Chapter 2
Stanley slapped a hand to his face. Of course, there was no knife hilt sticking out of it. His breathing slowed, and he turned to his bed-side table to check the time. He got out of bed and removed his under clothes that were sticking to his sweaty skin.
He put on an orange t-shirt that featured the caption, I like French Fries with my Ketchup, and was putting on jeans when he heard a loud metallic noise sounding from downstairs. His heart was in his throat.
He hastily zipped up his jeans and opened the top drawer of his mahogany bureau. He shoved his hand in between some shirts, groping for his pistol. His hand clasped around it and he pulled the gun out of the drawer. Better to be safe than sorry. Stanley was walking down the second floor hallway holding his gun, when he heard another sound, but this one sounded like glass breaking.
He ran down his spiral staircase with a hand against the wall to keep him balanced. I should really put in a railing, he thought. Stanley walked into his living room, his eyes finding the kitchen across from it. He was already in his kitchen when he realized his foot felt warm. Blood. He picked his foot up and to examine it. There was a piece of shattered glass in his heel. The pain originating in his foot shot up his left leg and made him cringe, when he heard a meow. He looked up at the counter. His white cat, Snowball, was sitting in the sink, staring back at Stanley with his glassy orange eyes. When the realization that the shattered glass on the floor was the work of Snowball suddenly dawned upon Stanley, he exclaimed, “Dammit, Snowball!”
Snowball seemed pleased with his work; he knocked over a metal mixing bowl and shattered Stanley’s ‘Coca Cola’ glass that he bought when he went to San Diego two years ago. The glass and the bowl were on the dish rack, drying, when they fell victim to Snowball’s idea of fun.
Stanley put the gun he discovered he didn’t need on the kitchen counter to his right, and left his hand there to balance him; he was still keeping his injured foot off the ground. He looked at his cat and said, “What the hell am I going to do with you?…damned cat.”
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House of Broken Silence
HorrorStanley has lived alone in the small town of Chestercoine, New Hampshire for seven years, spending his time with his books, his flute, and his television set. What he never knew about his house was that it is also the home of many a restless spirit...
