Dark Keys of Uncomplacency

Chapter 16: Climax

The ash in the fireplace was neatly swept, leaving the floor spotless. Every spec of dust was disposed of. The widowed Mrs. Willamina Sherman didn't believe in keeping a conventional maid or butler. She found comfort in maintaining her own household, polishing the hardwood floors until her hands cramped up. Most days she wouldn't even go outside to retrieve the groceries that were delivered to her. Her solidarity was understandable to most. After losing her husband in the war a decade earlier, she experienced the most excruciating pain imaginable; a fruitless pain that left her arid and without child. Aside from cleaning, music became her life. Before she settled in Baltimore with her husband, Willamina dreamed of traveling to Europe and studying amongst the Beethoven and Bach fanatics. However, expecting to start a family, she was content with singing in the local church choir on Sundays and playing her Steiff piano, which was now situated in the middle of the room. However, its sole purpose in the years passed was to attract all the excess dust in the front parlor room. That is until most recently, she had played it and created a half dozen unique compositions, all with the help of her extraordinary romantic companion.

Her dirty blonde hair draped over her face as she awoke in the dead of night. With not so much as a candlelight beside her bed, she ran to her bedroom door in a panic and peeked through the keyhole. All she could hear were her own shallow breaths. The noise that she had heard could easily be construed as a bad dream—a sudden jolt in subconscious thought. She was not convinced. In another instant she was standing in the middle of the foyer watching as the curtains swayed from the light breeze outside. She had asked her landlord to crack most of the windows in the house to combat the unrelenting heat during the tail end of the summer months.

"Mr. Davis? Richard?", she called out. Her neighbors upstairs had left on holiday up to Maine, after losing Mrs. Davis to tuberculosis the previous month.

She heard no footsteps and no activity of any kind, coming from the 2nd floor. All she heard was the faint drops of water in the distance, falling into the wooden pale she had sitting on the front porch. After the third drop, Willamina was content and headed into the kitchen for a glass of wine to dull her senses. The taste of the dry Cabernet was enough to return her to a drowsy state. With a shaky hand she placed the half empty glass of red wine on the kitchen table and stumbled back to bed.

It was pitch black in her room with the exception of the occasional moonlight that shined between the passing rain clouds. She rolled up in her white linens and let herself drift off to sleep, her eyes getting heavier, like a small piece of coal under immense pressure. Before they closed for good, a dark object smothered the top half of Willamina's face, forcing her to breath out of her mouth. Her heart rate rose as she tried to fight her way out from under the hand that pinned her down. She could tell it was a hand from the four dull fingernails that were now digging into her scalp. As she squirmed left and right she could hear what sounded like a metal chain shaking. The hand over her nostrils smelled like rich dirt and cow manure. She took a deep breath, slipped her arms out from under the sheets and threw a barrage of futile punches. Her right fist fell flush into the attacker's hand and was pinned down. Right before she lost control of her left hand, she grabbed onto the hand on her face and, despite the foul stench, bit down on the hand between the thumb and index finger. The attacker released Willamina and took a step back, grunting in pain. Like a spotlight on stage the moonlight reflected off the brass doorknob of the bedroom door. Willamina leapt for the door as if her legs were still asleep. But when she saw the attacker was regrouping, she quickly got to her feet and ran through the door. Just as she crossed the threshold the attacker got hold of her curly blonde and tugged her backwards. Despite the pain she pushed forward, feeling every nerve fiber in her scalp. As a last-ditch effort she reached backwards for the door and slammed it shut behind her, trapping the attacker's arm in the doorway. He wailed with pain and once again let Willamina go. She huffed and puffed, at a loss for words. All that remained was the will to live and the survival instinct to run. But her swift thinking slowly led her to the realization that she wouldn't get far, barefooted and cloaked in a long night gown. Nevertheless she sprinted towards the front door, unlatched every chain and untwisted every lock and pulled the heavy door open with both hands.