by Frankie Rose
MY HEART slams against my ribcage with a fierce thud. It takes a moment for my head to clear, to figure out why I’m panicked. A sound, the sound that woke me, comes again, loud and clear: breaking glass. I scramble forward in the chair, kicking off the comforter, my ears straining to hear what’s happening downstairs. More shattering. The sound of a heavy boot kicking against wood. My first thought is that it’s Luke, come to try and talk to me, but the logical part of my brain is working faster than the conscious part. Why would he be smashing a window to get in?
Another heavy thunk from downstairs has me out of the chair and fumbling in my pockets for my phone. But I don’t have it. Damn. I run three paces across the room and snatch up the landline, my heart racing even faster now. I dial Luke’s cell phone and hurry to the window. There’s a huge black SUV with tinted windows parked up behind the beater, blocking it in. In my sleep I didn’t hear it approach.
The phone rings.
Rings.
Rings.
He doesn’t pick up. “Come on, Luke. Come on!”
A strange whirring sound downstairs makes me freeze, statue-still, and my thumb hits the end call button. Holy hell, what is that? I tiptoe out into the hallway and lean over the handrail, holding my breath. The whirring grows louder, and I suddenly place the sound. It’s the garbage disposal unit on the sink, churning, churning, churning.
Every single horror movie I’ve ever seen plays out in about ten seconds flat, and I know with every part of me that I should not go downstairs. Instead, I clutch the cordless phone to my chest and soundlessly make my way down the hallway, creeping into the spare room. The walk-in closet beckons, but I don’t make that mistake. I’ll have nowhere to go if I shut myself away, and it’s probably the first place someone would look. No, the reason I picked this room glints in the darkness behind the door, right where my dad left it. A baseball bat, for this specific purpose.
I wait behind the door, the handle of bat growing slick from sweat in my hands, trying hard not to breathe too loud. Eventually I hear the sound I’ve been waiting for over the grunting and groaning of the garbage disposal: a creak in the stairs. Whoever’s in the house is coming. Shit, shit, shit. I peer through the slim gap where the open door to the room meets the frame, squinting into the dim lighting to see if I can make out who is it.
A black head emerges like a specter, followed by black shoulders and a black torso—a person dressed entirely from head to toe in black, a ski mask covering their face. I bite down on my bottom lip, desperately trying to keep from breaking down into tears. The figure reaches the top of the stairs and pauses, head swiveling up and down the hallway, clearly trying to pick which room to enter. I see a flash of silver in the tall person’s hand, and I have to rail against the urge to make a dash for it when I realize it’s a knife. A five-inch long, curved, wicked blade made for hunting, skinning, gutting. I hold my hand over my mouth, counting to five. Count to five and calm down, that’s all I can think.
The figure moves stealthily to Dad’s study, where light still pools out into the hallway. He disappears inside. I panic then; should I run down the stairs? Try and make it for the door? My legs are trembling, half ready to bolt of their own accord, when the cordless phone I’m still gripping hold of starts to ring.
“Shit!”
I drop the phone like it’s stung me and recoil into the corner of the room, fear taking hold, locking every single one of my joints frozen. The phone keeps ringing, echoing around the house from the other handsets dotted throughout the different rooms. But there’s only one handset up here on the first floor. And it’s in here with me. I clench hold of the baseball bat with both hands, holding it out in front of me.
Just breathe, Iris. Just breathe. It’s going to be okay so long as you stay calm. My dad’s voice is strong and confident inside my head. It’s precisely what he would say, and it’s enough to help me edge forward so that I’m back behind the door again. The ringing is cut off by a loud beep downstairs. The answer machine.
“Ave? You there?” Morgan’s voice fills the deadly silent house. “Ave? I’m assuming this is you given the Wyoming number and all. Anyway, I hope everything’s okay with your uncle. I’m seriously hoping you’re gonna be back by Thursday. I don’t think I can handle the funeral without you. Sorry, I know that’s really selfish, but still… Let me know how you’re getting on. Love you.”
The answer machine clicks off. And a gloved black hand grasps hold of the door.
