DESPERATE

35

Randall had never feared the dark. He was accustomed to stalking in the shadows, waiting for his victims. But when he heard a creepy voice and the lights went out, he felt a jolt of terror. He fumbled in the dark for the tied up neighbor on the floor. He reached out and placed his hands on her chest, and gave it a little squeeze. She shrieked, "You pervert! Get your filthy paws off me!"

The neighbor’s voice was like a drill in his skull, and Randall retreated. "Why are the damn lights off?" he yelled.

"How should I know? It could be a blackout. Just let me go, so I can check the power switch in the basement," she said, trying to persuade the little man to loosen her bonds.

"Don't even think about it. We're staying here until the lights are on again. And you're going to tell me the truth. How did your stepdad die?" he said, sitting cross-legged beside her. He could smell her fear, and he relished it.

The neighbor's voice trembled as she recounted the story of her stepfather—a man of rigid ways and a temper easily stirred, often leaving those around him in a state of discomfort. His life had revolved around the small convenience store he owned, a place that became the scene of a tragic crime. It was there that some reckless thieves, driven by greed, committed robbery and murder, leaving chaos in their wake.

In a frantic effort to hide their actions, they set the store ablaze, hoping to reduce the evidence to ashes. Yet, the vigilant gaze of the community triumphed, extinguishing the fire before it could claim everything.

In the cold aftermath, amidst the soot and ruin, lay the charred remains of her stepfather, his identity obscured by the fire's cruel touch.

As time passed, the investigation stalled, and the hope for justice dimmed. The daughter bore the weight of sorrow for her mother, who was consumed by mourning, her essence fading in the gloom of their tragedy. Though resentment still festered in her relationship with her stepfather, she clung to a fervent hope: that the one responsible would endure a punishment as severe as the blaze they had ignited.

Randall's focus was unwavering as he listened to her unfolding story. The light turned back on, but with each flicker of the erratic light, the room seemed to close in. The air grew heavy as if charged with the whispers of invisible watchers. Shadows cast a sinister dance upon the walls, their movements eerie and distorted. A chilling sensation crept over him, the feeling of unseen eyes watching and waiting in the silence that followed her story.

A fresh swell of rage rose within him. Randall grabbed her by the throat, his eyes glittering with hostility. "The ghost of your stepfather haunted me for years. It nearly drove me out of my mind. He kept asking for someone named Liz. He won't leave me alone until I find Liz. Who the hell is Liz?"

"I'm Liz," the frightened neighbor replied, a confused look on her face. "Are you some kind of medium?"

"No. I'm your stepfather's killer. For years, he tormented me for robbing his store and ending his life. He enjoyed strangling me in my sleep. I'd play dead, and then he would vanish. Now he's after you. What did you do, Liz?"

"Nothing. You're the cold-blooded murderer, not me. I took good care of my mother until she passed away. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Don't you dare lie to me. You've done something terrible, and you're going to confess. It's the only way your stepfather's ghost will leave me in peace."

"My throat is parched. I need water," Liz croaked.

Randall's lips curled into a snarl. His patience was wearing thin. "You'll get your water after you've answered my question."

Liz puffed out her cheeks, her fear mingling with defiance. She harbored a secret too dark for a stranger's ears, one her husband was oblivious to. "Perhaps a massage would help? You're tense. I'll do it for free. Then you can leave here content and put all this behind you."