She watched the house come into view as the gravel crunched under the taxi's wheels. Fingers tightly clutching her purse, she craned her neck, in an attempt to glimpse anyone on the porch. No one. A moment of surprise flickered across her face, furrowed her brows, the wrinkles on her face knitting together, deeply etched. She paid the driver and alighted. Without another glance behind her shoulder, she climbed the steps to the porch and strode to the door. The sound of her heels clacking on the porch was prominent in the dense silence. So dense in fact Sheela began to doubt if anyone was in.
The lights in the house were on. It was as if the house had yellow eyes shining maliciously on that grey morning. Thick, menacing clouds loomed over the small town. She glanced at the watch wrapped around her skinny wrist and tutted. She, her mother, and a friend were supposed to see her daughter's baseball game. Of course, she didn't know what had happened in the house, hadn't the slightest inkling. The sight that will scorch her eyes and break her heart. Her manicured fingernails tapped the glass window on the door. No response.
Hands rideged with thick veins fished out the keys from her purse. The door opened witha click and she called out to the empty house,"Mom, Jean?". The eerie quiet sent shivers down her spine. Her breathing, the ticking of a clock, her muffled footsteps as she walked on the carpeted floor of the living room into the kitchen. The dishes were still in the sink, unwashed. The counter tabletop was gleaming in the light of the lamp above. She called out again. Nothing's wrong, nothing to be scared about, she thought as the absence of her mother and friend further disturbed her. Everything around her seemed odd, wrong. The dishes in the sink, the air she was breathing in, the loneliness that was seeping into her. She looked at the walls.
They seemed to be whispering suspiciously, malovently, as if they held a secret she didn't know. Heart slightly palpitating, she tentatively backed out into the kitchen and walked briskly to the dining room.
A shrill scream tinged with shock tore from her lips. It reverberated on the walls.Her mother was lying sprawled on the floor, blood rapidly soaking her shirt. Her handbag was only a few inches away from her pudgy hand. Jean was lying on the dining table, motionless. Sheela tasted the salty tears on her tongue as a slaughtered cry emitted from her mouth. The loss of her mother and the friend she had known for so many years tore at her heart, as if some piece of her was wrenched out. The bloody sight was like a freight train that slammed into her. She fumbled in her purse for her phone. trembling hands holding it into her ear, she waited for the police to pick up.
" Police here, how can I help you?" " Please, there has been a murder!" she sobbed. " Who are you, ma'am?" the woman asked, the anxiety in her voice prominent. " Sheela Dubenheim" she managed. " And where are you now?" " 16 Ander street" " Alright, Sheela, the police will be coming in around five minutes, stay right where you are-" " Somebody's stabbed me," said the quivering voice of Sheela Dubenheim.
"What?" the woman asked. She could hear the shock and incredulity soaking her voice, but she had no idea what she had just said. The word was a blurred memory quickly fading, as unclear as her vision,resonating in her pounding head. She could not care less. All of what was in her world was the knife tip that was protruding through her sromach, and the scarlet blood on her stark white blouse. Footsteps ,behind her. A prescence, slowly moving towards her. Her mind was screaming at her. No! This can't happen. Turn around, the small voice screamed in agony, frustration, fear. It tugged at her, but her arms would not move. She was stock still. Turn around, it urged. She gave in.
Her eyelids closed, and darkness swallowed her up. She felt something hard slam into her shoulders and her head. Her hands went limp, the phone fell from her grasp. " Sheela, can you hear me? Sheela Dubenheim? Sheela-" The line went dead as aheel was pressed onto the phone and broke it into pieces.
Killling them was easy. Entering the house was not. He had to keep his hate for them from showing on his face and let it boil in his stomach. It was like trying to contain fiery flames, every probe, the slightest urge, a small contact, he would be already on the brink to unleash the vengeful beast within and unleash its claws. But that would not work. He remembered the spiteful, burning gaze his mother gave him. As if he was a pest. When she spoke, it was as if she was speaking of filth. " What do you want?" she asked. The glasses perched on her hooked nose, her white, aged hair tied in a bun. Loose strands were tucked behind her ears. It had taken all of his might to maintain his blank expression. Soon, they'll be gone, he thought. The thought fed poison to his craving to shed blood, and he almost smile. The ends of his mouth were itching to do so. "I need to get my things," he said in a solemn voice. A long pause followed, but eventually she said grudgingly," Your stuff is in the attic" before she retreated to the sofa , leaving the door for him to enter.
He walked up the staircase to the second floor, up a ladder into the attic. It was almost unchanged except for some additions during his long five years in jail. Dust accumulated on the things, and his stuff was no exception. Brushing away some cobwebs, he pushed two boxes out of the dusty clutter. On the two one word was scrawled on one side of each box with permanent marker. " Jim's". He brought them down. He passed the dining room, where his mother stood on the carpeted floor , a handbag on her wrinkly arm, her leathery skin that like on her face sagged on her brittle bones. She wagged a finger at someone, and then there was soft laughter. He could feel the cold knife pressed onto his chest , enticing it to stick it through her. It was time , the knife said in its metallic voice. He zipped off his leather jacket and his fingers found the knife. He pulled it out of his pocket, ran, raised it and plunged in for the kill.
Five minutes later...........
That was satisfactory. He licked his cracked lips. He stood in the dining room, knife held tightly in hand. He let out hoarse, maniacal laughter. Revenge, like the blood, had tainted these walls. He could just feel it, the power surging in him. The spluttering of an engine, then dying, met his ears. He froze. The clacking of heels on the porch. He dashed out of the room to a nearby closet and hid there in the dark gloom.He hated hiding, but he did not want to get caught either. Muffled tapping on glass. It felt like forever. The jangle of keys.
Jim needed to control his breathing. The door opened. His heart was hammering in his chest, loud in his ears. Footsteps on carpet. Dread settled on him as he thought the fact that the person might pass that closet.Immediately after that thought, a familiar scream shattered the unsettling quiet. Jim jumped . It was Sheela. He knew that she would call the police, and he did not want that. So he emerged from the closet, grateful to escape the gloom in it and walked into the dining room. He was too late. Sheela had already given them the address. He knew what he had to do.
Five days later.................
He sat on the mattress with the thin pillow, cuffs on his wrist. He was caught and sentenced to death. A few minutes later the execution would start. Filmed on CCTV, it captured the gruesome murders in the dining room. He cursed at himself for making such a grievous error. The jail was as cold as he remembered it when arrested for animal abuse, and he always felt helpless when he had two burly men on each side at times. The scars on their faces made them hideous beyond description. But he was determined not to shrink away, a dwaf among giants. He suffered the vulgar that was fired at him occassionally, the gloom that drove everyone insane. He took pleasure in the dark thoghts of spilling blood. Those thoughts took him away, like a murky river. The cell door clanged open and Jim surfaced from his thoughts. The warden stood in the doorway, a stern expression on his face. Jim shuffled forward.