Thieves
This short horror tale appeared in issue number three of Desert Sun. Story copyright 1987, William D.
Cissna.


The big old house had sat, empty, for five days. They knew. They had watched, carefully, subtly,
attentively. It had languished on their list for months, a seemingly low-priority potential, as the elderly
residents never left the premises. Other jobs came and went. But, despite the relatively un-promising
exterior of the house, one of them continued to keep an eye on it.
They had never particularly limited their choices of clients. Poor, rich, upscale middle class. Single,
married, living in sin, widowed. Uptown, downtown, well out in the country. It truly did not matter to
them. They would steal from anyone at all.
They struck without bias at any site deemed likely, after proper study, to offer minimum complications
and some positive return, however small. What they considered a healthy amorality -- their ability to
ignore their victims' varying capacities to cope with major loss -- provided another benefit. Despite a
singular concentration on jewelry and other small, easily transportable items of value, the continual
change of targets kept the trail cold. The law never got close.
They began to concentrate on the old house when a periodic check discovered the old couple in the act of
loading an aged station wagon with suitcases. Leroy usually made the rounds, since he was the plainest
and least likely to stand out. Usually he'd take one of their cars, but every so often he'd steal one and
ditch it when he was finished, no damage, no fingerprints, no clues. And every so often, Bobby or Tyler
would do the checking, just to break the pattern.
Leroy had found the old house in the first place, set back down a country lane but not far from a busy
town where, if necessary, they could lose themselves. One day, as Leroy watched, the owners packed the
wagon full and left.
"Packed enough to be gone for some time," Leroy had reported.
"We'll wait," said Tyler.
Five days later, the three of them sat together in the brown Buick, a mid-size model no different than
thousands of others around the country. Tyler wanted it that way.
"Still no sign of them," Bobby opined.
"So what do you think?" Leroy asked.
"Something I don't like about that house," Tyler grumbled.
"You never did like old houses, Tyler."
"Yeah, I know. But it don't matter. Looks like a taker to me."
"Tonight?"
"Best time, night time.  As always." Tyler grabbed the steering wheel and reached for the key. They
knew he'd made up his mind, spooky old house be damned. "Bobby's at nine." The car glided off down
the lane before turning back toward the interstate. No spinning wheels, no gravel tossed. Never draw
unnecessary attention.
Dark had dropped over the countryside when Tyler drove the Chevy he'd boosted over in Tuckersville up
to Bobby's shack. Leroy was waiting while Bobby flicked off the lights and locked up. They all lived
alone, in places that looked like the pits outside. Inside, though, they could easily be mistaken for rich
folks. There was much to be said for a life of crime.
They pulled the Chevy up the drive of the old house, right up to the garage, just as if they belonged
there. No cars, no lights. Looking good.
Tyler sent Bobby to the front porch as lookout. Leroy and he jimmied the kitchen door in the back,
stepped in and left the door wide open, in case a quick exit was needed.
It took a few quick swipes with the flashlight for the confusion to set in. Beyond the walls and curtains,
the kitchen was entirely bare. No cabinets, no appliances, no furniture.
"What the hell?" Tyler mumbled. He moved through an open door into the next room. It might have
been a dining room once, but except for a few dustballs and a chandelier overhead, it also was empty.
"I don't like this, Tyler," Leroy offered.
"Shut up," Tyler growled.
He turned left through an arch and into a larger room with windows on the front of the house. "Musta
been the living room," he told Leroy. Then his flashlight beam caught the black wooden box in the
middle of the bare wooden floor. "Well, it ain't entirely empty, then," he said, stepping toward the box.
"Don't open that, Tyler," Leroy breathed.
"Why not?" Tyler asked. "You scared or something?"
"Don't like this place," Leroy said, abashed.
Tyler felt around the box, found metal latches, released them and opened the box's lid. Shining the
flashlight inside, he saw rows of screw-top plastic bottles, seated in black foam with cut-outs for each
size of bottle.
"What is that, Tyler? Drugs?"
"Don't know." Gingerly, he reached out and picked up a single bottle. Inside, something moved. He
nearly dropped the bottle, but steadied, then held it up to his light.
He wasn't sure if what he was seeing could be believed. The creature inside the bottle wasn't much
bigger than one of those prescription pills, but it looked exactly like a rabbit. A miniature rabbit. What
the hell? He took out another. An itty-bitty duck. Strangest damn thing. But maybe something very
special.
"We're glad you found that," said a voice from behind them, "but please do be careful, won't you?"
Tyler and Leroy whirled, Leroy flashing his light in the face of the old man as Tyler reached for his gun.
"How did you get in here?" Tyler demanded harshly.
"We walked in the back door. It was open," said the old woman, now alongside the old man in the
archway.
"But Bobby ... he should have heard your car."
"We don't need the car anymore."
"Well, heck, there's nothing in this house except this box, anyway."
"Yes, we know. That's what we came back for."
"Well, I just might want to keep it for myself," said Tyler. "And I don't want to shoot you, so maybe
you'd just better go back where you came from."
The old man stepped forward. "We intend to, young man. But you won't shoot us. And we must take that
box with us."
Leroy backed up a step. "Let's go, Tyler. We don't need this thing."
"No old fart tells me what to do," Tyler replied. He raised his gun and pointed it at the old man. "Shoo.  
Now!"
He hadn't seen the old woman raise her arm and point a spindly finger in his direction, but he could
understand the pain that pulsed up his own arm and rapidly moved throughout his entire body. The gun
dropped to the floor with a loud clunk, but it took him a moment to realize that it was simply because his
fingers were much too small to hold it any longer.
Leroy screamed for a second before the old man pointed at him. And the flashlight hit the floor.
The hands that selected an empty bottle from the box, picked up the struggling figures between two
fingers, inserted them carefully, capped the bottle and closed it inside the case, had already become a
little gummy. He spoke quickly to the woman in English before his face melted, too. "I'll get the sample
kit, dear. Would you check in on the other human, out on the porch, before the transgalactic transport
arrives? I think this visit is over."
Her face had started to meld back into a jelly-like mass. Like normal. "Let's switch over to telepathy,
sweetheart. We're out of practice anyway, and we'll need it when we get home," she said through lips
now more like hairy worms than anything.
It was that face that looked out the front door at Bobby. In his mind, it seemed, a voice said, "We're
leaving now."
***
They found Bobby three days later, gibbering in the shade of the Chevy someone had stolen up in
Tuckersville. If it hadn't been for the periodic stop by the town patrol car, he'd have been there for a long
time. Everyone in town knew the old Smith place was deserted.
***
Horror shorts -
by Bill Cissna
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