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It was late, well past quitting time, but I was behind finishing this job. New construction always had its challenges, but this project had been a bitch from the start. Material delays, permitting hassles, a week of torrential rains, not to mention the asshole who hired me. I stood on a ladder attaching the light to the front porch, then I was going home.

“Ya gonna be done anytime soon?”

Speaking of . . . My brother-in-law, Dale McQueen. He stood on the gravel driveway, sucking on a beer can. From the looks of him, it wasn’t his first of the night.

I wiped my hands on a towel. “How’d you get here, Dale?” The homesite was a quarter mile off the main road. He looked to be in no condition to walk, much less drive out here. Plus, I hadn’t heard his truck. You couldn’t miss it. Muffler fell off three months ago.

“What’s it to you? I’m not paying you overtime.” Dale drained the can, crushed it in his fist and chucked it at the base of my ladder.

“I don’t expect you to.” I stepped off the ladder, checking my tool belt for my hammer. Dale had been in more than his share of trouble with the law around here, ever since he set the gym on fire in high school. “I should be finished in a week, ten days tops.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Kyle, you’ve said that for a month now.” Dale spit on the sidewalk. “Same fucking loser you’ve always been.”

I watched him teetering on his feet as sweat soaked through his filthy T-shirt. Why had my sister gotten mixed up with this guy?

“Look, Dale, the house is almost finished. Go home and sleep this one off, okay?” This wasn’t the first time he had come by here drunk trying to start something.

Dale shoved me with both hands. “You gonna make me?” He shoved me again, slamming me against the front of the house.

I blew out my breath, staring into his face inches from mine. He reeked of cheap beer and anger, no, rage. Calling the cops wasn’t an option since his uncle was the sheriff and had turned his back on all the complaints against Dale over the years. Plus, the nearest neighbor was half a mile away. Keep your wits, Kyle.

“You scared of me?” Dale laughed, a primal sound more like a wild animal than a human. “Just like your sister. Same about to piss your pants look in your eyes as hers. She wanted this fucking house. Wanted you to build it.”

His bloodshot eyes fluttered under the weight of a twelve pack. He stabbed me in the chest with his forefinger. “I want my fucking house now.”

I pushed him back. “Alright. You want the house? Let’s go inside.” I held the door open and motioned him inside.

“About fucking time.” Dale staggered through the door into the living room. I checked my tool belt again before following him into the kitchen.

He sneered as he looked around. “Yeah, your bitch sister can cook my meals in here. Where’s the bedroom? I got plans for her in there, too.”

At that moment I knew what I had to do. “Bedroom’s upstairs, like you wanted it. Go up, first door on the right.”

I watched him grip onto the rail and stumbled up the stairs. When he reached the top, I ran back to the kitchen and turned on all the burners in the gas stove. My acetylene torch sat on the front porch. I lit it and tossed it inside.

“This is for you, Jenna.” I locked the door and I sprinted to my truck, kicking up gravel as I peeled out.

I passed Dale’s truck halfway down the driveway, the front end wrapped around a tree. I took one last glance in the rear view mirror, watching as flames filled the first floor of the house. The explosion rocked the night air. Debris rained down in a storm of fire and fury; freeing the ghosts of a new home.

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Award winning author*, Tammy Blakley, lives in the Pacific Northwest where she spends her days writing mysteries or staring out the window. She completed her first manuscript with no formal training and a total lack of adult supervision. She enjoys the support of her amazing husband who, so far, hasn’t recommended medication. She is a co-founder of Bunker Squirrel Magazine. She has previously published stories in Punk Noir Magazine and is a member of The Motley Writers Guild. Find her on Twitter @tammy_blakley and Bluesky @tammywritesbooks.bsky.social

* She won Most Improved Bowler on her office bowling team and in 6th grade she won the 4-H Biscuit Baking Competition and a 5 pound bag of flour. She still has the bowling patch but unfortunately the flour was lost in the Great Weevil Invasion of ‘74.