"Shush":
I lived in Wylie, Texas, a sleepy suburb where life revolved around church potlucks, kids’ soccer games, and neatly trimmed lawns. It was the 1980s, and our neighborhood was a picture of calm—two-story houses with white shutters, driveways lined with station wagons, and mailboxes with little red flags. My home was no different: a cozy brick house with a big kitchen where I’d spend mornings baking cookies for my daughter’s school bake sales or cutting crusts off sandwiches for her lunch. I was a housewife, always at the community center or church, chatting with other moms, organizing fundraisers. Everyone saw me as cheerful, dependable, the kind of woman who had it all together. But I was hiding something that would tear it all apart.
It started in 1978 at our church’s choir practice. Allan, a quiet man with kind eyes, was married to Betty, a schoolteacher who lived a few streets over. Their daughter was my daughter’s best friend, so we saw them often—at school events, barbecues, birthday parties. Allan and I got to talking one evening after practice, laughing about the kids or the latest sermon. There was a spark, something dangerous. Soon, we were stealing glances, then sneaking phone calls. By late 1978, we were meeting at a motel outside town, far from Wylie’s prying eyes. It was thrilling—the secrecy, the rush of doing something forbidden. I told myself it was harmless, that no one would get hurt. But it wasn’t harmless. It was a bomb waiting to go off.
The affair lasted a few months. Allan ended it in late 1979, saying he loved Betty and wanted to save his marriage. I agreed, though it stung. I buried the guilt, focused on my family, my routines. I thought I’d left it behind, that life could go back to normal. I was wrong.
June 13, 1980, started like any other day. My daughter, eight years old and full of energy, was excited for a sleepover at Betty’s house. She needed her swimsuit for a pool party the next day, so I promised to grab it from Betty’s. I drove over around noon, the familiar streets lined with kids on bikes and sprinklers ticking in yards. Betty’s house was a split-level with a tidy flowerbed out front, marigolds blooming bright. I knocked, and she answered, her face pale, her smile forced.
“Hey, just here for the swimsuit,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Come in,” she said, her voice flat. She led me to the kitchen, where dishes were stacked neatly in the sink, and the air smelled of coffee and fresh laundry. Her baby was napping upstairs, and the older kids were at school. I noticed her hands fidgeting, twisting a dish towel.
“Betty, you okay?” I asked, setting my purse on the counter.
She turned, her eyes like knives. “I know about you and Allan.”
My heart stopped. I felt the room shrink, the walls pressing in. I forced a shaky smile, my hands clammy. “Betty, I’m so sorry. It was a long time ago, a stupid mistake. It’s over.”
“Over?” Her voice was low, sharp, like she was holding back a scream. “You think you can just walk into my house, into my life, after what you did?”
I stepped back, my pulse racing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was wrong, I know that. Allan ended it because he loves you.”
“Loves me?” She laughed, bitter and cold. “Don’t lie to me. I found the notes, the motel receipts. You think I’m stupid?”
My throat tightened. “I’m not lying,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Betty, let’s talk about this. I’ll do anything to make it right.”
She pointed to the utility room off the kitchen. “The swimsuit’s in there. Get it yourself.” Her words were ice, her eyes never leaving mine.
I nodded, desperate to defuse the tension. The utility room was cramped, with a washer and dryer pushed against one wall, a shelf of detergent and cleaning supplies, and a wood-handled ax leaning in the corner, probably for chopping firewood for their backyard firepit. I found the swimsuit in a laundry basket, a bright pink one-piece. But when I turned, Betty was in the doorway, holding the ax.
“Betty, what are you doing?” My voice trembled. I dropped the swimsuit, my hands up, palms out, like I could push away the fear.
“You think you can just move on?” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “You ruined my marriage, my family.”
“Put it down,” I pleaded, my back against the washer, the cold metal pressing into my spine. “We can fix this. Think of the kids—yours, mine. Please.”
She stepped closer, her knuckles white around the ax handle. “Don’t you dare talk about my kids.”
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. “Betty, I’m begging you. I’m so sorry. Let’s just talk.”
She raised the ax, her eyes wild, tears streaming down her face. “Shush,” she hissed, like she was silencing a child.
That word—shush—hit me like a lightning bolt. It yanked me back to my childhood, to my mother’s angry voice, shushing me when I cried after she’d scream at me for spilling juice or forgetting a chore. I’d cower in my room, terrified, swallowing my sobs. Something inside me broke. My vision blurred, my body moved without thought. I lunged, grabbing her wrist, the ax between us. We struggled, stumbling against the washer, the ax clattering against the floor. I don’t know how it ended up in my hands. I don’t remember swinging it. I just remember the blood.
When my mind cleared, I was standing over her, the ax heavy in my hands. Betty was on the floor, her body still, blood pooling around her, soaking into the linoleum. My hands were slick, my clothes drenched. I counted later, in my head, trying to make sense of it—41 times, they said. I dropped the ax, my legs shaking, and stumbled back, my breath coming in gasps. I was horrified, frozen, staring at what I’d done.
Panic took over. I tried to clean up, grabbing rags from the shelf, scrubbing the floor, but the blood kept spreading, staining everything. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I went to Betty’s bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and showered, the water turning pink as it swirled down the drain. I found a blouse and jeans in her closet, too big but clean, and put them on. I grabbed the swimsuit, left my bloody clothes in a bag, and drove home, my daughter’s chatter in the car a distant hum against the screaming in my head.
That night, I made dinner, helped with homework, tucked my daughter into bed. I smiled, nodded, acted like nothing was wrong. But inside, I was unraveling. Allan found Betty’s body that evening when he got home from work. The police came to my door the next morning. They’d found traces of my visit—my fingerprints, the blood I couldn’t fully clean. They knew about the affair, pieced it together from neighbors who’d seen my car.
The trial was a blur. I sat in the courtroom, my hands folded, listening as my lawyer explained it was self-defense. I told them about the ax, how Betty came at me, how that word—shush—made something in me snap. They brought in a doctor who said I’d had a dissociative reaction, triggered by childhood trauma. My mother’s voice, her shushing, had buried itself deep, and Betty’s words brought it back. The jury listened, their faces unreadable. After eight days, they came back with a verdict: not guilty.
I was free, but I wasn’t. I moved away from Wylie, changed my name, tried to start over in a new town where no one knew me. But I carry it with me—the image of Betty’s body, the blood on my hands, the sound of that word. The suburbs, with their tidy houses and friendly waves, hide things. Secrets, anger, pain. I learned that the hard way. Every night, I see her face, hear her voice. “Shush.” It’s a sound I’ll never escape.
"Shoelaces and Secrets":
I was 25, living in a cozy two-bedroom house in a quiet Sacramento suburb in 1978. My husband, Tom, and I had moved there the year before, drawn by the tidy lawns, kids chasing each other on bikes, and the smell of barbecues drifting through the air. Our street was lined with ranch-style homes, each with a small front yard and rose bushes by the mailbox. It felt like the perfect place to start a family, a place where nothing bad could happen. But that summer, everything changed, and the safety I’d taken for granted unraveled like a frayed sweater.
It started with the phone calls. The first one came on a Tuesday night, around 11 p.m. The sharp ring jolted me awake, my heart thudding as I fumbled for the receiver on the nightstand. “Hello?” I said, my voice groggy. No answer. Just silence, thick and heavy, then a faint sound—breathing. Slow, deliberate breaths, like someone was holding the phone too close. I froze, my fingers tightening around the receiver. “Who is this?” I asked, louder. The breathing stopped, and the line went dead. I set the phone down, my hands trembling. “Wrong number,” I told Tom, who was half-asleep beside me. He mumbled, “Probably,” and rolled over. But I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my stomach twisting. It didn’t feel like a mistake.
The calls kept coming—two, sometimes three times a week, always late at night. The phone would ring, shrill and insistent, cutting through the quiet house. I’d stare at it, willing it to stop, but it never did until the answering machine clicked on. No message, just that breathing, heavy and slow, like the caller was savoring the silence. I stopped picking up after the third call, but the sound of the ring alone made my pulse race. I’d lie in bed, counting the rings—five, six, seven—until they stopped. Tom suggested we unplug the phone at night, but I couldn’t. What if it was an emergency? What if it was my mom, or his sister? So we left it plugged in, and I dreaded every night.
Then the break-ins started. Not our house, not yet, but close enough to make my skin crawl. Our neighbor Linda, a kind woman with two young kids and a laugh that carried across the street, told me about it one morning. I was watering the petunias by our front gate when she walked over, her arms crossed tight. “You hear about the Johnsons?” she asked, her eyes darting to the street. I shook my head. “Someone broke into their garage last night,” she said. “Took some loose change, a flashlight, and—God, this is creepy—some of Ellen’s underwear from the laundry basket.” My mouth went dry. “Who does that?” I asked. Linda shrugged, her face pale. “Police think it’s the same guy hitting other houses. They’re calling him a prowler. Been happening all over the neighborhood.”
I couldn’t shake her words. That night, I checked every lock in the house—front door, back door, the sliding glass door to the patio, every window. I tugged on the handles, making sure they wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt’s click felt like my only shield. Tom noticed my new routine and frowned. “You’re worrying too much,” he said, but he started checking the locks too. The neighborhood gossip spread like wildfire. At the grocery store, I overheard women in the cereal aisle whispering about more break-ins—sheds, garages, small things taken. One woman said her neighbor found her back gate unlatched, with muddy footprints leading to her patio. No one saw the guy, but everyone felt his presence, like a shadow creeping closer.
A couple of weeks later, Tom and I went to a neighborhood watch meeting at the community center down the street. The room was packed, maybe 40 people squeezed into folding chairs, the air thick with nervous energy. A police officer stood at the front, his uniform crisp but his face tired. He held up a sketch of a man in a ski mask, just eyes and a mouth cut out. “We believe it’s one person,” he said. “He’s careful. Wears gloves, covers his face. Takes things you might not notice right away—jewelry, coins, personal items.” A woman in the back raised her hand. “Is he dangerous?” she asked, her voice shaking. The officer paused, his jaw tight. “He’s escalating,” he said. “Last week, he broke into a couple’s home on Elm Street. Tied them up with shoelaces, threatened them. Didn’t hurt them, but he could’ve.” The room went silent. I grabbed Tom’s hand, my palms clammy. My mind flashed to the breathing on the phone. Was it him?
Linda, sitting next to me, leaned over, her voice barely a whisper. “I talked to Ellen Johnson,” she said. “She said he whispered to them. Told them not to scream, or he’d kill them. He stacked dishes on the husband’s back—said if they fell, he’d know they moved.” Her hands shook as she clutched her purse. “What kind of person thinks like that?” I couldn’t answer. My throat felt like it was closing up. I glanced at Tom, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the officer. When we got home, we bought new locks—big, heavy ones—and a baseball bat we kept by the bed.
The fear settled into our lives like dust. I stopped going for evening walks. I’d flinch at every car that slowed down on our street. One night, Tom was working late at the hardware store, and I was home alone. Around 10 p.m., the phone rang. I stared at it, my heart pounding, but didn’t pick up. The answering machine clicked on, and there it was—those heavy breaths, slow and deliberate. I yanked the phone cord out of the wall, my hands shaking so hard I dropped it. Then I heard it: scratch, scratch, scratch at the back door, like nails on wood. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself to move. I crept to the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the linoleum, and peeked through the blinds. The backyard was dark, the rose bushes swaying slightly. Then I saw it—a shadow, quick and low, darting behind the wooden fence. It was human-shaped, but too fast to make out details. My breath caught, and I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The crash echoed in the quiet house.
I grabbed the kitchen phone—thank God we had a second line—and called the police. “I think someone’s outside,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Please hurry.” The dispatcher told me to lock the doors and stay calm. I clutched a butcher knife from the drawer, my hands slick with sweat, and sat on the couch, staring at the back door. Every creak of the house, every rustle outside, made my heart leap. The police arrived 20 minutes later, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. An officer, young with a buzz cut, knocked on the door. “Ma’am, we checked the yard,” he said. “No one’s there now, but your gate’s unlatched. Found some scuff marks in the dirt.” He pointed to the path by the rose bushes. “Could’ve been him. Stay vigilant.” I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. That night, I left every light in the house on.
The next morning, I told Linda everything over coffee at her kitchen table. Her kids were at school, and the house felt too quiet. “You saw him?” she asked, her eyes wide, her coffee cup trembling in her hands. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking. “Just a shadow. But it was someone. I felt it.” She nodded, her fingers shredding a napkin. “They found shoelaces in the Millers’ yard last night,” she said. “Two streets over. He tried to get in but couldn’t. Left them by the back door, like a warning.” My stomach churned. “Shoelaces?” I asked. She nodded. “Same as the attacks. He uses them to tie people up.” I pushed my coffee away, suddenly nauseous.
The attacks kept coming. A week later, the news reported another couple hit, this time on a street just a mile away. He’d tied them up, same shoelaces, same whispered threats. The husband fought back and got a broken nose for it. The police released more sketches—dark clothing, ski mask, average build. Every man I saw became a suspect. The guy delivering our mail, the neighbor mowing his lawn, even the teenager riding his bike too slowly—they all made my heart race. I stopped sleeping. I’d lie awake, listening for footsteps, for that scratch at the door. Tom started coming home early, his face drawn. “We’re okay,” he’d say, but he’d check the windows twice before bed.
One night, I woke up to a sound I’ll never forget. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching on the gravel path outside our bedroom window. Not the soft patter of a cat or a raccoon—human steps, careful, like someone didn’t want to be heard. I shook Tom awake, my nails digging into his arm. “Listen,” I hissed. He sat up, his eyes wide. The steps moved toward the back door, pausing, then a faint click—the doorknob turning, testing the lock. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. “Don’t move,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. Tom reached for the baseball bat, his hands shaking. The steps continued, circling the house, then stopped. We sat there, frozen, waiting for another sound. Nothing. At dawn, we checked outside. Footprints in the dirt by the rose bushes, leading to the street. One print was clear—a sneaker, pressed deep into the soft soil.
That was the breaking point. The next morning, I called a realtor. Tom didn’t argue. “We can’t stay,” I said, my voice flat. He nodded, his jaw tight. “I know.” Linda came over that afternoon, her eyes red from crying. “You’re leaving?” she asked, standing in our living room, surrounded by half-packed boxes. “We have to,” I said. “I can’t keep waiting for him to come back.” She hugged me, her body trembling. “I’m thinking about it too,” she said. “No one feels safe. The Wilsons moved last week. The Garcias are talking about it.” Her voice broke. “It’s like he’s stealing our lives.”
We moved a month later, to a city hours away, a place with tall buildings and busy streets, far from quiet suburbs. The attacks in Sacramento continued, spreading to other towns. Years later, I read he started killing—couples, just like us, murdered in their beds with those same shoelaces. They called him the Golden State Killer. They didn’t catch him until 2018, 40 years after that summer. I still check my locks every night, sometimes twice. I still hear those footsteps in my dreams, crunching on gravel, circling closer, and I wake up with my heart racing, wondering if he’s still out there, watching.
"A Quiet Town, A Dark Secret":
I was 14 in 1987, living in Dubuque, Iowa, where the streets were lined with tidy houses and kids played kickball in cul-de-sacs until the streetlights flickered on. It was the kind of place where you left your bike on the lawn and didn’t worry about it being gone in the morning. Our neighborhood felt safe, boring even, until that fall when everything changed. Kenny Joe Johnson, a kid in my class, was part of it all, and what happened to him still creeps into my thoughts, especially at night when the house is too quiet.
It was a Thursday in October, and I was in history class at Roosevelt Middle School. Kenny Joe sat two rows over, his lanky frame hunched over his desk. He had brown eyes that always seemed to look somewhere else, and a shy smile that came out when you least expected it. He wasn’t one of the loud kids who joked around or got invited to birthday parties. He lived at Hillcrest, the group home a few miles away, and that made him different. Kids didn’t pick on him much, but they didn’t talk to him either. That day, he was scribbling in his notebook, ignoring Mr. Smith’s lecture about the Civil War.
“Kenny Joe, put that away and focus,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sharp but not mean. He adjusted his glasses, waiting.
Kenny Joe’s head snapped up, his cheeks turning pink. “I’m listening,” he mumbled, his pencil still moving across the page.
Mr. Smith sighed and walked over, his shoes clicking on the tile floor. He snatched the notebook and tossed it onto his desk with a thud. “See me after class,” he said, pointing a finger. The room went quiet, everyone staring.
Kenny Joe slumped lower in his seat, his shoulders curling in like he wanted to disappear. I felt a pang in my chest, like I should say something, maybe tell Mr. Smith to ease up. But I didn’t. I just stared at my own notes, pretending to care about Gettysburg. When the bell rang, Kenny Joe grabbed his worn-out backpack, shot Mr. Smith a look, and stormed out without a word. I watched him go, his sneakers squeaking down the hall, and something about it stuck with me. I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see him.
At lunch, I sat with my friend Lisa at our usual table by the cafeteria windows. She was picking at her tater tots, talking about some new cassette she got. I couldn’t stop thinking about Kenny Joe. “He got in trouble in history,” I said, pushing my sandwich around my tray. “Looked pretty mad when he left.”
Lisa shrugged, popping a tater tot in her mouth. “He’s always doing that. Probably just went back to Hillcrest. He’s run off before, you know.” She said it so casually, like it was no big deal. Kenny Joe had disappeared for a day or two before, always turning up back at the group home. I nodded, but a knot formed in my stomach. Something felt off, like a song stuck in your head but you can’t place the tune.
Friday came, and Kenny Joe wasn’t at school. I figured he was suspended or maybe sick. Kids whispered in the halls, but it was just gossip, nothing serious. “Heard he got in a fight with Mr. Smith,” one kid said. Another swore they saw him hitchhiking near the highway. I didn’t believe that one—Kenny Joe wasn’t the type to stick out his thumb for a ride. By the end of the day, I pushed it out of my mind. He’d be back, I told myself.
That weekend, everything fell apart. I was in the kitchen Saturday morning, sneaking a second bowl of cereal, when the phone rang. My mom answered, and I heard her voice change, sharp and low. “What do you mean, a body?” she said, gripping the receiver. I froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth, milk dripping onto the table. “In Maus Park? Are you sure?”
She hung up and turned to me, her face pale, her hands shaking just a little. “There’s been a murder,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They found a body in Maus Park. It’s a kid from your school.”
My heart thudded in my chest. “Who?” I asked, though that knot in my stomach was back, tighter than ever.
“They’re not saying yet,” Mom said, folding her arms like she was trying to hold herself together. “But you’re staying inside until we know more. No arguments.”
Maus Park was just a few blocks from our house, a place where we’d play tag or toss a frisbee by the Mississippi River. It had a sandy beach area near the floodgate, where kids would skip rocks or dare each other to wade in. The idea of a body there, of a murder, didn’t fit. It was like hearing a scream in the middle of a lullaby.
Monday morning, school was a mess. The halls buzzed with nervous energy, kids clumping together, whispering. By first period, the principal came over the intercom, her voice tight. “We have tragic news,” she said. “One of our students, Kenny Joe Johnson, was found dead this weekend. Counselors are available if you need to talk.” She didn’t say how he died, but the rumors were already spreading, each one worse than the last.
At lunch, Lisa slid into the seat across from me, her eyes wide. “Did you hear?” she said, leaning in. “They found him Saturday morning, wrapped in a carpet by the floodgate. Some guy walking his dog saw it and called the cops. They’re saying he was… you know, assaulted. And strangled.”
I stared at my tray, my throat tight. “That’s awful,” I managed. “I saw him Thursday, Lisa. He was right there in class, just… drawing.”
She shook her head, her ponytail bouncing. “It’s so creepy. Like, who would do that? They’re saying it might be someone from around here. Someone we know.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, sharper than I meant. But her words dug into me, like a splinter I couldn’t pull out. I kept picturing Kenny Joe’s face, that shy smile, and now he was gone, his body left like trash in a place we all knew.
That afternoon, I saw Mr. Smith in the hall. He looked wrecked, his tie loose, his eyes red like he’d been crying. I don’t know why, but I stopped him. “Mr. Smith,” I said, my voice small, “I’m really sorry about Kenny Joe.”
He looked at me, his face crumpling. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s just… I can’t believe it. He was just a kid.”
“Did he say anything Thursday?” I asked. “After class, I mean. Did he seem okay?”
Mr. Smith rubbed his face, like he was trying to wipe away the memory. “He was upset. I told him to go to the principal’s office, but he grabbed his bag and walked out. I thought he’d cool off, maybe go back to Hillcrest. I never imagined…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and walked away, his shoulders sagging.
The police showed up at school that week, their uniforms standing out against the bright posters in the halls. They pulled kids aside, anyone who knew Kenny Joe. They talked to me in the guidance counselor’s office, a cop with a notepad and a tired face. “You were in his history class Thursday?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, my hands sweaty. “He got in trouble for drawing. He was mad when he left.”
“Did he say where he was going?” the cop asked, his pen hovering.
“No,” I said. “He just grabbed his stuff and walked out. He didn’t talk much anyway.”
“Did you see anyone strange hanging around school? Or near the park?” he pressed.
I shook my head. “No, it’s just… normal around here. Or it was.”
He nodded, jotting something down, and let me go. Later, I heard they found Kenny Joe’s backpack in some bushes near Maus Park, torn and empty except for a few pencils. They said he’d run away from school Thursday after his fight with Mr. Smith, and sometime between then and Saturday morning, someone got to him. The details made my skin crawl—he’d been sexually assaulted, strangled by hand, his body wrapped in an old carpet and dumped by the river. I couldn’t stop picturing it, even though I didn’t want to.
The weeks after were heavy. Parents stopped letting kids go to Maus Park. My mom made me check in every hour if I was out, and she’d wait by the window until I got home. At school, kids swapped stories, each one scarier than the last. Some said it was a drifter, a serial killer passing through. Others whispered it was someone from Hillcrest, maybe someone Kenny Joe knew. One kid swore he heard the cops were looking at a teacher, but I didn’t believe that. Still, it made me look at everyone differently.
I overheard teachers in the lounge one day, their voices low. “They’ve got DNA,” one said. “Some hair, skin under his nails. But the lab can’t do much with it yet. Maybe in a few years.” That stuck with me—evidence sitting in a box, waiting, while the killer was still out there.
Nights were the worst. I’d lie in bed, the glow of my clock radio casting shadows on the ceiling. I kept replaying that Thursday, Kenny Joe’s hunched shoulders, the way he stormed out. I should’ve said something, maybe asked if he was okay. Guilt ate at me, like I could’ve changed things. What if he’d stayed at school? Would he still be alive?
One evening, walking home from a friend’s house, I took the long way to avoid the park. The street was quiet, just the hum of a distant lawnmower and the crunch of my sneakers on the sidewalk. I felt it then—a prickle on my neck, like eyes on me. I turned, my heart racing, but the street was empty, just neat houses and trimmed hedges. I walked faster, then ran, my backpack bouncing, until I reached my porch, slamming the door behind me. I told myself it was nothing, but I didn’t believe it.
The police never caught anyone. They had 30 binders of notes, interviews, leads, but nothing added up. The case went cold, and Dubuque tried to move on. But it wasn’t the same. The park stayed empty, its swings creaking in the quiet. My mom started locking the doors at night, something she never used to do. At school, Mr. Smith was different, quieter, like part of him broke. I’d catch him staring out the classroom window, like he was looking for Kenny Joe.
Years later, I still think about it. The killer could be anyone—a neighbor, someone I passed at the grocery store, someone who smiled and waved like nothing happened. The police still have those DNA samples, waiting for better technology, but no one’s been caught. Sometimes, I walk by Maus Park, and I can’t help but look at that sandy spot by the floodgate. I see Kenny Joe’s shy smile, his pencil scratching in his notebook, and I wonder if he knew what was coming. The thought chills me, like a shadow that never leaves, a reminder that even in our quiet suburb, something dark was always hiding.
Tags:
Story