Low Spirits - The Cruel Chorus

Madelyn Pulaski took the long way home. The extra fifteen minutes added to her drive was an extra fifteen minutes of the cool night breeze blowing through the cracked open driver side window. It was more time for another pair of headlights to appear on the horizon and pass her by. Time she could take to notice where the stars stopped, and where the dark outline of the mountains began.

All that late-night ambiance, tied together by the low hum of the car's engine, eased her into a comforting trance. It was a near silent orchestra of sights and sounds that cleared her mind and help her focus on nothing. This silence was the best part of her day.

But the moment she pulled into her driveway; that silence was replaced with something else. Before her was a large two-story house. 1501 Kennicott Lane. Every single window was illuminated from within, which made it stick out in the now quiet and sleeping neighborhood.

Creaking open the front door; she was greeted with the chatter of a late-night talk show. There was no other noise. She hung up her jacket and slipped off her work shoes next to the only other pair in the house. Ahead of her was a well-worn staircase. It had a stack of overstuffed moving boxes leaning against it.

To her left was a spacious living room. A couch and recliner sat in its center, aimed at a playing television. In front of it sat a small coffee table, which had a remote and a few days' worth of energy drinks atop it.

After doublechecking the door was locked, she stepped along the hardwood floor, and moved to the kitchen. An old beige colored landline telephone could be found mounted on the wall by its entryway. It never rang. To its right was a long hallway that led straight to the backdoor. She gave it a glance. It was empty.

The refrigerator opened, and she stared in. The kitchen itself was small and filled with appliances from the previous decade. The floor transitioned to cheap linoleum in there. The overhead lights reflected off it gratingly.

She ate what leftovers there were and eyeballed the counter. Near the coffee machine was a pack of lightbulbs, exactly where she had left it. The day before, the bulb in the mirror room needed replacing. She had one left now. The upper cabinet opened, and she returned the box to its proper spot.

Walking up the stairs, she made sure to hop over a board in the middle. At the top, the first thing that came into view was a framed painting. At one point it was beautiful, but now the colors were faded. The once lively scene depicting a summer day looked closer to a dead woodland now. Her mother's name could be found etched in the corner.

Beyond the painting, two open doors sat on both sides of the hallway. At its end was a window, it overlooked the backyard. After a lengthy pause, she walked into the first room on the left. Its door shut, and the sound of a shower starting up could be heard.

In her absence the hallway remained empty. The other doorways remained open. The distant television could still be heard. The house was utterly still, and would stay that way up until she got on with the hardest part of the night.

One by one the windows of the house went dark, until only one on the second floor remained. Escaping into the light, her damp hair swayed as she slid into her bedroom, and shut the door. With a twist of her wrist, it locked. Pressing her ear close, she listened for anything. There was only silence.

Satisfied, she reached for the wall switch. Yet the room didn't go completely dark, the bedside lamp was still on. With the invitation of its warm glow, she climbed into bed. After yanking the pull chain, the bulb underneath the lampshade faded. The room did as well, but after a moment her eyes adjusted. She could make out the space, which was now bathed in shadow. Besides this, there was no change.