Today is another anniversary of my father’s death, and that was the moment I learned about our family secret.
On his deathbed, my father told me something I didn’t want to know. But thus, he cleared his conscience. He apologized that nothing could be changed. The burden of the secret had already fallen on my shoulders. Twenty years have passed, but I remember that story very well. 
When I was ten, my family moved to a small town. My father once again sold all our real estate and bought a house in a town on the other side of the country. He was a computer programmer who worked from home. That allowed us to live where we wanted, so we moved frequently.
Our neighbors were the Evans family, the most prosperous in town. Everything was okay with them, except for the dead dogs at the front door every month. The police tried their best, but they were unable to find the perpetrators.
When I was a child, it all seemed very strange to me. Who knows what motivated people? And what evil forces took over their minds when they drew three sixes on the front door with dog’s blood and went on doing it even when the family left the house for the summer?
Perhaps they were frightened by the wealth acquired by the family of an ordinary office clerk. Or was it the rumors about families who lived in such seclusion? The Evans family did not accept invitations to visit from their neighbors and kept guests from entering their home. The Evans family never responded to my father’s attempts to get acquainted, but I sometimes ran into Mrs. Evans on the street when she got into her car. She always seemed very sad to me.
Despite people’s dislike of the Evans family, they were feared and did not go beyond vandalism, which often involved dogs. Several times, I saw people passing their houses, secretly crossing themselves and quickening their pace.
“Mom, why does everyone hate our neighbors so much?” I asked once.
Mom, busy preparing minced meat in the kitchen, looked at me.
“Well, sonny,” she wiped her hand with a towel and patted me on the head. “People just think that no one can get rich for nothing.”
I was not satisfied with this answer. So I asked my school friend Andrew about the Evans family.
“They’re just weird.” He shrugged. “Dad says they’ve always been like that since they arrived. Aunt Beverly thinks that the Devil himself brought them money on a silver platter.”
And somehow, I had to live with these answers, although I didn’t like them. In my free time, I watched the Evans family. They had two children, but they never showed up on the street, and I only saw their silhouettes in the window. Teachers came to their homes.
Mr. Evans went to work every morning in his car, and Mrs. Evans sometimes went away for a while.
November passed, and December came. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, stronger than usual in those days, and blew golden leaves along the sidewalks.
Corey Anderson, my classmate, disappeared one quiet evening after staying late at school for practice.
And Carroll Davis disappeared after him.
Now, the missing children’s posters fluttered in the wind on every lamppost. Panic settled in the town, and my parents took me to and from school themselves.
“Children often run away,” my father sighed once during dinner. “Who knows what skeletons are hiding in other people’s closets?”
Mom agreed with him.
“Jimmy, finish your meal,” she nodded at the meat stew on my plate. “Otherwise, you won’t get your favorite cinnamon apple pie.”
“Mom spent half the day in the kitchen,” my father said. “Don’t upset her, okay?”
I didn’t want to upset my mother, so I finished my dinner. She always liked tinkering in the kitchen, and she even made her own minced meat. And she was always distraught if someone didn’t appreciate her efforts.
When Thomas Johnson went missing, the police began questioning all the residents of our quiet town. A policeman, Mr. Carrington, dropped in on us.
At ten years old, I still didn’t really understand how I could help the police, but I answered honestly that I didn’t communicate with Corey. Carroll was older than us to be friends, and I only saw Thomas at training. And that’s how they left me alone. Mom invited Mr. Carrington to dinner. He praised Mom’s cutlets for a long time and left satisfied. He would then often drop by to visit and tell us about the progress of the investigations into missing children.
One night, I woke up from a heavy slam of the door when my father returned from somewhere. I crept to the stairs and heard their conversation.
“Everything’s okay?” my mother asks.
“Yes, everything is great,” my father nodded. Seeing my figure hiding in the shadows.
“Dad, where have you been?” I rubbed my sleepy eyes with my fist.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he smiled.
“Mom wasn’t feeling well, so I went to get some medicine,” he answered. “Are you in any pain? You look pale.”
I shook my head.
“Go to bed,” Mom smiled tiredly. “You have a project at school tomorrow, and you don’t want to oversleep, do you?”
I didn’t want to oversleep, and I fell asleep so soundly that even the wind and thunderstorm didn’t bother me.
In the morning, as I was trudging to school, I saw police cars near Evans’ front door. The family’s father was being led out in handcuffs.
Mr. Carrington nodded at me and gave me a thumbs up as if to say, ‘No need to be afraid anymore; everything is fine.
Already at school, I learned the latest rumors: they said that children’s bones had been found in the sewer under the Evans’ house. They noted that Corey’s textbooks and Carroll’s dress had also been found there.
Someone called the police anonymously at night, reporting that they had seen Corey get into Mr. Evans’ car.
After Mr. Evans and his wife were arrested, their children were sent to a new family, and the empty house was robbed a couple of times. Police caught the robbers. The robbers said they found a lot of creepy books and other things there. Robbers said the Evans sacrificed children to the Devil. Robbers also said the Evans ate their corpses.
***
I’m already forty-five, and I have my own family. After my father died, my family and I moved from that town to a new town on the other side of the country, and then to another town, and now we’re moving again, but I still remember the story with the Evans.
And now I know what the Evans family was up to; my dad explained it all to me on his deathbed. Maybe our neighbors, the Evans, had creepy books and things and even made a pact with the Devil to get rich, but none of them touched those children.
I heard my wife fussing around in the kitchen, and I smiled.
“Honey!” she calls. “Will you handle the leftovers?”
I took the trash bag from her and looked inside. Inside were a girl’s blue dress, boots, and a school bag. I went out to the backyard and lit a fire.
When I was ten, I had no idea that acid was very good at dissolving bones.
When I’m on my deathbed, I’ll tell my son our family secret and give him some advice. After all, we might not always be lucky with “convenient” neighbors.
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Natalia Plos is a horror fiction writer. Her fiction stories have previously appeared in magazines such as 50-Word Story, Stygian Lepus Magazine, and Havok Magazine, as well as in the anthology horror ‘A Reimagining of Poe’s Tales’ from Dark Myth Publications. Natalia can’t imagine life without great coffee, chocolate, and books.