Nyctophilia

The Death

Hubert Foster opened the door of his house, only to be welcomed by his dog, a large black Labrador from whose mouth there was a constant dripping of saliva. He made his way to the living room, greeting the sight of his son, wearing black trousers and a green turtleneck sweater, curled up in a big leather armchair, reading a thick volume of classics. A pair of bright blue eyes would look up every now and then, observing Hubert's movements across the room, making him uncomfortable. Every time those eyes glanced at him, he would feel as if his soul was being penetrated with something as sharp as a meat knife, as if they knew all his secrets. Nevertheless, he would pretend as if it hardly bothered him, and then those eyes would go back to the thick volume, ravenously absorbing all the words.

"John, my son, how're you feeling today? All okay?"

Those blue eyes looked up, sparkling with a hint of annoyance at being disturbed. There was a small murmur from behind the book.

"What's that? Speak up, son," said Hubert, as he took his coat off and hung it on the coat-hanger.

John set his book down at the side table and stood up, opening his mouth to speak, but the words turned into a violent coughing fit, making him fall to his knees in a matter of seconds. Hubert rushed towards him, grabbing a glass of water from the table, only to find John clutching his chest, still recovering and looking at the carpet.

Blood.

Red-maroon drops of blood stained the carpet. Eyes wide with horror, Hubert met his son's eyes, which were equally wide with panic.

"Good God, John!" cried Hubert. Handing him the glass of water, he got up and rushed to the telephone, which was kept on his desk. Furiously dialling the numbers, he waited impatiently until a woman on the other end picked up.
In the most polite way possible, Hubert said, "Hubert Foster for Mr Lancaster, please."

There was a collective sound of someone squeaking at the other end, followed by a pause and the "Hello" of a man, whose voice was as cold as steel.
"It happened," spoke Hubert into the phone so fast that his words barely audible. "What? Oh yes, of course... Arrangements will be made... There is absolutely no reason to delay... Important process... Must wait... Right... I understand you correctly, Lancaster... Then... We see each other tonight?"
There was a strange buzz from the hearing piece of the telephone, and after that Hubert set it down, and turned to face his son.

"I have news for you John. I spoke to-"
He stopped.

Lying on the carpet with the glass of water emptying its contents onto the carpet was his son. The water had now mixed with the blood, giving it a dark pinkish hue. Hubert rushed towards his son, almost tripping and falling over his body. Managing himself, he kneeled beside John and checked for a pulse.

None. John was dead.

Hubert raised his head only to find his maid standing in the doorway, with double the amount of horror he had ever seen in his entire life.

"I must tell Lady Foster!" cried Clarice, for Clarice was her name. She stepped back, about to make her way to Hubert's wife's room.

Hubert replied at quick as lightning. "No! Not a word to Mary, Clarice!"

Clarice stopped in her path and turned back. "Not a word. Promise me you are not going to tell a soul about this!"

"But why-"

"Promise me."

"I do, sir. I swear. But why? Shouldn't we be taking Master John to the doctor?"

Clarice thought that John had just fainted again.

"No," said Hubert, walking towards her. "We won't take him to the hospital as yet. And you will do as I ask you to, Clarice. Not a word about this to anyone. And you will see, John will get well in no time. Now, help me pick him up and set him back on the armchair."