The Henhouse

June 2nd, 2019 - 12:13 AM

Justin sat up and patted the back of his head hurriedly, feeling for blood. Black spots clogged his vision, and he tried to blink them away. He felt dizzy, wondering if he might pass out. Part of him hoped so; he could use the sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten more than 4 hours at a time.

Insomnia was a bitch.

He'd never told anyone... especially not his mother, who would have put him on every sleeping pill on the market and have him talk to every therapist within a 15-mile radius of their house. Not only could the family hardly afford this, the thought of having any kind of dependancy – to a pill or, even worse, a person – revolted him.

He rubbed his fingers together. Bleeding, but not profusely. He looked behind him, facing the wooden headboard of the bed. He leaned over, straining, trying pathetically to turn on the small lamp on the bedside table. Finally flicking the thing on, wincing in its light, Justin could just see a small smear on blood on the headboard. He must have jerked in his sleep, smacking the back of his head against it.

He lay back down, willing his idiotic brain to heal faster. Once he felt steady and his vision came back, he tossed the covers aside and sat upright again.

He'd need to get used to this room, anyhow.

Justin often found himself fascinated with how a room changes between night and day... the importance of perspective. In his new bedroom, the cream walls looked gray in the drought of light. The dresser and desk seemed oddly older – like they'd would be covered in a sheet of dust in the morning – and the bed ironically felt even softer than before, rallying to coax him back to sleep. The hardwood floor grew dark brown, about the color of chocolate, instead of the deep reddish tone from the afternoon.

New rooms were always difficult. And nearly giving himself a concussion on the first night wouldn't help matters along any.

He hadn't noticed the total silence in his room when he'd fallen asleep. Now, just past midnight, it was obvious. No tick-tocks from the analog clock down the hall, nor drumrolls of rain on his bed-side window to comfort him here. There were no phones, either, to pass the time, so eventually he got up and stumbled across the room, shivering as the cool floor chilled his bare feet, picking up a black-bound journal and a pencil from the desk before settling back under the covers to doodle. The closed door on the opposite wall was unsettling him. He was used to it sitting ajar at home. He got back up to adjust the door, hoping for some white noise from the living room, maybe, but even leaving it open there was nothing.

Until he heard footsteps from down the hall.

They sounded heavy and methodical, from the left end of the corridor – the living room. Justin got up and walked towards the door, leaning on the cool wall beside it with open ears. He stared blindly down the hallway, shrouded in dark. The footfalls changed sound, as though they'd crossed onto a new kind of floor.

A loud clinking of metal against metal rang out, followed by a scraping sound like a knife being sharpened. The footsteps quickened, heavy enough to draw squeaks from the hardwood, and Justin jumped, slamming his door shut and locking it. He braced his back against the door, body feeling electrified, poised to hold back whatever might try to enter. His chest heaved as he shakily took in stale air, all while trying to ignore a new wave of pain at the back of his head. Could he be halluncinating? Was he that sleep-deprived?

His fingers grazed the door handle, sucking out all its metallic coolness before unlocking it and cracking his door open. These hinges, thankfully, were well-lubricated – the door didn't make a sound.

The footsteps had resumed - slow, prowling. Justin heard a ruffle of paper, then someone breathing shakily, adding in to his own breath. His chest felt so tight, he wondered if his heart was still beating at all.

"Who's there?" a voice growled. Justin's whole arm twitched, accidentally slapping the metal face of the door before grasping its handle as he stumbled back into his room, locking the door shut behind him a second time.

He sped across the bedroom, unplugged his bedside lamp and held it upside down, bringing it back with him to the door as a makeshift weapon. Without the lamp's light the room turned pitch black again. Justin felt for the handle, almost jumping again at the sound of it jiggling. He stationed himself in front of it, holding his lamp like a baseball bat. The metal rod slipped a couple times against sweaty hands as he listened for a jiggling of the handle, for any more footsteps or voices outside. As his heart pounded he scanned his room for hints of an intruder, as though someone might have snuck in while the door stood ajar. His brain throbbed with pain. He wondered if he could fight anyone off if he had to.

He waited. And waited. In the next half hour, his breathing grew steady and even again. The pain in his head started ebbing away, and his arm had gotten tired of holding the lamp, which now hung limp by his side. Still, he couldn't leave the door. Instead he slunk down to the floor, setting down the lamp beside him and propping his head against the wall. He refused to doodle – too distracting – so he tapped his fingers on the floor while he watched the clock on the bedside table tick away the minutes... 12:42... 1:16... 1:29....

At exactly 1:40 a realization struck him. He knew that voice.

It was the blonde boy, Peter.

Then his mind faded into the black around him, half-formed thoughts of knifes and stabbings spilling out onto the chocolate-colored floor.