Voices in the Dark: Part Two

Part Two

The Howler was known to everyone on Chestnut Avenue. You couldn’t help but know

The Howler. Perhaps some folks in the neighborhood had their own names for him. But if you

lived within a six block radius of Chestnut Avenue, you knew the sound of his voice, and hearing

it would send a shiver of dread down your spine.

He looked to be somewhere in his thirties or forties. Addy’s father referred to him as

mentally unwell. Addy’s mother used less careful words.

“He is totally ‘ape-shit’… and he scares me,” she would say.

Sometimes during the day and sometimes in the dead of night, the man roamed the

neighborhood streets screaming at the top of his lungs. He cursed. He shouted. His frantic howls

of fury were so shrill that he sounded like his vocal chords would rupture as his threats of

violence echoed off houses and bounced down the empty alleyways.

“You piece of shit, mother fucking cunt! Fuck you and your bitch-ass, mother fucking,

cock-sucking whore,” is just a sample of his typical speech.

Sometimes what he yelled was nonsense… strings of words that didn’t seem to belong

together. Other times, his tirades were shockingly specific, stitched together with obscenities so

vile that Addy would clap her hands over Lilly’s ears. If The Howler passed someone on the

sidewalk, he might ignore them completely… or he might lunge close and scream threats into

their face, like promising to “piss on their mother’s grave” or “gouge out their eyes with a

spoon.”

He kicked over trash cans. He tore letters out of mailboxes. The police had been called

more times than anyone could count, and more than once he’d ended up in physical fights with

neighbors who’d finally had enough. Everyone was affected by him. No one knew what to do

about him. And nobody seemed to take responsibility for him.

One night, desperate to break the monotony of the pandemic, Addy’s father decided they

would camp out in the backyard. He pitched the tent, set up a “campfire” in the barbecue, and

tried his best to turn fear into fun. They roasted marshmallows, told stories, and pointed out the

constellations. For a few hours it felt magical… Orangevale’s version of the great outdoors.

Then, sometime around two in the morning, The Howler’s voice cut through the night.

“Oh, Cornelius,” he screamed. “Come on out, Cornelius. Corneeeeeeeeeelius!”

The name stretched and warped as it echoed across the neighborhood. He repeated it

again and again, his voice raw, feral, and threatening. Addy jolted awake. So did Lilly. So did

their parents.

“Corneeeeeeeelius! I’m gonna find you, Cornelius!” He shouted, his temperament

sounding somewhere between predatory and desperate.

Soon, other voices joined in… angry neighbors shouting from darkened houses,

threatening to call the cops again, begging him to shut up. From the backyard tent, the

not-so-happy campers heard the sounds of glass breaking and dogs barking.

Then, the booming voice of Mr. Gower cut across the night. Mr. Gower was the

neighborhood's resident loud and angry man. He liked to put signs on his lawn that said things

like, “this house is protected by the 2nd amendment” and “Joe Biden is a traitor”. Addy thought

the man’s rotund body and handlebar mustache made him look like a grouchy walrus.

“Shut up that racket!” He bellowed. “I warned you before. I am armed and I am not

afraid to shoot.”

Needless to say, the campout ended early, as the Hendersons retreated to the safety of

their own beds and the security that comes from being behind locked doors.

The next morning Addy’s father took time to talk to both of his daughters about The

Howler, explaining that he wasn’t someone to be afraid of. What he needed wasn’t punishment,

but help.

“He needs a good doctor,” he had said. “And people who can care for him. We should

feel sorry for the poor man.”

Addy understood what her father meant, but understanding something wasn’t always

enough to make fear go away. Secretly, she wished someone would come and take The Howler

away, or that one day while on one of his belligerent neighborhood walks, he’d simply keep on

walking right out of Orangevale and never return.