Old Foes

Table of Contents

The man in the blue overalls stood at the end of Maple Street, rainwater dripping from the brim of his cap. His gloved hands gripped a small, dented toolbox, the kind that seemed to have seen decades of service. From a distance, he looked like any other tradesman—ordinary, forgettable. That was the point.

His van, parked two houses down, bore no logo, no phone number—just a streaky coat of white paint that hid whatever business name had been there before. Inside, carefully packed under a false bottom, sat a dozen small bottles of murky liquid, each labeled with a letter and number combination only he understood.

When he approached the quaint, two-story house at 47 Maple, he walked with the slow, easy gait of a man whose profession had brought him into hundreds of homes. He knocked twice. The door opened to reveal a couple in their mid-thirties. They looked surprised to see him.

“Afternoon,”

He said warmly.

“ I just finished a plumbing job for your neighbors, the Martins. Thought I’d check—any leaks or problems I can help with? Saves you from having to call later.”

The couple exchanged a look. Coincidentally, they had been meaning to call someone. Their kitchen sink had been leaking for days, water pooling under the cabinets and leaving a faint smell of mildew.

“Well, actually…”

The husband began, motioning him inside. The man followed them into the kitchen, setting his toolbox on the counter. As they explained the problem, his eyes darted across the room—not to the pipes or the sink, but to the neatly arranged pantry shelves, the fruit bowl, the open bottle of wine breathing on the counter. The leak was minor, nothing more than a loose seal on the drainpipe. Something he could fix in under ten minutes. But he wasn’t here for the sink.

As the couple excused themselves to get ready for work apologizing for leaving him unsupervised, he opened his toolbox. Not the main compartment, the one that held wrenches and sealant, but the narrow side panel. Inside, cushioned in foam, was a tiny glass vial filled with cloudy liquid. The label read B3.

Moving quickly, he added a few drops to the half-empty carton of milk in the fridge. Another into the jar of honey. A few more into the open wine bottle. He was careful—only trace amounts, enough to accumulate over a few meals. The effects wouldn’t be immediate. That was part of his design.

He worked silently, fixing the leak with precise movements, wiping down the area so there would be no sign he’d been there. By the time the couple returned, he had packed up his tools and was stepping toward the front door.

“How much do we owe you?”

The wife asked, reaching for her purse.

“Don’t worry about it,”

He said with a polite smile.

“Consider it a neighborly favor.”

They insisted, but he refused. No trail, no receipt, nothing to connect him to this house later. As he stepped out into the damp street, he pulled a small, weathered notebook from his jacket pocket. The cover was cracked, the edges stained from years of handling. Inside was a handwritten list of names, each accompanied by an address and, in some cases, a place of work.

He flipped to the second page and drew a neat line through the name: Harris, Mark & Lily. The list had started more than twenty years ago, back in high school, when he was nothing but a skinny, awkward boy with cheap clothes and a nervous stutter. Back when Mark Harris had shoved him into lockers, poured milk into his backpack, and laughed as Lily called him “rat boy” in front of the cafeteria. Back when nobody had stepped in to help.

The list had grown over the years not just school bullies, but anyone who had taken advantage of him, humiliated him, or treated him as if he were invisible. Teachers. Employers. Neighbors. Even family. Now, one by one, they were being crossed out.

Back in his van, he turned the key, the engine coughing before catching. He drove slowly down the street, eyes scanning the neat lawns and curtained windows. Somewhere inside 47 Maple, Mark and Lily were putting their coats on, grabbing their travel mugs, maybe even pouring one last splash of milk into their coffee.

He imagined the days ahead. The fatigue. The stomach cramps. The slow, creeping weakness. The doctor visits that would turn up nothing conclusive. The inevitable downward spiral into confusion, organ failure, and silence.

The beauty of it was in its subtlety. No forced entry. No struggle. Just an unexpected kindness from a stranger who had come to fix a leak. The rain began to fall harder as he reached the end of the block. He parked under the skeletal branches of an elm tree, flipping to the next name on the list.

“Davison, Claire – 52 Pine Ridge Apartments.”

She had been his supervisor at his first job out of high school. She’d told him to “smile more” when he was already working twelve-hour shifts, docked his pay over petty mistakes, and humiliated him in front of the staff.

He pictured her face older now, perhaps softer with time. It didn’t matter. The past never really faded for people like him. He reached for another vial, this one labeled A7, and slipped it into his pocket. The plan would be the same. The disguise, the knock at the door, the polite offer of help. People always let plumbers in. They never questioned the man who fixed their pipes, tightened their fittings, made the water run smoothly again.

What they didn’t realize was that water wasn’t the only thing he could make flow. Somewhere deep inside, under the calm, neighborly smile, a darker satisfaction was blooming. Not rage. Not anymore. Rage had burned out years ago, leaving something colder and sharper in its place. He didn’t kill out of passion. He killed out of balance.

By the time he drove away from 52 Pine Ridge, another line would be drawn in the notebook. Another ghost would join the silent crowd gathering behind him. And he would keep going, street by street, name by name, until the list was gone.