It was two o'clock in the morning. Mr. Stafford was slouched in an armchair, staring but not seeing the mouse chasing the cat on the TV screen. He was home alone; his wife had gone to a cocktail party and would be back sometime around four, his oldest son was probably out with his friends-- he couldn't quite remember, at this hour-- and his youngest daughter... Mr. Stafford paused, scratching his beard. After a few seconds he remembered he didn't have another daughter.
"That wine is really getting to me," he said aloud. His voice echoed throughout the empty room.
Mr. Stafford shivered. The music coming from the TV had suddenly taken on an eerie tone. He looked up and managed to make out the image of the mouse gouging out the cat's eye with what seemed to be a giant spoon. He grunted, rolled over to where the remote was, and shut off the TV.
The next thing he knew, the doorbell was ringing. Mr. Stafford opened his eyes groggily. He was laying on the floor, his hand outstretched to the remote.
Ding, dong. Ding, dong. The doorbell continued to ring.
Who's ringing the doorbell at three in the morning? Mr. Stafford wondered, picking himself up off the floor. And whoever it is is so insistent too. Maybe a neighbor came to deliver some cake. He smiled at the thought and started for the door, singing a few lines of a cake commercial that popped into his head.
All thoughts of cake soon vanished. As he peered through the peephole, a terrifying sight awaited him. A hooded figure, with piercing red eyes that cut through the darkness, stood outside in the pitch black darkness, a few inches away from the door. Mr. Stafford stepped away slowly from the door, his head spinning.
What should I do? He knows I'm drunk. He heard me singing. Mr. Stafford tried to clear his head, but to no avail. He slowly backed into the living room, reaching for his son's baseball bat that was conveniently propped against a wall. The doorbell continued to ring.
Mr. Stafford held the bat in a defensive stance, wondering if perhaps he was a bit crazy and his wife was right that he should see a therapist. But as the doorbell ringing turned to incessant knocking, Mr. Stafford cast the thought aside and prepared to lunge at the door.
"AHHHHH!" he screamed as he wrenched the door open and smahsed the bat at the creature outside's head. Surprisingly, he was met with little resistance and the figure crumped to the ground. For good measure, he smashed where he thought its skull was a few more times until he was sure the thing was dead.
Mr. Stafford stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do. Soon , curiousity overwhelmed him and he poked at the hood of the figure until its face was visible. He was expecting the face of maybe a gruesome witch, or a hideous beast, but instead he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes of his neighbor Mrs. Foster.
He screamed. He screamed like a little girl, as the realization of what he had done hit him like a ton of bricks. Across the street, another neighbor's light flicked on. Mr. Stafford forced himself to stop screaming and waited until the light turned off and he was plunged into darkness once more.
A few minutes ticked by in silence as Mr. Stafford crumped to the ground, whimpering. Suddenly, a thought forced its way through the muddle that was his mind: his wife would be home in a matter of minutes! He could not have his wife see Mrs. Foster lying dead on the front doorstep, nor did he have time to dig a grave or anything of the sort. Grimacing, Mr. Stafford got hold of the sleeves of Mrs. Foster's hooded jacket and dragged her into the house, up the stairs, and into an unused closet. Sweating, he returned downstairs to make sure everything was in order before his wife returned home. On the doorstep, he found the remnants of a crushed cake, which Mrs. Foster had evidently been holding before he had struck her dead. Mr. Stafford bit his lip to keep from crying as he cleaned up the mess.
At exactly four AM, Mrs. Stafford's car pulled up into the driveway and she came bouncing into the house, all smiles.
"I'm guessing everything went well?" Mr. Stafford asked, trying to sound casual. But all he could think of was the body hidden upstairs. He had to prevent his wife from going near that closet. This thought repeated as an infinite loop through his mind.
"Yes, yes, very well!" Mrs. Stafford exclaimed, barely containing her excitement. "But I won't bore you with the details. I know how much you hate parties."
Mr. Stafford was so preoccupied he barely managed to acknowledge her words. As he grunted in response, a faint sound began to come from upstairs. It was a scratching noise, no, now a thumping sound...
Gradually it dawned on him.
It was the sound of an escape attempt. The escape attempt of a body in a closet.
Mrs. Stafford seemed oblivious to the noise as she chattered on. "...and Debbie, you know Debbie right? She got this giant ring for her anniversary next month, but she wouldn't show it to us, I think she's lying, I mean she's not very rich as a store clerk, so I don't know what she's talking about, honey are you okay?" She stopped her tirade and glanced, concerned, at her husband.
"What?" He started. "Yes, I'm okay, I'm fine. Just wondering... do you hear a strange noise?"
For the thumping sound had intensified to full-out knocking.
"No, dumpling, I don't. Are you sure you're okay? Maybe it's that wine again." she answered, reaching out a hand. "Perhaps you need to lie down... here, let me help you upstairs."
"NO!" Mr. Stafford shouted. His wife shrieked and quickly withdrew her hand. "I- I mean, I'm fine." Mr. Stafford continued in a shaky voice. "How about I just sleep in the study tonight, and you'll sleep on the couch in the living room..."
A blood-curdling scream sounded from upstairs cut him off. Mr. Stafford pressed his hands against his ears as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Oddly, Mrs. Stafford seemed not to notice the scream, or perhaps she was just pretending.
"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT NOW!" A muffled wail rose from above them. The sound of kicking immediately ensued. "LET! ME! OUT!"
Mr. Stafford collapsed onto the floor, his heart racing a sweat drenching his shirt.
Suddenly, the sound of splintering wood followed by a defeaning crash echoed throughout the house. Silence prevailed for a moment, and then came the sound of the stairs creaking as something made its way downstairs.
Mr. Stafford was paralyzed on the ground, with nothing but the sound of each footstep registering in his mind. He lost hold of where he was, where his wife was, and everything else. All that mattered were the footsteps that were slowly drawing nearer and nearer, until he felt a presence behind him. Slowly, he turned around to see what was standing behind him.
It was his guilt.
