By Brian McAleer

It was Harold’s first time buying groceries. His wife always handled it, and the sharp looks from the women around him let him know he didn’t belong. They locked eyes with his, exchanging smiles that were both curious and awkward.

He wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible, aiming to shop just once a week. He had planned carefully — seven meals for seven nights. Harold knew how to operate the microwave, so he headed for the freezer section. The selection stretched endlessly down the aisle.

For tonight, turkey with cornbread stuffing, gravy, peas and sweet potatoes. Salisbury steak with mash and mixed vegetables for tomorrow. Fried chicken with mashed potatoes and peas for Tuesday. For Wednesday, meatloaf with brown gravy, mashed potatoes and green beans. Ham with pineapple slices, sweet potatoes and peas for Thursday. Beef pot roast with gravy, carrots and mashed potatoes for Friday, and finally Saturday night’s meal; fish sticks with macaroni and cheese and spinach. A good variety, he thought. Placing them neatly in the trolley to maintain their coldness, he continued to the next aisle.

The hardware section provided some relief from the judging eyes. Harold gathered duct tape, rope, air freshener, black rubbish bags, an extra mop, and bleach. All of these were already at home, but there weren’t enough.

Standing in line at the register, he heard a familiar voice.

“I thought that was you! How are the children?”

His next-door neighbour, a middle-aged woman whose children often played with his, smiled warmly.

“Fine. Playing together nicely for a change,” Harold said with a smirk.

She laughed. “And your wife? I’d expect to see her here on a Sunday afternoon. Is she unwell?”

“Ah… yes.” His face grew tight with concern. “Down with a cold. In bed. Could be there for a while.”

“I’ll send my well wishes. Just a small shop today? Are you sure you have enough for the family? I could bring over some casserole tonight. I’ll have plenty left over.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Come by about six.” He tipped his hat as he paid and left.

At home, he carefully stored the meals in the freezer. He had no intention of returning to that grocery store soon, risking another run-in with nosy housewives. Once the groceries were put away, he checked on his wife. Still in bed, lying still, not a sound. Just as he’d left her.

Harold’s daughter sat in the backyard cubby house, hosting a tea party with her dolls. Always able to amuse herself, he noted. Down in the den, his son slumped in the large armchair, watching a western film, cowboy hat on, cap gun in hand. The boy never liked interruptions during TV time, so his father said nothing.

He prepared his first meal of the week. As it thawed in the microwave, he set the table. Tonight was special — the first of many nights where he would make dinner. He placed the good plates before each of the four chairs and lit the candle at the centre. Then, one by one, he retrieved his wife, son, and daughter, seating them at the table.

Timing was everything.

As his meal cooled, he sifted through the rest of his purchases. Black rubbish bags over the windows, duct tape sealing them in place. Every door locked. Upstairs curtains drawn. The expected stench had finally crept through the house. He emptied the entire can of air freshener.

Harold returned to the table and sliced into his roast beef, savouring the first bite. It melted in his mouth, somehow tasting better knowing he had prepared it himself. His wife’s cooking had never left much of an impression. His family stared at him, unblinking.

“Wait your turn,” he muttered.

The doorbell rang.

Alarmed but calm, he answered. His neighbour stood there, smiling warmly, holding a white tray.

“Your casserole, as promised.” She stepped inside without waiting.

She cast a glance at his family, sitting quietly, and walked to the kitchen as if she belonged there. The house was dark. She hesitated. “I’ll just say a quick hello to everyone and be on my way.”

Harold closed the door and locked it.

She turned the corner into the dining room and froze.

His family sat in their usual seats. His wife’s face was partially missing. His son had a gaping hole in his forehead. His daughter’s head leaned unnaturally to the left, her neck mottled with deep black and purple bruises.

The woman screamed. She turned toward the door, but he was already there, emerging from the shadows, hands behind his back.

“Don’t you know it’s polite to wait for an invitation?”

Harold raised the rifle.

She had just enough time to glance at the table once more and realise she would be joining them.

The shot rang out at 6:04 p.m., as later noted in the police report from across the street.

About the Author