The Andersons On Springfield

The Andersons were the third set of Andersons to live at 235 Springfield Street. They were exactly like the Andserons before them with strong family morals and a tendency to buy okay cars. Not great cars. Just okay cars. Mr. Anderson thought about buying something a little nicer when he got a pay raise, but didn’t. The previous Andersons always had a Honda in the driveway, nothing more, nothing less, so that’s what Mr. Anderson bought.

It was very important that they were like the Andersons before them in every way.

Mr. Anderson was a VP of sales at a local grocery chain. He was a tall, waifish man with a long, thin nose and a very thick mustache. Mrs. Anderson was round and had twice the usual amount of hair, which came in very useful on Sunday when fluffy hair was imperative amongst normal church ladies like herself. Together, they had two small children who were very normal and average with average names and average grades in a very normal  school.

They felt an average amount of affection for their children and, in return, received a normal amount of affection from them. They had everything they wanted and made sure that all of their neighbors knew that the Andersons were completely happy.

Happy people, after all, didn’t have a terrible secret that could jeopardise everything.

“Sure is a great day to be totally guilt and secret free,” Mr. Anderson said. He sipped his coffee and eyed the window. Any moment now, the Normalcy Truck would be driving by. He hoped its sensors had caught his very normal declaration of transparency.

“Here, dear,” Mrs. Anderson said, bringing over the coffee pot. Her eyes were also on the window. They could both hear the Normalcy Truck’s brakes at the beginning of their street. “Two cups of coffee a day is statistically average.”

“Right you are,” Mr. Anderson said. He was not done with his first cup. He let his wife mime pouring him a second. “Lovely.”

Their children tumbled down the stairs. They were both boys and were a normal level of rambunctious for the morning. Adam, the eldest, hid a grimace and stopped rubbing his knee as soon as he came into the kitchen. It wouldn’t do for the Truck to see him not enjoying his morning tumble down the stairs.

Tristan, the youngest, hopped up onto his chair at the table. “I’m hungry, Mom.”

“Completely expected for a boy your age,” Mrs. Anderson assured and slid several pancakes onto his plate.

All four of them turned to look expectantly at the window, posing as the Truck squeaked down the road. Mrs. Anderson was smiling. Her boys were exaggeratedly bringing food to their mouths. Mr. Anderson was still sipping his coffee when it finally rolled into view.

The Normalcy Truck looked like an ice cream truck. It was white and pastel with a big smiling man painted onto the side. Mr. Anderson remembered a time where there would be pictures of the ice cream choices on the side as well. But where they once were, there was a collage of not-normal people screaming in agony. 

“You’re so funny, Dale,” Mrs. Anderson said and threw back her head and laughed.

Mr. Anderson grinned, eyes watering as he struggled not to blink. He knew that the Normal Truck would strike whether or not he blinked, but he never did. He wanted to see it coming. “See boys? Find a woman who laughs at your--”

He stopped abruptly, heart thundering in his chest. His wife and oldest son stared at him in horror. Tristan helped himself to some syrup.

Mr. Anderson tried again, watching the Normal Truck crawl past. Maybe he’d started early. “See boys? Find a woman who--”

Still, the Truck was silent.

They had the same conversation at the same time every day. The truck came around the corner. Mrs. Anderson laughed at a joke Mr. Anderson never told. Mr. Anderson told his boys to find a woman like that, but, in the middle of his sentence, the Normal Truck blared its message.

Everything is normal. Rest assured, normalcy is present.

Today, the Normalcy Truck was silent.

Adam began to hyperventilate. “I didn’t tell anyone, I promise, I didn’t tell--”

“I know,” Mrs. Anderson said. Her breathing was slow and even. “I know you wouldn’t. Hush now. Hush.”

Tristan ate another bite of pancake. He watched Mr. Anderson with interest. “Are you going to have a heart attack, Dad?”

Mr. Anderson made himself laugh. Was the truck coming to a stop? It was definitely slowing down. “I’m in a very normal healthy state.”

“Oh,” Tristan said. He watched the Truck come to a stop. “I guess they found Dougie.”

“They couldn’t have,” Mrs. Anderson said. She struggled to keep her smile, eyes filling with tears. “I--I buried him, Dale, under concrete--”

Mr. Anderson hushed her. “It can still hear us!”

“I don’t want to die,” Adam said. He stood up and then sat back down abruptly. He was too scared to run. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I know,” Mrs. Anderson sobbed and rushed around the table to hug him to her tightly.

“It’s the whole family,” Tristan said with relish. He grinned. “A normal family wouldn’t have a kid like me so the whole rotten thing has to die.”

Mr. Anderson stared at his youngest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the door of the Normalcy Truck slide open. He said with surety, “You told them about Dougie.” He didn’t know how he knew Tristan had told on himself, but he did. “You--why?”

“I killed a whole person,” Tristan said, “and you didn’t care.”

“I cared,” Mr Anderson said. Something dark and terrible was climbing out of the Truck. “We cared.”

“Not enough,” Tristan said. “You were more upset about that stupid thing finding out. I wanted you to care. So I told someone who cared a lot.”

Adam screamed as the front door burst open. The sound of souls howling filled the room. Mr. Anderson didn’t know he knew what souls howling sounded like, but the sound was undeniable.

“Good pancakes, Mom,” Tristan said. He was the only one who didn’t wail when the eldritch abomination grabbed hold and started to drag them away.