Category : Stories

Sub Category : Suspense/Mystery

Completely alone and defenseless, hiding in the shadows of a darkened doorway, she watched the light leave an apotheosis eleven-year-old’s oceanic eyes. He fell to the patterned carpet with a thud, still grasping the sharp dagger impaling his side. Making her way to him, she reached her trembling hand out, searching for any sign of life left inside her older brother’s cold shell.
 As she surveyed the scene, she saw the color leave his once rosy cheeks as his skin turned to a peaceful shade of ivory. His breathing began to wither as she inched closer, pulling the knife out of his rib cage and setting it on the floor. She felt something incredibly warm, thick and wet, almost like motor oil, trickle down his abdomen. Kneeling in the crimson pool gathering beneath him, she accepted this would be her fate as well.
Panic suddenly struck her core as a slow moving, creaking sound filled the stairwell directly behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end as she tried shoving his skeletal figure further into the bathroom. Callow yet quick thinking, she yanked the toilet paper roll and let it spin. Unraveling it before her, she gathered up the long continuous sheet of cotton. She then stuffed it down his shirt in hopes of barricading the profusely flowing liquid, oozing from his side and cascading onto the newly finished, white tiled floor. Locking the door behind her, she dashed for shelter.
Tears gushed down her cheeks as she stumbled into her parents’ bedroom in search of a telephone. Locking the door behind her, once again, she reached for the bedside landline. After quickly dialing 9-1-1, she pressed it to her ear. Nothing happened. Her eyes had welled up with water by then, blurring her vision momentarily. She redialed three or four times before looking down to realize the wires had been cut out of the phone. She dropped the unattached head piece and backed away from the bedside table in horror that he was one step ahead. Her heel slammed against her father’s dresser and she felt the back of her Old Navy t-shirt singe. After letting out a screech of agony, triggered by the scorching pain she now felt along her spinal cord, she whipped around. Frantically glancing about in front of her, she found her mother’s curling iron, still blistering hot. Looking around the room, she noticed it was her only chance at defending herself. She unplugged the silver iron and grabbed it by the handle.
Realizing she had given herself away by screaming, she made sure the door was, in fact, locked. Footsteps grew louder and louder until suddenly, shadows could be seen under the door and the footsteps came to a deafening halt. As the knob started to rattle back and forth, she could hear a hint of maniacal laughter spewing through the cracks in the door. Tightening her grip on her mother’s silver iron, she held her breath and hid behind the door, in plain sight. A heavy black boot kicked its way into the bedroom and the stench of fresh blood came with it. He walked in slowly and started toward the bed, leaving a trail of burgundy paint-like droplets on the fluffy cream colored carpet. He inched closer, taunting her as he went. Surreptitiously, she shifted into a striking position, almost as if she were holding a baseball bat. Still holding her breath, she advanced toward the tall dark figure. Moving slowly, she tiptoed across the room until she was standing directly behind him, and next to the loose floorboard near her father’s open closet. As soon as her toes touched that board, a loud creaking filled the silence and she quickly retreated towards the wall to keep away from the steel revolver in his right hand. He spun around with anger and fired off a shot. Misjudging her height, the bullet soared through the empty house until it smashed into the wooden banister. He had missed her scalp by inches. Timidly charging into action, she raised the iron and advanced toward him. She pressed it to his forearm, holding it there, only for a moment before dropping the burning hot cylinder to the ground.
 His roaring cry filled the neighborhood. Unknowingly, he dropped the revolver and his left forearm sizzled as if engulfed in flames. She turned to escape the room, accidentally booting the gun into her father’s closet as she went. A beam of light raced past the window, illuminating the man’s body just enough for her to witness the damage she had caused. Sprinting from the scene, she slammed her parents’ bedroom door shut. After wedging one of her pink tennis shoes into the gap between the door and the carpet so he could not open it easily, she made her way to the dagger lying on the cold bathroom floor at the end of the hall.
 Becoming aware of the fact she had locked the door before leaving her dying brother’s side, she tried busting it down. Realizing she could not get the door open, her next and last option was the kitchen.  
Scared out of her no longer innocent mind, she made a run for the knife drawer, sliding across the glossy wooden kitchen floor as she approached it. Struggling to get past the child safety lock, she made quite a racket. Her brother had taught her how to open that drawer two years prior, but her panic stricken mind could not focus long enough to remember what he had shown her. After taking a deep breath she busted open the drawer. Gathering up every knife in the drawer, she then turned in the direction of her bedroom.
There, in the same darkened doorway she had hid in the shadows of not too long ago, he stood. Towering over her, he let out a deep cackle, as if to tell her she had no chance. Her skin shifted to the same chalky white as her brother’s and her eyes were pinned wide open with fright. Clutching the knives against her chest, she stood petrified, as if her feet were glued to the floor. Unexpectedly, another beam of light radiated in through the kitchen window, blinding the tall man. The light flooded the room, allowing her to slip out of the kitchen and into her bedroom.
Finally, in the safety of her bedroom, she heard a car door slam in the distance. She quickly made her way to the open window across the room. Desperate and scared, she screamed to the dark figure walking outside. As the mysterious figure broke into a sprint towards the front of the house, she hurried to listen through her bedroom door. A strong man came barreling into the house and darted up the stairs. “Sam!”, he wailed from down the hall, “Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”. The man was her father.
“Dad! I’m in here!”, she yelled. Suddenly a rush of fright filled her body as she heard two pairs of footsteps right outside her bedroom door. A struggle began to take place in the hall. Picture frames crashed to the floor. The same black boot smashed through her bedroom wall. Finally realizing she had the strength to stand up to this evil man, she swung open her bedroom door. On the ground before her, her father lay beaten and bleeding; at her feet, her father’s trusty shotgun. Picking it up slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself as the man continued to slash at her father, she tried to remember what her father had taught her last summer. Pumping the slide backwards and then forwards swiftly, she held the gun to her shoulder. Pressing her cheek against the barrel, she took her aim. Taking a deep breath, she closed one eye and laid her right index finger on the trigger. Bracing her fragile body for the recoil, she took one last deep breath in. A gunshot sounded, another body fell to the patterned carpet with a thud and she watched the light leave a man’s oceanic eyes once again.