Halloween Teen

I’ve never been a big fan of horror movies. It’s not that I scare easily, but they just don’t do much for me. I will say, though, that the scariest movie I ever saw when I was a kid, was a film called “Poltergeist.” It came out when I was about thirteen or fourteen, and it frightened the shit out of me when I first saw it. It’s about a bunch of people living in a housing estate that’s been built on an old cemetery, and in the big finale, there is this huge storm, and coffins start popping up out of the ground, and the lids flying open, with skeletons in ragged, rotting clothes start falling out, and it’s a shocker!

Years later, as an adult, I was at the video store one day, and they were selling off a lot of their old ex-rental VHS movies, and I found an old copy of “Poltergeist” on the rack, for two bucks. I bought it, and took it home, but I never got around to watching it again. That was about a year before my marriage broke up.

I’ve got to say one thing here, and that is, divorce sucks. I guess I didn’t need to tell you that. It’s one of those things in life that’s self-evident, like, the Pope’s a Catholic, or, Queen Elizabeth believes in the monarchy, so everybody knows it and doesn’t really think about it, but it’s only when you go actually go through the three-dimensional trauma of ending a marriage, that you realise just how much divorce sucks.

When my marriage finally ended, everybody got something. My now ex-wife got the house, and the kids, the lawyers got a chunk of money, and I got the privilege of continuing to pay the mortgage on said house, and the honour of having said kids over every second weekend and half of each school holiday period, plus the right to pay a further chunk of money in child support until our youngest child turned eighteen. I certainly didn’t begrudge supporting my two children, but considering I wasn’t the one in the marriage that was fucking every deadshit in town, except for her lawfully wedded husband, I kind of thought there were certain fairness issues about the whole thing. Then again one of the many things I had learnt in nineteen years as a cop, was that life isn’t always fair.

Now that I was suddenly single, I had to find a place to live, and I was lucky enough to have a work colleague with a spare room for me to stay in for a while, but he made it clear the arrangement could only be temporary, or else his marriage may end up on the rocks, too.

I did the rounds of the local real estate agents, trying to get something to rent, but the story was the same everywhere. Ever since a new university campus had been opened in the city, rental accommodation was as scarce as hens’ teeth, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever find a place. One afternoon, in my lunch break, I slipped out to visit the last real estate agent in town, just down from the police station, to try my luck there.

The tenancy manager was a middle aged lady, who told me the same story I’d heard every other place I’d been to, but after I told her my situation, she sighed sympathetically, looked at my police uniform shirt, and seemed to look hard at my shoulder patches, as though she was thinking. “Look,” she said, “I like to help the boys in blue wherever I can, so I may be able to help you out. I can’t guarantee anything, though.”

“I’m ready to try anything,” I said.

“I’ve got a friend,” the lady started, “and she has a granny flat at her place. She asked me for some advice a while back, about renting it out. She’s a single mother with a couple of kids, and the flat’s just sitting there, so she thought she might be able to rent it out for a little extra money. How about I give her a ring and get back to you?”

I told her I’d appreciate if she could do that, and I headed back to work. Later that afternoon, I got a call from a lady, giving her name as Vicky, and she said she’d had a call from the real estate agent, about renting her granny flat out. I asked her if she was interested in letting me rent it from her, and she said, “Why don’t you come over this evening and we can talk about it?” I took down the address, and I said, “See you there.”

A little after five, I drove over to the address, and my knock was answered by Vicky, who greeted me with, “Hi, I’m Vicky Campbell. You must be Sergeant Strong.”

“Craig,” I answered, “Please, call me Craig.” She offered me a handshake, and when I had a good look at her, I realised she was rather hot, but in a wholesome, approachable way. I was guessing she was maybe mid-thirties, and she had long, wavy dark hair, and a pretty face, and her figure was slim but curvy. She was dressed in a pair of snug-fitting blue jeans, and a beige coloured, knitted top.

She took me inside her house, and over a cup of coffee, we discussed the granny flat she had for rent, and a few other things. Vicky told me she had two kids, one boy and one girl, but she didn’t elaborate on how old they were, and I saw no need to ask. After we finished our coffee, she said, “I suppose I’d better show you the granny flat, and you can tell me what you think.”

Vicky took me around to the side of her house, and showed me the granny flat, built onto the house, but with it’s own front and back door, and fully self-contained. It was small, with one bedroom, a small kitchenette, a combined living/dining room, and it’s own bathroom, and the back door led out into Vicky’s back yard. I needed somewhere, and this place was too good to pass up in the circumstances, so we settled on a hundred bucks a week, and I told her I’d take it.

“When do you want to move in?” Vicky asked, and I said, “I’m off duty tomorrow. How about I move straight in?” The deal was done.

I’d moved out of my marital home with very little in the way of household belongings, so next day, I bought a furniture package from a discount store, and after they delivered it, I set about turning the granny flat into a home. I’d bought a double bed, and a dresser, along with a three-seater couch that folded down to a double bed, thinking that when my two kids came over for access visits, they could sleep in the double bed, and I’d have the fold-down couch. By the time I added a coffee table, and a few other items, like a TV and cheap stereo system, I had the place pretty liveable. I was quite pleased with myself, and I spent my first night there, sleeping peacefully in my new, if slightly spartan, “bachelor pad.”

Next morning, I woke up with another day off, and seeing it was Saturday, I had a relaxing breakfast, and sat on the back step of my flat, to finish off my cup of tea.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and I sat there, taking it all in, and I heard a voice say, “You must be Sergeant Strong.”

I looked up, and there was a young, teenaged girl, standing a few feet away, looking down at me as I sat on the step. She was petite, with a curvy figure, brown eyes, and wavy, ash-blonde hair, but apart from her light hair, she had a particular resemblance to Vicky, my new landlord. She was wearing a tank top, with horizontal stripes in rainbow colours, a pair of denim shorts, and sandals. She was a pretty little thing, I had to give her that.

“And you must be Vicky’s daughter,” I said, standing up from the step and setting my cup down on an outdoor table.

“I’m Krista,” she said, offering me a handshake, just as her mother had done.

“My name’s Craig,” I said, accepting her handshake, “I moved in here yesterday.”

“Well, Mum was right,” she said, giving me a grin, “She told me you were good looking. She was right about that.”

“Does you mother know where you are?” I asked, trying to deflect her obvious attempt at flirting.

“I’m sixteen years old, Craig,” she said, meeting me head-on, “My mother doesn’t need to know where I am at all times.”

“Fair enough,” I said, with a chuckle, “You just can’t be too careful these days.”

“Your name suits you,” Krista said, “You look pretty strong. I’ll bet you look good in your uniform, too.”

I realised this was not an appropriate conversation to be having, so I said, “Krista, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got a few things to attend to. I’d better get back inside. Okay?”

“I guess I’ll be seeing you round,” Krista said, and as I returned to walk inside, she added, “I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” I went inside, but a couple of times during the day, I got a mental picture of that hot little body in those shorts and tank top. What a little heart-breaker! I thought to myself.

The back door of the granny flat was a sliding door, made of glass, and it looked out into Vicky’s back yard. The next morning was a Sunday, of course, and in the mid-morning, while I was tidying the place, I looked out the back door, to see Krista lying on a deck chair, in a black bikini. She had a big pair of sunglasses on, and although her bikini was not the briefest I’d seen, it was wrapped around a curvy sixteen-year old body, so seeing her like that made me take a long, hard look.

I went back to what I was doing, and a few minutes later, I heard a tap at the door. I looked over, and Krista was standing there outside my glass door, in that little black bikini, holding a bottle of suntan lotion in her right hand. I slid the door open, and Krista said, “Hi, Craig. Can I ask you a favour?”

I looked at the suntan lotion, and I knew what she was going to ask, so making a distinct effort not to let my eyes stray to her cleavage, I said, “What would you like me to do?”

“Can you be a gentleman, and put some suntan lotion on my back. I don’t want to risk getting sunburn,” she said, tilting her head, and smiling at me.

“Krista,” I said, “I really don’t thing that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” she said, “It’s only a little suntan lotion.”

“Why do you think?” I asked. I tried to give her the look I give suspects when I think they’re bullshitting me.

“I don’t know,” she answered right back, undeterred, “You tell me.”

“Because you’re sixteen, and I’m thirty-nine,” I said, trying to be firm, but gentle, “I don’t think I need to explain any further.”

“Sixteen, thirty-nine,” Krista repeated, “They’re just numbers.”

“They’re very important numbers, Krista,” I said, still trying to be firm, “One day, you’ll understand.”

“You’re a cop, Craig,” she persisted, “So, I couldn’t be in safer hands, could I?”

“Okay,” I said, shaking my head, then looking around, “but only in the back yard, where everyone can see us.”

“You’re no fun,” Krista replied, but she walked over to the deck chair, with her bottom wiggling impudently in that black bikini, and she lay face down, handing me the bottle. I rubbed some lotion onto her back, being as quick as I could about it, but the truth was, if I admitted it to myself, that I could have mauled that little body for hours. “That was quick,” Krista said, as I put the lid back on the lotion, and put it down beside the chair.

“In my line of work, you learn to get the job done fast,” I said, giving her a little smile, and I excused myself, and went back inside. Hours later, I could still feel that firm little body, when I thought about rubbing that lotion on her, and don’t think I didn’t replay it through my mind once or twice.

Over the next day or so, I met Vicky’s other child, a little boy called Richie. He told me he was six, and a few times later on over the following days, I saw Krista playing in the back yard with him. He looked a lot like her, and it was obvious they were close, as brother and sister, despite the age gap. Krista continued to flirt with me, but only when her mother wasn’t around, so I made a point of not being alone with her. Even so, there were times when the occasional scenario came to mind, where I was alone with her, and I did more than just put suntan lotion on her back.

Life went on, and I settled into my new life, living in Vicky’s granny flat, having my two kids over on access visits, and after a while I didn’t see much of Krista. I guessed she had found something or someone better to occupy herself, and one payday, I went to Vicky’s door to pay my rent money, and we had a little conversation on her doorstep.