Reptile by Chris Maiorana

Reptile by Chris Maiorana

Shunned, the house at the end of the street had few visitors. No one passed by without a deep sense of dread.

It was a one-story, postwar style house under swaying palms in a suburb of Miami—much the worse for wear from lack of maintenance and the constant beating down of the South Florida sun. Yet the pastel pulse of better days still beat beneath the decay and overgrowth. So it was no wonder the place sold so quickly—and expensively—at auction despite the sickly appearance.

On that particular day, you might have figured the owner of the BMW idling out front for the new owner. But you’d be wrong. Dillon had visited the home many years ago, but under murderous, rather than residential, circumstances.

As he stepped out of the luxury vehicle, he was instantly overcome by memories that filled him with a bubbling glee. Memories of the girl were especially welcomed. Keira was sixteen years old—and no more.

Now, finally, Dillon was returning to the scene of the crime to attend to some unfinished business.

That business involved the girl’s bedroom and an iPod.

She used to sneak him in through her window at night, and he would sneak out the same way. Their liaisons were secret, due to Dillon’s age—ten years her senior.

It was on that iPod that Dillon and Keira shared treasured playlists. It was the one trace of his seduction he left behind, the only item that could identify him. Devices had serial numbers.

How it was missed in the initial investigation he had not a clue. Now that the house was finally sold, and teams of cleaners were going to sift through the layers of detritus, it was a risk with which Dillon could not sit comfortably.

Dillon and Keira had shared love, or at least infatuation. But soon, Keira heard wiser voices. She started listening to others who knew better, and she decided to put an end to it all.

Dillon pleaded for one final tryst by which to remember her, and she assented; and when it was over, he strangled her with the bedsheets.

He took a sardonic pleasure in knowing that Keira would not live on without him, but also that other lives were ruined in his wake.

Keira’s parents soon separated. The nattering mother shacked up in a townhouse on the golf course with some rich widower, but she was always miserable. The father stayed on, and became a reclusive pack rat who never remarried. He soon filled the house with used newspapers and bric-a-brac and let it all go to Hell.

The back of the house was even worse than the front.

The overgrowth of shrubs and trees tore through the screened-in patio. Hurricane damage likewise went without repair. Rodents and reptiles scurried past from all sides. Florida was always teeming with animal life, but this was an almost-jungle.

The brackish pool water was opaque with grime and filth and leaves, covered over with a cruddy plastic covering.

From all sides, Dillon was assaulted by the decay of age and neglect. It was more than structural damage, but the physical manifestation of soul death. Loss of hope. The trampling of dreams. Innocence crushed.

As he stepped through the screen and onto the patio, Dillon had a discomforting thought. What if he wasn’t alone? He didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in any of the occult mumbo jumbo Keira would chat him up about. He thought it was cute at the time.

He had read in the local news that the old man, Keira’s father, had died of heart failure in an area hospital, and the property had sold. Also, it would be a couple of weeks at least before the new residents visited, to say nothing of the probable year or more of renovations.

So it was clear. Dillon would not be disturbed.

His assurance was soon challenged when he heard a scuttling sound behind him.

He spun around, vision blurring from the sudden anxiety of being snuck upon, but there was nothing there.

There was a rustling near the pool, a shift in the palm fronds scattered about. A huge iguana ran out to greet Dillon with ancient, reptilian eyes.

Dillon had a deep, visceral hatred of reptiles. The cold-blooded descendants of the saurians inspired a terror and disgust within him. Flipping open his switch-blade, Dillon taunted the iguana to draw closer so he could chop it up.

He remembered that Keira had kept a pet iguana. Dillon was always repulsed by the sight of it. It was just at that moment that he remembered the story, about how Keira had purchased the lizard at the flea market from gypsies, and how it was her protector, and would always keep a vigilant eye over her. What little good it did her in the end.

Could this be the same animal? It seemed impossible. Surely Keira’s pet would be dead by now. Iguanas imported from South America and loosed by their owners had bred like rabbits in South Florida and become a nuisance.

This one had cloudy gray scales and big, baleful eyes. While Dillon sat frozen, the iguana opened its mouth, extended its dewlap and made a hideous cry.

In an instant the creature scuttled forward violently and locked its jaw onto the fleshy part of Dillon’s arm.

It was off and away before Dillon could bring the knife down.

Probably infected, Dillon observed the wound more closely. Tiny teeth marks glowed bruise-purple before the blood started to flow between the torn flecks of white flesh.

Shaking from the pain, distracted in his purpose, Dillon resolved to kill this spiky devil, make it pay.

In some dark corner of his psyche he hoped this was Keira’s iguana. He wished he had killed it back then, but he was committed to finish that job once and for all. Perhaps it had watched from its glass enclosure as Dillon strangled his victim and watched the life drain out of her eyes.

Perhaps the iguana recorded the images in its tiny lizard brain, plotting, seething, burning with murderous rage.

That was silly. Dillon brought his attention back to his task.

There was an old barbecue grill at the other side of the patio. The propane tank was still connected. Dillon squeezed on the gas flow and clicked the igniter. He watched the grill come to life in flame.

He was not only going to kill the lizard. He wanted to burn it alive.

There was a dust sheet by the sliding glass door. Dillon hefted it; it would do just fine to subdue the beast and blunt its spikes and claws.

The pain in Dillon’s arm was smarting terribly now.

Out in the yard, just near the tree line that flanked the canal, Dillon could see the lizard sunbathing and munching languorously on a mango.

Dillon seethed as he scrutinized the nauseating critter. Little son of a bitch. Look at how it chews the squishy fruit. Cold-blooded monster. Hatred in its venomous eyes. These alien creatures should all be exterminated!

Dillon committed to doing his part by sending the iguana to Hell—via barbecue.

He threw the sheet over it. Again the lizard cried out its song of misery. The muffled shriek sent new shivers down Dillon’s spine. He wanted to release the burden as soon as possible.

Back on the patio, Dillon thrust open the hood and tossed the iguana onto the grill. He shut the lid quickly, chopping off much of the tail that flexed spasmodically on the floor.

The crying continued as smoke poured out the sides of the grill. Dillon let out a primal shriek to cover over the sound of the lizard’s death screech.

But it was over. He had been redirected in his business, but the diversion was worth it.

Now he had only to recover the iPod and get out of here for good.

The sliding door was unlocked. The dampness and rot of the interior of the dwelling smelled attacked his senses.

Dillon would proceed expediently.

While the rest of the house had been filled with rubbish and plastic totes full of knickknacks, Keira’s bedroom was virtually untouched. It was just as Dillon remembered it.

The iPod would be sitting somewhere near the stereo. But it wasn’t there. Dillon rushed through drawers and under loose items of clothing until he found it.

The device was long dead, but it held its memory in coded bits. Those songs. Those times. Just the sight of it, in spite of the pain in his arm, brought a smile to his face.

There was a sound behind him. Claws rushing against a tiled floor. Dillon ran out into the living room and heard something scuttle up behind a plastic tote.

No. It couldn’t have been the iguana.

It must have been some other creature. Or maybe a family of lizards had been living in the house?

It didn’t matter. Dillon had retrieved his prize, and he could leave now.

And yet. There was a quiet unease Dillon could not ignore.

What if it had been the iguana? The same one?

He went back to the patio on his way out. He had to know. He opened the lid of the grill.

He expected to see the burnt carcass of the lizard. He had to see it to know that his little side quest had not been for nothing.

It was a plume of smoke that greeted him, through which he could see nothing. Then the hideous cry rang out.

The iguana jumped forward and clawed at Dillon’s face, sending him tumbling backward into the pool.

All fell silent as Dillon was submerged in the murky water. The plastic solar cover completely enveloped him.

He struggled and failed to free himself. He had never been a strong swimmer, and panic was setting in.

Dillon knew he was stuck.

In the faint glimmer of sunlight peeking through the plastic, he could see the tailless iguana deftly swim to the surface of the water.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Chris Maiorana 2025

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com