Umbras (Fyren Trilogy #2)

Part 1

BLOOD

Mr. Simpson took off his shoes and opened his front door, walking into his apartment; the aroma of his wife's cooking which filled the house wafted to his nose, stirring his appetite. He smiled at the thought; his wife's cooking always made him feel contented, after a long day working at the bank serving customers, it always hit the spot. He put his briefcase down on the sofa and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson was at the sink, washing up some vegetables to be prepared later on. He came up behind her and gave a hug, his arms around her waist, looking over her shoulder.

'What's for dinner, dear? Smells good,' he said, nuzzling her neck with his face, savouring the smell of her hair.

'It's your favourite, chicken and mushroom soup,' she said with a smile, 'I'm going to make a salad, come and help me after you change.'

Mr. Simpson gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and went to their room, pulling out some comfortable clothes from the cupboard and putting them on. He stopped outside the empty room opposite their bedroom and looked into it. They have not planned for a child yet, but they wanted a child of their own, probably after his job settled down and when they are ready.

He opened the door and entered the empty room, looking around it. The small room would be very suitable for their child. They only planned to have one child anyway, and their small apartment was suitable for that. He stood there for a while, trying to imagine how the room would look like once it was decorated and furnished.

He heard a thud in the kitchen and walked towards the kitchen. He stopped short at the kitchen doorway and stood there shocked, his body weak. His wife lay in a rapidly expanding pool of blood on the tiled floor, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, shock and pain forever etched on her face, the emotions of her last moment displayed on her face. Her throat had been slashed, almost cut in half; her intestines torn out of her body, the blood seeping out starting to soak her clothes and hair.

He knelt down slowly and lifted her up, hugging her in his arms, cradling her head to his chest, blood staining his shirt, but he did not care. Tears ran down his face as he stroked her wet hair, covering his hands in blood. There was so much they had not experienced, so much they could have done, their dreams, their aspirations, but it was all gone, gone in a second. His heart hurt so much just to think about it. He lifted his head and gave a scream of pain, a scream of anguish, mourning the loss of his loved one. He lowered his head and looked at the window. It was open, the curtains billowing in the wind. It was through here that the murderer had entered and escaped.

He put down his wife's body gently and made his way to the window, looking outside. All was quiet, not many cars travelled on the roads below him. Anybody walking away or driving away would have been easy to spot under the streetlights, but there was no one. It was quiet down there.

Too quiet.

All of a sudden all the lights went out. The whole neighbourhood was plunged into darkness. The moon was out, but only provided scarce light on that cloudy night, lighting up parts of the kitchen.

Mr. Simpson heard a sound at the door, the slow sound of the floorboards creaking, as someone made their way slowly towards the kitchen. It must be the murderer, come to finish the job so there were no witnesses, he thought. He groped for the kitchen knife on the counter and grabbed it before kneeling down beside her wife's body, his body tense and ready to attack anyone who enters the kitchen. I will kill that bastard, he thought, wiping his tears away from his eyes with his free hand, his other hand gripping the knife tightly.

The sound stopped just outside the doorway, as if waiting for any movement. Mr. Simpson peered at the kitchen doorway, but although the light was not very bright, he could see no one standing there at all, no silhouette. The only sound he heard was his own rapid heartbeat and the sound of his breathing as he tried to calm himself, but failing to do so, as adrenaline pumped in his blood.