one that looks almost like a cub. There's one that looks like it's been through hell and back with patches of roughed up fur and a piece of an ear missing. Another has the look of a thug, broad shoulders with a mean look in his eyes. While another one is the opposite, looking soft and lazy, sitting on its ass, scratching at the bag with one paw. Then, there's the biggest one.

The boss. He seems to be presiding over the banquet, overseeing who gets food when and what each of his group gets to eat. Except now he's looking up at me, snarling with his tiny sharp teeth yellow in the light. Oh, you shut your mouth, I admonish. How dare you steal stuff from my kitchen? I'm about to lay into him some more, though it's really more as a means to vent my frustration than because I expect any result. When something stops me. I can't tell if I hear it, smell it, or just...

feel it. But there's a presence behind me. Slowly, I turn, never moving my hands from the garbage bin's lid. It's there. The thing from last night. So much closer this time. The night obscures it, but the glistening organs in its abdomen and the long, sharp claws at the tip of its fingers catch the porch light. It steps out of the shadows, lanky and shuffling. The demon, because what else can it be, is taller than average, about as tall as Gulliver.

It's bald and has the skin complexion I'd imagine a corpse that spent a week in a lake might have. Its head is fat. Not simply overweight, but fat. The top of its skull is wrinkled by rolls of excess weight, and its mouth, round and suffering, is choked by thick jowls. Yet its eyes are sunken so deeply that they're nothing but black caverns.

Below the neck, however, the demon's body is emaciated and skeletal. Naked limbs are nothing but bones and joints with little muscle and no fat under the tight gray skin. The fingers at the end of its lengthy arms are armed with black claw-like nails. Most disconcerting is the abdomen, or lack thereof. Everything under the breastbone is gone.

ripped out or melted off. I can see the bottom of struggling lungs in the cavity and what could be the end of an esophagus. But there's no stomach, no upper or lower intestine. Each step it takes looks confused and hesitant. It seems so clumsy that I think I can make it to the cafe before it gets too close. Anything is better than staying out here in the open.

I'm about to take my chance and make a break for it, but a sharp, tearing pain shoots through my left arm as I'm pulled back. That fat little bastard bit me. is biting me still, pulling me back with his claws and stopping me from stepping out of the circle of salt. It's only through a tremendous effort of self-control that I don't scream, but even that's not enough.

Between the stupid raccoons growling and my swallowed squeal of pain, the demon notices me. Black hollows turn in my direction and the fat raccoon's teeth freeze in place. The creature shuffles towards me, getting within a few inches, a foot at most. I can barely see the clawed fingers reaching towards me through my burgeoning tears. For a second...

I think of my mom, who I haven't even told where I am, and I think of the career I wasted by being so impatient with my teachers. What was I worrying about a week ago? The stupid boyfriend I lost? Getting kicked out of school? And now I'm going to get mauled to death in this backwater town. But the demon's touch never reaches me.

Instead, the arm recoils as if in agony and the creature lets out a pained gurgle, an attempted scream that failed. It pulls away, does a poor impression of a menacing snarl, and calmly turns. moving towards the door to the cafe. For whatever dumb reason, I make to go after it, taking a step forward. The big raccoon stops biting me, but he holds on tighter with tiny paws.

He growls, soft and almost pleading, and I stay put. Dragging its feet, the demon makes it to the Aquilo's back door. It struggles for a moment, but eventually manages to get it open. stepping into my cafe. I watch in horror as it follows the length of the counter, shuffling until it's standing in front of the display. Leaning over the glass, it sniffs at the air.

scratching at the surface for a moment before letting out a terrible and soul-tearing howl. Forming an awkward fist with its right arm, the demon strikes at the display once, twice, and three times. Each attack makes me wince, waiting for the glass to shatter under the assault. But the display holds strong, and the demon gives up. Another howl escapes its tortured mouth, followed by a wet and sharp growl. I expected to shuffle further into the cafe, perhaps go into the kitchen in search of food.

At this point, I don't care what it does. Take all the dough and lentils, tear into the fridge and steal every last piece of chicken and sandwich meat. Just don't make a meal out of me. That's not what happens. With surprising speed and agility, in stark contrast to its previous clumsy behavior, the demon leaps back to the door in three bounding steps.

It moves more like a panther than the shambling corpse it appears to be. It gives me another appraising look, and a tongue, bloated and black, licks its ample lips. Trembling paws squeeze my arm, and I fear that the creature might make another attempt at my life, one that might succeed. But it gives up, racing back into the woods instead.

It takes a few minutes before the fat raccoon lets go of my arm. To be honest, I barely noticed he was still holding on, too busy scouting the pitch-black shadows in the woods in fear the demon would return. Eventually, the raccoon vanishes back into the dumpster, and after another moment, I hear the tearing of plastic and the chewing of thrown away food. My legs feel heavy and weary when the sun peeks over the horizon.

the sky having long turned purple and then blue. But it's only then that I feel safe enough to drag my shaking limbs back into the aquilo, locking the door securely behind me.

The best I can manage is a quick nap before the first knock on the door. The customers never knock on the door, at least not so far. The most they've done is line up politely and cup their hands to the window, watching to see when I'd come over and unlock the door, or trying to guess what I'm putting into the display that morning. I see the same lineup of early birds.

Mustache man and the usual contingent of white-robed patrons are there, a worried look on their faces. The mayors are also in line, tapping their feet impatiently or flattening the creases of their impeccable business skirts and blouses. This morning, however, Olivia is there among them, at the head of the line. Under one arm, she's holding a humongous crate of apples while the knuckles of her free hand tap on the glass.

Her round, eager face is framed by the stencil of the Aquilo's opening hours, a set of rules I've broken ever since I decided to reopen the cafe. Today, my truancy is particularly pronounced, as evidenced by the brighter-than-usual light filtering through the front windows. My neck is stiff like a days-old baguette, and I fear it'll crack and fall to crumbs if I bend it too much.

I can feel the creases from the apron I used as a pillow imprinted on my cheek. What a sight I must be. Joints creaking and bones weary. I feel every minute of missed sleep in my aching body. But it's that very exhaustion that makes me understand the patrons gathered at my window. The call of food, a hot beverage, and hopefully copious amounts of caffeine is all that keeps me from curling up in the kitchen and going back to sleep. Alright, buddy.

I whisper, switching on the coffee machine. Time to prove you love me. My dough's overproved and I have nothing ready for opening, but I feel like I owe the patrons something for waiting out there so long. Maybe I can make some extra fluffy apple bread or something, assuming that crate under Olivia's arm is for me. It won't be worthy of my talents, but I'm sure if I put enough brown sugar, no one will care.

You look like wet cat food, Olivia says, handing me the crate. Went out last night? Out last night? In Aquilo? Doing what? In my short stay so far, the only places I've seen open after midnight are a couple of taverns in the community center. So, unless that last one has a particularly raucous knitting circle, there really isn't much this place has to entice me to stay up late. You wouldn't believe what kept me up.

I tell her, rushing to get everything ready for my customers. I really have no desire to tell Olivia that I saw a genuine demon, but I'm not even sure I could look myself in the mirror and admit it out loud. It all feels like a bad dream at this point. She seems to agree. Well, would you look at that? Olivia skips quizzing me about my night in favor of marveling over the new coffee grinder. Her eyes grow large and her fingers trace the angles on the apparatus.

With reverence, she avoids touching the copper parts lest she stain their polished surface with her fingerprints. Did Gulliver bring this? I nod, pouring beans into the grinder before twisting the handle, unleashing the aroma of a rich Colombian blend. I wince at the effort, feeling an unfamiliar pain in my left arm as I strain against the handle.

A few drops of blood gather at my elbow before falling to the counter. God damn it, I mumble, more annoyed than hurt. Oh my, he got you, didn't he? He? The Dawn. The big raccoon that lives out back. What did you do to him? You didn't try to pick him up, did you? No! Why would I want to pick up that fat disease farm? What if he's got rabies? My God, what if he does have rabies? Or tetanus? Or whatever other disease or bacteria could be living in that thing's mouth? Olivia grabs my arm.

Gentler than I thought she might, but still too rough for my taste. Her finger pokes around the wound, two deep holes that dig all the way to the muscles surrounded by smaller punctures and scratches. The adrenaline must have been flowing freely through my veins that I ignored the damage so long. Nah, no rabies. The Don keeps clean. But he does eat trash, so you might want to get this looked at.

Have it cleaned up, and a bandage wouldn't hurt. I hiss as her finger hits too close to one of the punctures, making the pain flare up and the blood pour out again. I'll have to close the cafe, I say. more despondent than I intend. Don't worry about it, girl. I'll close up for you. Besides, you're putting blood all over the counter. That's gotta be against some code, doesn't it? Oh, it is.

Health Canada has some pretty strict rules on what to do in the event of a bleeding wound in a kitchen or cooking environment. I'll have to thoroughly disinfect the area, including the coffee grinder, when I get back. Like a captain with her ship, I hesitate to leave the Aquilo in someone else's hands, but I trust Olivia to close up shop more than I do her opinion of raccoon health. Why do you call him the Don? I ask, putting the towel to my arm.

Have you seen him? Olivia laughs. He's like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Rules his family with an iron fist. Er, an iron jaw, I suppose. I think the name is stupid, but not as stupid as the raccoon himself. What is it with Aquilo and their ring-tailed vermin? They're just fat rats dressed as burglars. Yeah, well, as soon as I'm back, the Don and his family are getting evicted. I put the spare keys I got from Gulliver on the counter and make my way to the door. You don't want to do that.

Don't forget to lock up, I answer, ignoring her warning. I walk for three full blocks before I realize that I don't have the vaguest idea of where to find a hospital in Equaloo. Looking around, I feel both surrounded by the weirdness of the town and right at home in it. After all, I'm the confused girl holding a blood-soaked kitchen rag to her arm.

But I don't want to be a typical Aquilo resident, along with the half-hearted doomsday prophet and the cloud worshippers and this guy selling dead butterflies. I pull out my phone and pray to the Wi-Fi gods that I can get some kind of connection. Thankfully, the bank right next to me has a public network on which I can piggyback and get directions to the nearest hospital or clinic. There you go.

I murmur, committing the location to memory. It's not too far, just around the corner and down two blocks. But according to the overhead map of the area, if I cut through the alley between the bank and the apartment building next door, I can probably have the distance.

The cool daytime shadows of the alley swallow me, and the sounds of mid-morning Rue Principale fade behind me. The alley isn't that different from the one behind the Aquilo Cafe, and in fact, probably connects to it in some roundabout way. The smell of exhaust and asphalt from the street disappears, and the expected odor of garbage replaces it. There's also a faint aroma of urine and feces, which makes me oddly nostalgic for Montreal.

However, the deeper I go, the stronger the smell of human waste gets. I suspect that as I round the corner, I might find a spot which a homeless man has made into his outhouse. Thought makes me gag and I get self-conscious about the open wound on my arm. But as I step behind the bank, the hospital only a block away if I make it out of the other side of the alley, there's no improvised bathroom.

At first, I think I've stumbled on the place some drunk decided to spend the night, voiding bowels and bladder in his slumber, but that's not it. It's a body. One with... No bowels left to void. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot. Narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts, Google Play or your preferred podcast platform. You have no idea how much it helps.

Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.