noones business

I was working on BH&H all weekend and made some really good progress, so as promised, here is a sneak peak of Part 20!

Tortola - British Virgin Islands, 1802

 Emma pushed through the front door of a rather nondescript looking building, hearing the jangle of a little brass bell announce her arrival as she crossed the threshold onto the wide plank floor. The man behind the counter looked up and she saw his eyes narrow in appraisal as he quickly looked her up and down. She had a lace shawl draped modestly over her shoulders and carried a small parasol to shade her face from the bright Caribbean sun, as every respectable European woman did. Her face was unpainted and she wore no jewellery, no pearl earbobs or abalone bracelets like the ones sold in the markets that dotted each good-sized island where the planters’ wives and the naval officers all came to shop for exotic tropical fruits and fresh palm oil and colourful woven textiles.

And slaves.

The man was rather stout, with a round, bearded face beneath a red knit cap. Tortola had a more temperate climate than some of the other islands claimed in the names of foreign kings, Spanish, French and Dutch alike were all spoken alongside English and the patios of the native inhabitants and the Africans who worked the fields and harvested the new crops of sugarcane and plantains. He puffed out his chest under the rough woolen jacket he wore and jerked his chin, “Can I help you, Mistress?”

 Evidently he’d decided that she might have legitimate business to discuss, even though a woman without an escort was somewhat of a curiosity among the warehouses and offices that lined the dusty road rising above the harbour.

“I’m here to see the captain. I was told he conducts business from noon to six every Tuesday and might be available?”

The wiry eyebrows rose and his lips thinned as he took another glance at her attire, noting the sober cut and colour of her dress.

“A fair warning, Mistress, if you’re here in an attempt to spread the Gospel to the cap’n alongside the godless heathens who sacrifice chickens to their idols and the dockside whores who only worship coin and don’t get on their knees to pray, he’s not going to be very receptive.”

Emma hid her smile, “No, I suppose not.”

Many pious men and women had crossed the ocean, founding missions and churches with trunks full of treatises and pamphlets and hymnals, seeking to convert and baptize along the new roads being carved from virgin ground and in the towns that sprung like mushrooms around each harbour as cargo and wealth was transported from island to island. They preached in the market square to sailors and stevedores, whoever was willing to stop and listen for a moment.

 But the one she had come to see was not likely to be among even the most unorthodox of congregations.

 “Mr. Smee, show her in and tell anyone else who inquires that I am indisposed for the rest of the afternoon.”

His voice called from behind a door that was standing slightly ajar and Emma watched, amused, as the man named Smee almost jumped into the air like he’d been jabbed with a hot poker. His face flushed the same colour red as his cap and he came around the scrubbed counter, gesturing madly for her to follow. Emma smoothed out a fold in her skirt and nodded to him, entering what was clearly the inner sanctum while he held the door open and being greeted for the first time by Captain Killian Jones.

The chevalier in Paris with his fine velvet coats and polished riding boots was gone, and in his place was a figure clad in oiled leather trousers that rippled and flexed over his thighs when he stood, a scarlet waistcoat worn over a high-collared shirt that was open at the throat and revealed a dusting of dark hair on his chest and the glint of a silver necklace. But the face was the same, and the demon smiled, hooking a thumb in his belt and rocking back on his heels.

“Well,” he said, in a lazy drawl that was far removed from courtly French and felt like the whisper of silk against her skin, “It seems the tides have turned in my favour.”

to be continued….

The Room Where It Doesn’t Happen

A/N: alright guys, stuff has gone down recently. So I am swamped with school and it is crazy. I don’t even know how I managed to complete this fic and get it edited by my editors *cough* we did it in class *cough*. So anyway on top of that I have to go back and remake my tag lists and such because my flash drive decided to just give up on me. Part 3 to ‘Bolder’ will be up in the next week because it is already written and edited. However, the part 4 may be a little late but I am trying. I lost everything when I lost my flash drive. I even had copy and pasted a que in a word doc and lost it. I am so sad. Anyway I believe this ask was sent in by a anon but I have no way of knowing since it was on my FLASHDRIVE. PLEASE END ME!!! anyway I hope you love this story it was a lot of fun to write. Message me and send me some asks I love feedback

Title: The Room Where It Doesn’t Happen

Pairings: Thomas Jefferson x Alexander Hamilton

Rating: PG

Warnings: Its just funny

Word Count:1061

Editors: @hercreationgalaxy ,@emocomrade-jpeg

The room where it happens was normally fitting for the ornately decorated meeting hall. However, today it felt empty. It was full of people but not a single thought. The chairs in the room were filled with people but the people’s heads were empty. It was hot ,stuffy and everyone tried to speak to each other before finding they had little to say.

Alexander was slumped in his seat. His dark eyes fought sleep due to the fact that he had stayed up all night revising his financial plan. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead on his brow before he wiped it away. He stared at the giant desk sitting in front of the two lead tables and the rest of the chairs. He needed Washington to show up and get the show on the road. Alexander slouched further into his seat and leaned forward to rest his head on his arms. He reasoned that maybe he could just lay down and close his eyes for a small minute while he waited for their president to show up.

Meanwhile even Jefferson wasn’t his loud self. He had walked in and sat down next to Madison, engaging in a tormenting conversation for about 5 minutes before falling silent again. His normally huge hair had slightly fallen flat due to the humidity. The sweat caused the hairs at the base of his head to stick lightly to his neck causing slight discomfort. Jefferson leaned forward on his hand with a fatigued look just as a fickle, young man ran into the room with a paper in his hand.

“President Washington will be unable to attend the cabinet meeting today due to an unforeseen illness. He instructs that the cabinet try to conduct business till noon today before adjourning,” the young man said with his hands slightly shaking before running back out the door. Loud grumbling and conversations could be heard. About half the members seemed genuinely disheartened and worried while the other half appeared bored. Without Washington there was no one to moderate the debate and very little work to do in the small sweltering hole.

Jefferson himself grumbled before looking up to see Hamilton’s reaction.He expected to see a huffing Alexander throwing his hands up in disdain.However, he did not expect to see Hamilton bent over his own table and softly breathing. Upon further inspection he noticed Alexander’s eyes were closed and came to the conclusion he had fallen asleep before the man came in. Jefferson would never admit it but he did feel slight sympathy for the man. He turned back and James looked at him with raised eyebrows as Jefferson shrugged.

“You feel bad for him?” James questioned leaning closer to Jefferson and talking quietly. His voice had been strained from his coughing fits recently.

“Well, you remember you, Adams, and me. The long nights spent on documents and arguments. We barely ever got sleep during that first year of building our careers. It’s a lot of pressure. He is a strong opponent. I just hope it doesn’t become to much for him. You and me are used to it. He isn’t.” Thomas responded with worry. James stared blankly for a minute before looking over at Hamilton and back to Thomas. He smiled slightly a rested his hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

“He will be fine. He is a fighter. He won’t die or quit if it means letting you and me win.” James laughed with sympathy clouding his eyes for Alexander. Jefferson chuckled sending one more worried glance Alexander’s way before. Looking around the room of people awkwardly speaking to each other.

“Now what?” Jefferson asked slumping his head into his hand again.

Alexander came to feeling slightly stiff from being hunched over. He barely lifted his head enough to see the clock before jumping up. He couldn’t believe he slept through the entire morning. Why had no one woke him up? It was 3:05, with the sun blazing down through the window and Alexander looked around the room to find everyone gone. As he scanned the room, not quite sure what was happening, his eyes caught sight of bright magenta to his left. His brows furrowed as he scanned Jefferson’s slumped form. His head rested on his hand. His breathing was even and eyes closed as Hamilton walked closer. Alexander rolled his eyes looming over the sleeping Jefferson before shoving at his shoulder to wake him up.

Jefferson stirred at began sitting up. His eyes were half lidded and bleary at he slowly brought his eyes to look at Hamilton. Alexanders face flushed. Jefferson looked kind of good like that. Even Alex could admit that Thomas was kind of attractive, not that he would ever let the arrogant asshole know.

“What’s going on? Where is everyone? Where is Washington?” Alexander began.  Jefferson was still bleary with sleep and he could feel a headache coming on. He waved his hands in front of him effectively making Hamilton stop asking questions.

“Washington was out sick today and said everyone could go home at noon. I guess I just fell asleep like you.” Thomas finally responded. He got a good look at Alexander and fought a smile. Half of Alexander’s hair was flattened to the side of his face from falling asleep at the table and his eyes were still red.

“Oh well um, do we just leave, then?” Hamilton asked shuffling his feet. Jefferson took a minute to look around the room and glance at the clock. Thomas realized what was going on and stood up stretching his arms over his head.

“Yes, I suppose,” He replied. Looking down at Hamilton to find his eyes already all over him. Thomas raised his eyebrows. “What are you looking at?” Hamilton shook his head before looking at the floor.

“I was just reminded of your ridiculous height ,” Alexander responded before mumbling asshole under his breath. He  shuffled over to his table to pack up his briefcase. Thomas leaned down and picked up his bag off the floor hastily while trying to ignore Hamilton’s interesting behavior.

“Uh bye Thomas,” Alexander practically shouted and Thomas looked up just in time to see the back of Alexander running out of the room. Thomas stood there a minute before smiling.

Alexander, the new money wanna be- had just called him Thomas.

anonymous asked:

The comments in screenshots are just disgusting. Certain commenters suggest MacKenzie is a 'serial cheater' & I've seen that before on Tumblr & IG. It drives me crazy. No "fan" knows what went on in her marriage or other relationships. No "fan" knows if the breakups were bitter, amicable, inevitable, 'married too young', 'rebound', little in common or different politics, on set romance, or the ex-husband/BF dumped/cheated on Mac or wanted/didn't want kids! NOONE knows & its NOONE's BUSINESS!!!

I’m with ya anon. For that matter no fan knows Sam and Cait either. We are only surmising from snippets gathered from their press, their appearance, and the few photos that crop up from them in their real lives.

Sam has defended Mackenzie Mauzy from the BS as has her sister and her friends. If nothing else she appears to have earned loyalty from them. The rest is probably contrived rumor, or words after an unhappy break-up. They could be living a romance out of a romance novel. Or they could be personally into god knows what in their relationships. We Don’t - Really - Know - Anything about what makes them tick or how they are with each other or anyone of their friends.

Who are any of us to judge based on such a small library of knowledge?????

sterek au: fireman!derek and waiter!stiles

happy birthday to my dear friend, attoliancrown. just some fluff to make you smile on your birthday! <3 love you!!!


Stiles watches the diner boredly from behind the counter while Lydia reties her apron for the four hundredth time in an attempt to achieve the perfect bow and Allison refills sugar containers. He’s waiting for table 12’s order from Scott and Isaac, and from their laughs floating in from the kitchen, that’s not going to happen soon.

His eyes cut over to the door when the bell jingles, and two ridiculously attractive men walk in. “Mine!” Stiles nearly yells, rushing around the counter before Lydia even has time to look up from her crooked bow.

“Hey, no fair! It’s my turn!” she hisses, and Stiles feels no remorse at all when he stops in front of the table, out of breath and red-faced. The two guys look up at him, and even with the one look of confused amusement and the other of pure disdain, it is so worth it. God, Grumpy Beard is the hottest thing to ever enter this diner. Or maybe enter planet Earth. And, oh god, he’s wearing a fitted black button up uniform shirt like his companion. A fireman. Stiles tries not to pop a boner right there.

“Hey, welcome to Wolf Road Diner. I’m Stiles, I’ll be taking care of all of your needs, well, food wise, I mean, um…would you like anything to drink?” Stiles flicks his pen nervously against his pad, his face burning with embarrassment. Grumpy Beard’s friend, who is only slightly less attractive, gives him a creepy closed-lipped smile. Grumpy Beard looks like he wants to murder Stiles in his sleep.

“Two waters, and two burger plates,” he says, and wow, that voice is not what Stiles expected. It’s almost…soft. As Stiles nods and takes the scribbled order to the window, he briefly imagines what it’d sound like in his ear, with the fireman’s long hot

“You ass!” Lydia slaps his arm, hard. “That was my table, and you know it!”

“Lydia, I…I had to. Did you see the dark-haired one? He’s like every wet dream I’ve ever had come to life. After this, I’ll have spank bank material for at least two months.”

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Ew, Stiles, really? You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I talk to you.”

“You love me, shut up.”

Stiles manages to not embarrass himself in front of Grumpy Beard and Hot Friend, and he learns that Vernon Milton Boyd IV is the friend, and Grumpy Beard is a caveman who is afraid of debit cards. But he leaves Stiles a four dollar tip on an eight dollar meal, so Grumpy can stay in the stone age for all Stiles cares. Plus, stone age means no shirt, score.


Keep reading

The soft-hearted Bad Boy (G-Dragon) {Part 2}

Genre: AU, Smut fluff
Warnings: Cheesiness, strong language and full on smut
Word count: 5300+
Pairing: Jiyong (G-Dragon from BigBang) and the reader
Side Note/Credits: Okay, some credits go to my great friend from school, who is an amazing (smut) writer and she was as amazing to help me out with the smut a bit (giving me tips to improve it and proofreading it). You can find her  Tumblr account here (x) and her here (x)… Other than that, prepare for 3000 words of fluff to start this whole fic, as I am just a sucker for fluff and all of you know it. This was not only requested twice, but there were over 85 notes on the first part wich is totally crazy! It has just been up for a few weeks and I want to thank all of you for loving it so much! It really means a lot to me. I hope that all of you enjoy this part too ^.^

Keep reading


Off The Record, by pianolouis

Louis is an out of control teen heartthrob, Harry is hired to get him back on track and they both hate each other while they secretly don’t.

harry/Louis | AU | 11 chapters (completed) , 90k

““Louis,” Harry says trying to get his attention as he curses the computer driver he’s racing. “I need to get you to the studio, you’re late, man.”

“I quite liked the last one,” Louis says thirty seconds later.

“The last what?” Harry inquires as he steps into the room more and walks to where Louis will be able to see him.

“My last babysitter,” he scoffs.

“I’m not here to babysit you, just helping you out.”

“Ah,” Louis hums turning to look at Harry for the first time. His hair is swept across his face and a little poofy, leading Harry to believe he recently got out of the shower. He was wearing baggy, light blue sweatpants with an over-sized white tank that were probably his pajamas even though it was almost noon. “I know your business cards are probably fancy and give you a nice title, but let’s be real, you’re a glorified babysitter. And I don’t think I need any help, but thanks.” He turns back to his game with a clenched jaw.

“Not to be blunt, but two days ago you peed in a mop bucket for Christ’s sake and then when you realized you were being filmed, you peed on the pap.” Harry says sternly. He was not about to take shit from this kid.”

Read on AO3

Christmas with Got7


  • LOTS of hugging 
  • and being extra close
  • like if your not in his arms he WILL get you back in his arms in a matter of seconds js
  • most likely you’ll be the first one awake though
  • so you gotta drag mark-ee-poo outta bed by his arms
  • he would be such a blushing disaster when he opens his gift from you
  • whatever it was you got him, he would love it with all his heart
  • and when you open his gift to you he would just sit back in awe
  • its a danG PROMISE RING
  • and he sees tears of joy welling up in the corner of your eyes
  • and then you two share a million kisses and shy ‘i love you’s’


  • Neither of you actually want to get up
  • but for the sake of the holidays you roll out of bed and into the living room
  • he settles on the couch only to doze off again
  • meanwhile your in the kitchen slaving over the coffee pot
  • you come back to see a peaceful jb slumped up against the couch
  • and your like ‘aaaawee’
  • and then you hit him.
  • now that he’s fully awake, he hands you your gift and its rather thin
  • OH
  • TWO PLANE TICKETS TO (fave destination)?
  • he knows you always talk about going here so he decided to take you on a well deserved vacation.
  • your v welcome.


  • Hes up an hour before you just watch your reaction when you wake up to find him wrapped in christmas lights
  • incase you cant tell
  • he’s christmas af
  • he legit picks you and carries you to the living room
  • and theres a crap load of gifts
  • ‘i thought agreed to buy one thing for each other jr.’
  • ‘BABE. just let me spoil this one day of the year’
  • ‘you spoil me all the days of the year’
  • it’s true though. he spoils you to the max
  • when you open his gift he has the camera 2 inches away from your face
  • he wants to catch every moment
  • basically the best christmas ever cause its freaking jr your spending it with


  • Hes gonna be all up on you as soon you open your eyes
  • and hes gonna make you cinnamon rolls for breakfast
  • then rush you to the living to open the one million presents he bought you even though you told him not to
  • all the gifts are mostly matching outfits and shoes for two
  • but wait
  • theres one more box under the tree
  • and its moving
  • ‘jackson what is inside that box’
  • he goes and opens it to reveal a puppy
  • ‘meet wang puppy the second’
  • so you mentally slap yourself
  • but then you remember that this is why you love this man child
  • and then you give the puppy so much love
  • jackson calls it your child


  • oh my goodness with little ray of sunshine will be soo so cute
  • okay first he’d be the first one awake and he would just lay there and admire your pretty sleeping face until you wake up
  • and when you do wake up he would pepper your face with tiny kisses
  • then you two would go drink some sort of expensive coffee he makes for you
  • when its time for gifts,he hands you this pretty velvet box
  • and inside there’s a necklace with his name engraved in it
  • you cant help but tear up so he pulls you into a hug
  • and you spend the rest of the day watching cheesy christmas movies
  • then later the boys come over for christmas dinner
  • and finally, everyone passes out in your apartment


  • will most definitely jump on you screaming ‘ITS CHRISTMAS ITS CHRISTMAS’
  • and he would legit turn into a child again
  • he’s gonna check if santa ate all the cookies
  • and tear open every present like its his last
  • for christmas he buys you a beanie with his name on it
  • and he has one with your name on it
  • you two wear them around the whole entire day
  • and then he whips out the cookies
  • so then you two spend the day stuffing your faces with cookies and giggling and cuddling like two innocent children.


  • this tall baby will make you two wear matching santa pjs cause why not
  • and you wont get up till like noon cause your too busy cuddling and laughing together
  • and once you do get up, theres a huge stuffed bear way bigger than yuggie next to the tree
  • he says its a replica of him for you to hold when hes gone
  • ya know, cause you call him your teddy bear
  • then he gives you a second gift if ya know what i mean
  • jk you two are still smoll children
  • you two would get super bundled up and go play in the snow
  • and he shove 30+ snowballs down your back
  • then he would bring you inside and make you hot choca while listening to christmas music(:

Hey guys, this is a day late but here yiu go.! And merry christmasss c: I LOVE YOU ALL.

-Admin Jagi

Mr. Teeth

People sometimes ask me what my first memory is. Invariably I lie, because I’m prone to avoid the explanation that comes with the truth. Maybe, from now on, if someone casually asks me “What is your first memory?” I will reach into my bag where there will be copies of this story and I will just hand one over. As they read it, their face will morph from confusion, into the furrowed brow of concern, and finally into the drop-jawed bewilderment that accompanies real fear.

In passing, I tell people that my first memory was of me standing on a stool in front of my kitchen window. It was just after dusk in winter and from where I stood, I could make out the black limbs of the skeletal beech tree that loomed from across the driveway. While that is indeed a real memory, it’s not the first one. If you want to hear about that, here it is:

There was an unfortunate series of incidences that happened in the town where I grew up during the summer of 1989. By incidences, I mean murders. I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill bar brawl gone too far or an act of passionate revenge. No. The events that happened in Middleton were far more grotesque…. even more so because the victims were children.

I don’t remember the heatwave that had swept Middleton that summer, the pink droplets of melted ice cream on the simmering pavement, or old men reclined in overstuffed chairs in shady living rooms. These precious details were told to me through family members and friends of my parents. They all, to this day say that it was the hottest summer they have ever lived through.

To make the weather even more unbearable, there were weekly brownouts that year due to some oversights at the electric plant in Salem. As a result, homes and businesses would go for hours at a time without air conditioning. Popsicles were promptly sold out in every business after noon; magazines and newspapers weren’t read that summer; they were bought to be used as makeshift fans. It seemed that the only place where air-conditioning still remained during these outages was the car.

I’ve been told by relatives that it was not uncommon during that summer to find neighbors lounging back in their parked cars with the windows up, drinking a beer and listening to the radio. At times it was the only escape from the unbearable humidity and heat.

That’s why, when mothers would go shopping, it became impossible to pull their children from their cars. After all, the kids knew that the inside of whatever clothing or grocery store their mother had taken them to was probably as hot if not hotter than the parking lot. The coolest and best place to be was in the car, with the windows rolled up and that gentle whispering wind seeping through the vents.

With this setting in mind you can understand how “Mr. Teeth,” as he was later called by newspapers, had his pick of the litter, so to speak. He knew that in any given lot outside of a busy grocery or department store, there would be at least two or three cars where the children had been left inside.

One such car was parked outside of the Market Basket on the afternoon of June 3rd. Within sat Jeremy Hagger, a freckled eight year old with a pension for action figures. When Jeremy’s mother returned from her quick dash for butter, she found the back right door of the vehicle ajar, a Darth Vader doll left abandoned on the back seat.

News of the disappearance radiated through the town over the following week up until the day when a jogger noticed a small black Reebok laying in the grass on the edge of the reservoir. Not long afterward, Jeremy’s body was pulled from the brown water and sent to the morgue. It was there that doctors noted what appeared to be bite marks on the boy’s arms and neck.

Victim number two was Amanda DeMiller, a girl of seven who had fallen asleep on her way home from shopping with her mother on July 18th. As was common in those days, a parent might leave their sleeping child in the car once at home. Britta DeMiller, Amanda’s mother, later told police that with the house being as hot as it was, she had thought that Amanda would sleep better in the car with the sliding side door left open.
At some point Mrs. DeMiller looked out the window to see that Amanda was no longer in her seat. The family lived on a fairly wooded road leading into the forests of Middleton. Neighbors were widely separated from one another. Mr. and Mrs. DeMiller spent all of that night scouring the narrow back roads, knocking on the doors of the occasional houses.
After only a three day search, a local boy found Amanda’s body slumped in the corner of his tree house. Her throat was purple from strangulation and covered with bite marks. Her shoes were on the wrong feet. Anyway, that’s how the story goes.

That brings us to my first memory. My parents have since placed the date of this memory to around the third or fourth week of August. It had been about a month since Amanda DeMiller’s murder but no one had been apprehended. People in town were still on edge.

It was at that time, one afternoon when I sat in the front seat of my Mom’s rusty Toyota parked in the giant lot of Henry’s grocery store. I remember that there was a car parked on either side of my mother’s and in front of the Toyota was one of those corrals for shopping carts.
There was music playing quietly on the radio, Madonna maybe, and my hands were sticky from eating candy.

You may wonder how, with all of the horrors that had plagued Middleton that summer, my mother could have left me alone in the car. The fact is, she hadn’t. My older brother, Stephen (age 12 at the time) had been designated as my temporary guardian while she made an emergency stop for flour. It was this “temporary guardian” who decided that this was the perfect opportunity to run to the bookstore nearby to buy a deck of collectible cards. Before he dashed out of the backseat, I remember him saying something like “Don’t go anywhere!”

So there I sat, waiting for one or both of my family members to return. It was then that I saw him and it’s this part which is clear even to this day.
The halogen lamps had just come on all across the lot; they cast that greenish glow from just being turned on. The sky beyond the pines that bordered the market was streaked with pink and purple. It must have been around seven thirty. I remember first seeing him, standing there some 30 feet from the front of our car. Almost instantly, the music from the radio faded from my ears along with the sharp rattle of carriage wheels on the old pavement.

Transfixed, silent, I stared out the windshield at this lanky gaunt figure framed by pink and purple sky. Through a curtain of greasy black hair falling across his brow, I discerned a single eye; it seemed to sort of take on the green glow of those halogen lights. He tilted his head back a bit and the hint of a smile danced across his thin lips.

He must have stood and stared through the windshield at me, transfixed and spellbound as I was, for one whole minute. He then started a slow walk over to my side of the car, never taking his eye from mine. Once he was outside my door, he looked down his long beak-like nose at me.

Then looking around, he began to wiggle the handle.

“Open up,” he said, looking down at me again.

I just stared at him without saying anything.

Again, “Open up.”

His long skeletal fingers left the door handle and started to dance across my window tapping here and there.

He crouched down so that he was at my level and started a sort of puppet show with his hands. His dirty fingers dashed across the glass like great pale spiders in a deadly battle. He looked at them and laughed making hissing and growling sounds.

As he made these sounds, his mouth opened up into a full grin and I had a look inside, at rows of long yellow teeth. They are, to this day, the longest and largest teeth I’ve ever seen. There were gaps between them and they reminded me vaguely of dirty piano keys. He seemed to be completely immersed in his spider battle, giggling and clawing at each of his hands.

At one point, he noticed that my window was open just a crack at the top, he looked at me grinning with those mighty teeth and crawled one of his hand spiders up to the space. I was openly sobbing at this point. He managed to squeeze the tips of four fingers through the opening. I caught a greasy whiff of unwashed clothes mingled with the sweet scent of blood.

“Come on! Open up,” he said, in a winy, pleading voice. “Open up.” He said this same sentence in a dozen different voices, from a girly voice to a thick lumberjack one.

By sheer luck, the woman who was parked on the passenger side of our car, returned with all four of her noisy kids in tow. Upon seeing her, the man scurried off in a ducked walk towards the cart corral where he smoothly stood up straight and walked off into the parking lot…but not before looking over his shoulder, gnashing those massive teeth, and catching me with one final blood-chilling stare.

The memory ends there. It was later explained to me that my brother had returned to the car to find me crying hysterically. No matter what he said to calm me through the glass, apparently, I wouldn’t unlock the doors.

My mother returned soon after. She said that all I could manage to say through thick sobs was, “There was a man.” I just kept repeating it for hours after that. “There was a man.”

Like the insufferable heat, so too did the Middleton murders come to an end with the changing of the seasons.

Just two weeks after my parking lot encounter, the child killer (who was later identified as Raymond Sandler, age 29) was caught after taking a young girl from a birthday party at a roller rink in Beverly. A worker on his coffee break at the adjacent gas station saw a thin man lead the girl out the back door of the rink and attempt to force her into a red car. The worker called the cops and the car was pulled over on Route 128 just outside of Gloucester.

While I don’t remember it, I first made the connection between the man in the parking lot and “Mr. Teeth” by seeing my father’s newspaper on the coffee table the day after Sandler’s capture. There, in a large blown-up black and white, was the same ghastly face I’d seen just inches from mine with only a layer of glass separating us. Apparently, I didn’t make it to school the day I saw that newspaper on account of I couldn’t stop screaming.

Knowing that I had almost been a victim myself, my family and people around Middleton weren’t willing to tell me anything about the killer once I grew curious, years later. I suppose they didn’t want to freak me out more than I already was.

So, in high school, I did some of my own research. I learned that the Boston Globe had first coined the nickname “Mr. Teeth” both on account of Sandler’s unusually large incisors and his habit of biting the skin of his victims. His means of killing was almost exclusively strangulation. Due to his being diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, Sandler was often delusional. As a result, his story regularly changed. However, after being asked several times, the number of murders he confessed to, while varying, never went above 10.

It was also noted in research on Sandler that he only hunted in the summertime. Some speculated that this was because of the easy access to children who had been left in cool cars while their parents went in to shop. Others suggested that the hot weather triggered something inside of Sandler, something that lay dormant during the fall and winter, then awoke once the temperature hit 80.

Who can say?

They years have softened that first memory a bit. I’m almost forty now and, while that hideous grin isn’t quite as distinct as it used to be, I still see it sometimes when I wake up at night, usually in the warmer months.
Someday, one of my two girls (who know nothing of the summer of ’89) may ask when they’re older, “Hey, Dad? What’s your first memory?”

Maybe I’ll tell them about the time I was on the stool in my kitchen looking out at the old beech tree. Or maybe I’ll just say, “Teeth. I remember teeth.”