Hubris

Autumn arrives wrong in Hubris.

Irene’s voice cuts through the morning air, “Don’t whistle at the moon, it will turn around.”

The bustle in the town square stops. “Fall already?” Someone asks. Light laughter ripples through the crowd. The air is crisp; wood-soak from wet leaves intermingles with baking spice aromatics ribboning off fresh pies.

Irene yells it again.

With such coziness in Hubris, how is whistling at the moon a bad thing? Irene’s warnings never yield true disaster. Last year, it was ‘Don’t go into the apple orchard at night’ and nothing came of that.

Well, Hue did trespass on Angry Crows’ Orchard one night. He ate an apple and danced around. Crows started shitting on his house, and him, at any chance. Only him. A year later, they still do. But that is one fool. Furthermore, look at the name. Coincidence.

Irene’s pale-yellow mantle billows on an ethereal breeze. There might be some credibility to her warning, a few think but remain quiet. One look at Hue with his umbrella reminds them he’s a dumbass.

Many return to their busyness. Don’t whistle. Simple. Unbeknownst to each other, underneath their dialogue, the townsfolk quietly search their minds to remember the last time they whistled. No one can.

Lori, Tori, and Beth gather at the marble fountain in the middle of the square. Together, they are a teenaged Cerberus, only crueler. They plot and gossip behind manicured nails. Those passing by them now hear of Christmas performance plans, another marker of autumn. Their performances are based on Irene’s warnings. Respect with a dash of mockery.

Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer pass by the giggling trio. They all exchange pleasantries. Hand in hand, the Mortimers sway home in a rhythm only fifty-seven years together can properly craft.

Inside, Mr. Mortimer holds his wife’s coat as she shrugs out of it. He pulls her close and kisses her once for habit, twice for love. He squeezes her right butt cheek. Mrs. Mortimer leans away grinning and bops his nose. She peels out of his arms and heads toward the living room. The conversation Mrs. Mortimer begins is one many are having across town. Living rooms are full of people thinking and asking the same questions

“How does the moon ‘turn around’?”

“Don’t it revolve around us?” Mr. Mortimer joins his wife on their plush sofa.

“Revolving is different than turning, Elwood.”

“How so?”

Her mouth guppies. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Irene is a few tomatoes short of a good salsa.”

“Elwood!” She slaps his knee, laughing. Mr. Mortimer flicks the television on. One chooses from three premium channels in Hubris: weather, news, or static. He opts for weather.

“What’s wrong?” He nudges her after a brief segment.

“Oh, nothing.” She sighs.

“I know the tone of that sigh.”

“It’s just…” her hands plop to her sides, “now I really want salsa.”

Mr. Mortimer leans in for another kiss. “This is why I love you.”

***

The last leaf falls with the first snow. Trees dollop the landscape below the sparkling white powder. The sun hides sooner, needing its own blanket, offering only a brief apricity before winter settles in. Bakers replace their fall pies with Christmas cookies. Lori, Tori, and Beth are ready for their performance tonight.

Townsfolk trickle into the heated hillside amphitheater. The moon smears its milky light across the night sky. Chatter popcorns through the crowd. The three sets of parents of the Christmas Cerberus stoically gorge on compliments for their ever so talented daughters. Irene watches from the back row, appearing to float against the stars with her crimson and emerald mantle.

The lights dim. Conversations dissipate. The orchestra’s overture sprinkles Christmas nostalgia as the trio clamors on stage. Tori strides to the microphone.

“Merry Christmas, Hubris! Thank you for coming. As always, we’ll impress you with songs from, like, forever ago with some, like, phenomenal acting in between. The finale is a delicious little treat.” Tori winks at Irene.

The next hour melts by in music, laughs, and ham acting.

Tori is at the mic again. “As promised, our little treat. This is just for you, Irene. First off, your colors are gorgeous. Second, we have divine voices, but something sparked our interest a few months ago.” Tori waggles her eyebrows. The other two sidle next to her. They each lean in, look up at the moon, puckering their lips.

For the first time in decades, the residents of Hubris hear whistling.

Irene grabs the amethyst amulet dangling around her neck. Her eyes flick to the moon. Everyone looks between the trio, the moon, and Irene. A crow shits on Hue’s umbrella. Nothing out of the ordinary happens.

Until the girls stop.

Only then did the moon turn around.

***

For the last week, the town of Hubris retreated into their homes at the first hint of dusk. Lori and Tori went missing on performance night. The moon is closer each night. Or appears bigger, no one is sure. A low hum vibrates through the air each night. Too faint to name, too steady to ignore.

Beth went missing yesterday. The town breathes easier... for a few hours.

The Mortimers are woken up by shattering glass and screams. The room is pitch black from their makeshift blackout curtains.

“Is someone breaking in?” Mrs. Mortimer panics.

“The moon…”

“But it’s morning?”

“Morning twilight…”

“I’m too tired for science, Elwood.”

“The sun rises later in the winter, the moon sets later, too. Their time overlaps in the sky. Happens every year. People must’ve forgot. More people must've whistled.” His voice quivers.

“It shouldn’t matter? The girls were taken. It should be over?” She climbs out of bed. “This week has been awful. And we didn’t whistle. We could… look?”

“Velma…” His voice drips with pain and regret.

Her heart drops to the floor. "Elwood..." But maybe she's jumping too far ahead.

“Who listens to Irene?” He says at last.

“Tell me you didn’t…”

“She’s a kook, right?”

“Elwood!”

“I just wanted…”

“Elwood…” Her voice is small.

“… to surprise you.”

She sobs. She hates the thought forming in her mind, but love can’t undo a whistle.

“Velma…”

“Stop.”

He finds her in the dark. “We can figure this out.”

“It gets closer. Each night. What happens when...”

“We could move away from Hubris!”

“Forever running away?”

“No, Velma. We move in the day, keep inside at night.”

“I didn’t whistle.” She yells, furious of his insolence trapping her.

“I’m… sorry, Velma.” His sobs join the chorus in other homes. He violently shakes in her arms.

Curiosity and anger wrestle in Velma’s chest. “Stay in the dark. I need to peek.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“For you,” she snaps and rips away from him. It was a sweet gesture from him, but foolish. Velma cracks the curtain and screams, stumbling back.

“What is it?” Elwood fights the urge to run and comfort her.

Terror steals her words. She drifts back to the curtain. Elwood sees her face distort.

“What is it, Velma?”

“… it doesn’t blink… hands, but not… human ones… it bites heads off…”

Elwood yelps.

“…sucks out their insides. Like a smoothie, Elwood.” Her voice flat. Defeat drowns her. How are they going to escape… this? Hue stands frozen at the fountain beneath his umbrella. Irene is on her own porch and raises a mug to Velma. Velma half waves.

“Are you waving to it?” Mr. Mortimer hisses.

Velma wipes away an angry tear, ignoring her husband. She watches the moon hunt and eat the whistlers. Just a small touch of moonlight is all it takes. Their screams aren’t cut short so much as replaced with gnashing and wet squelching.

Velma isn’t sure how long she watches. The sun rises above the horizon and the moon simply stops. It retreats in the sky, normal size. Its unblinking face sinks below the horizon. Silence so sudden makes Velma’s ears ring.

The clock chimes. Velma jumps.

Blinks.

She assesses her situation.

Rage refills her.

She thrusts open the curtains. Elwood screams, throwing his hands up. After realizing he’s okay, he opens his eyes to see Velma glowering at him. Disappointment vibrates off her. He timidly walks to her. When he’s close enough, Velma slaps him. Hard. Fifty-seven years of fights in one hit.

He stumbles back to where he cowered moments ago. “What was that for?”

“You whistled. Irene warned us.” Velma feels a heavy certainty she can’t argue with.

“It’s Irene! Who listens to her!”

“Look at Hue.”

“Hue’s an idiot. And it’s called Angry Crows!”

Velma can’t hold back the tears. What she saw… how it ate. “Elwood, we can’t outrun the moon.”

“It’s okay,” he consoles. “Like I said, we move during the day. Get as far from Hubris as we can. We haven’t vacationed in years. What’s wrong?”

Velma gathers her courage. “We can’t outrun the moon.” She motions the two of them.

Like many other survivors of this morning, Mr. Mortimer faces the reality of ignoring Irene.

The more sinister thought that had been forming digs at survivors like Velma.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Mr. Mortimer asks.

“I love you so much, Elwood.” Mrs. Mortimer says though her heart punches her chest. “I’m going to Irene’s. For advice. For you.” She forces a smile, carrying her decision in her stomach.

“I love you, too. She should know how to get me out of this.” Elwood throws out, relieved. Anger traces Velma’s skin. She wants him to offer to come, talk to Irene himself. Instead, he hugs and pats her shoulder.

Velma’s heart breaks as she walks to Irene’s hut. Anger keeps her warm. She walks in to see six other bleary-eyed and angry neighbors. The only ones who listened. Silence stings with understanding of why they’re here. Irene nods, expectant. She glides across the room. While giving them instructions, she places a small, blue packet in their palms.

Twenty minutes later, Velma returns home.

“Wow!” Mr. Mortimer exclaims. “You haven’t kissed me like that since our twenties.”

She pats his chest. “Irene will take care of it tonight.”

Elwood exhales. He celebrates by slapping his knee and throwing fists in the air. “I knew it. She cursed us in the first place.”

“Not like she warned us.” Velma’s words are thick with sarcasm.

“That’s beside the point. So, what’s the plan?”

“My chance to surprise you.” Her eyes mist.

Mr. Mortimer grabs her and dances with her. She hugs him tight, inhaling his scent. Mahogany and cigar. They dance like it’s their first time again.

Evening comes too fast for Velma and nerves buzz for those left in Hubris.

“You stay put and I’ll brew some tea for us.” Velma offers.

“Don’t take too long because…” His voice trails as he eyes the sky. He sniffles against the chilly wind. Velma kisses his forehead. She moves inside to where she hid the little blue packet of tea.

Ten minutes later, the kettle shrieks her out of reverie of their life in this house. She preps the tea and walks out to sit next to Elwood. They drink while joking, laughing, and reflecting.

“I should get inside." He yawns. "Whew. You may have to help me.”

“I love you, Elwood.”

“Yes, I love you, too, Velma, but the moon will be here soon.” He yawns again, deeper. “I’m going to need your…” His eyes flutter closed.

Soon he’s snoring in his rocking chair.

Velma grabs his hand. Tears stream down her face. Her decision hits with finality. A lifetime of love taken away by sips. She’s so angry he whistled.

The sun’s last tendrils of light wisp away. Darkness shrouds the town. Hue’s crows are the first to catch the moon’s light. It rises, unblinking. Its molasses-slow light stalks the landscape. It spills on Velma’s yard inching toward the porch.

“I drifted off there,” Mr. Mortimer slurs, squeezing her hand.

Velma yelps. He wasn’t supposed to wake up! Her heart lurches, she didn’t prepare for this. She watches the light snag and drag her woozy husband off the rocking chair.

“Velma… help!” He grips her hand.

Velma closes her eyes. She pulls her hand out of his.

“I love you, Elwood,” she repeats to herself.

Mr. Mortimer’s screams are replaced with crunching and slurping.

Then, it’s quiet.

Mrs. Mortimer cries for a long time.

She opens her eyes.

The rocking chair is empty.

The moon now faces away.

Velma stares at it.

The town is quiet.

Velma is numb.

Alone.

Irene coughs on her porch.

No, it sounds like gagging. And singing. And moaning.

Fearing this is another warning makes Velma and the other six sprint toward Irene. It’s not even fall! She’s doubled over on her porch. Three stop in the small patch of grass in her yard, afraid to get closer. Velma, Hue, and one other rush to the narrow walkway near Irene’s porch. Their breaths puff out in short icy clouds.

Irene’s head snaps back, eyes opaque. Her skin glows in the moonlight. She opens her mouth, ancient voices layer hers, “Don’t let your shadow touch the grass.”

Velma sucks in air. Her eyes follow her shadow zigzagging up the steps. Pure luck.

“Oh, my g…”

A wet burst cuts the voice off behind her. Something warm splatters on Velma’s neck. She hopes it’s from Hue’s crows. Her gut knows it’s not. She faces the yard in time to see the other two swell and pop like overfilled balloons. The smell hits her next. Thick. Bodily. Impossible to ignore. She refuses to look at what is now seeping in her clothes and snow.

Irene stands on the porch, almost floating in Velma’s eyes. Her emerald gaze glows. Her grey-streaked auburn hair and mantle drift. Her pale skin radiates a warmth Velma no longer remembers. She stares at them and drifts inside.

Velma walks home alone, carrying an undeniable truth.

Her hands shake, but she keeps them at her sides. There’s no one left to steady them.

She lives because she listens.

And listening cost her everything.