The sound of her gentle snores rose to his ears, dulled and sweetened by their passage through the wooden floor. The sound was a reassuring one. It meant that she would be deep in her slumber. It meant that she would not stir if he was careful. It would be over before she ever had the opportunity to know anything of it. Perhaps she would cross over dreaming of good times on the lake. It was a beautiful thought. If only someone could do the same for him.
He sat upright and drained his glass. He eased the heel of one shoe loose with outstretched toes, delicately slid his foot from the loosened shoe and repeated the action with the remaining shoe. He pushed the shoes aside carefully, silently, and stood. Turning slowly he squatted and placed the empty glass on the hearth, taking care lest it would create any sound that might carry below. Now, he reached into the darkness beneath the chair with a clammy, trembling hand.
Even despite the fire in the hearth, the gun still felt cold in his hand. And shouldn't it? The blood of a crocodile was cold too. Each ruthless killing machines, designed for a single, terrible purpose. He pulled the gun from beneath the chair and stood again without allowing his eyes to fall upon it. He gripped the open bottle of scotch and slugged upon it, breathed deeply, attempted to clear his mind. There was no thinking left to do that mattered. Any thought he could conjure now was only repetition. Now was the time for simple machinelike efficiency.
He closed his eyes and felt the cold metal in his hand, concentrated on it until it felt like it was part of his arm, metal fused to flesh. He sent the signal to his thumb and the safety released. His eyes popped open and he began to move. He allowed his feet to slide across the floor, avoid any footstep that might reverberate into the room beneath.
His hand and its steel extension hung taut at his side as he glided to the door, twisted the handle and pulled and moved to the hall. It was cooler here. He felt the chill on his brow and his hands. It raised his awareness, increased his alertness. He turned right and moved along the hall in low, gliding steps.
Don't make a noise.
Don't think.
Move.
The pattern on the long rug in the hallway seemed to glide past him too fast, like something viewed from a moving vehicle. Everything seemed to blur past him. He tried to mentally capture the images as he left them behind him, tried to keep his mind focused on the inane. Kitchen door, open, light on. Restroom door, closed, little handprint still visible on the polished wood. Painting, couple with child fishing while birds fly overhead, mounted askew. Hallway rug ends, wood begins. Window getting closer, blinds open, dark outside, rain coursing down the glass in rivulets, double right turn door to downstairs, closed.
He stopped, breathed, gripped the handle in a hand which continued tremble. He gritted his teeth and grimaced, muscles of his arm and hand taut and painful as he began to turn the handle, dreading any sound it might make. He fixed his vision on the centre of the brass handle as it began to turn beneath his grip, gleaming back at him. Turning, turning, turning. It reached the limit of its arc and the door became lighter in his hand, glided smoothly inward. It arced open and he stopped it gently before it could contact the wall beyond it.
It was the stairs he saw before him now. Deep pile carpet and a pine handrail. He moved as quickly as he dared, toes touching each step first, bending slowly, absorbing the shock, minimizing the impact.
He focused on counting steps, mind fevered, heart thumping. One. Two. He could hear his breath, accelerated and loud. Three. Four. A child's toy on the step. His foot had to swing to avoid it. Five. Six. A family portrait on the wall. The three of them, smiling and posing, laying on the grass on a summer's day. Seven. A creak of the board beneath his foot. Eight. An arc of mild orange light visible in the room below. The bedside lamp. So close now. Stomach churning. Mind racing.
Concentrate.
Nine.
It could be a mistake.
Ten.
No mistake. The only way.
Eleven.
The corner of the bed visible below him.
What if she gets better?
Twelve.
She won't.
Thirteen.
Her shape visible now beneath the sheets.
She could.
Fourteen.
Our lives are already over.
Fifteen.
His foot met the floor.
YOU ARE READING
Song, Unheard
Horror***Featured in Fright Profile*** Life has been different lately. She feels a growing sense of dread and wishes for things to be normal. His drinking is out of control. The child seems frightened and withdrawn. And then come the birds. Strange b...
