Chris descended the stairs, each creak of the old wood like a countdown to something inevitable, something sinister. His eyes locked on to the scene below: his son, pale and wide-eyed, was huddled close to Mary. The brute—no, not just a brute, more like a caged animal, muscles twitching with barely restrained violence—paced back and forth, his impatience a living, breathing thing.
The moment the brute spotted Chris, his face twisted into a mask of fury. “Have you lost your mind?” he bellowed, the words ricocheting off the walls like gunshots. His voice was a deep, gravelly thing, full of years spent swallowing rage and spitting it back out. “This is your plan? Leave the hostage alone with the cops and hope to Christ he ain’t gonna serve us up? There’s a goddamn body right here!”
As if to punctuate his point, the brute swung his boot into the bundled rug. The sickening thud was a harsh reminder of Dorothy’s fate, now reduced to a lumpy, blood-stained roll of fabric.
Chris clenched his jaw so tight it felt like his teeth might shatter. “Don’t forget who’s responsible for that body,” he hissed, his voice low but edged with menace. His fists trembled with the effort it took to keep his anger in check. “He’s gonna get rid of them. He knows what we’ll do to his wife if he doesn’t. This is the only play we have right now. You keep running your mouth, and it won’t be the old man we have to worry about. They’ll hear you comin’ a mile away. The old man’s got this, so shut the hell up.”
The brute’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he glared at Chris. He muttered something under his breath—something dark, something dangerous—before slinking to the bottom of the stairs like a predator on the hunt. The click of the revolver’s hammer being drawn back was loud in the tense silence. The brute leveled his gun at the top of the stairs, ready to unleash hell as soon as the situation demanded it.
Chris turned his gaze to Mary. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear, but something else flickered there too—hope? Desperation? He couldn’t tell. He shot her a wink, but it was the kind of wink that could go either way—comfort or threat. Mary’s lip trembled as she bit down on it hard enough to draw blood. She closed her eyes tight, and Chris could almost hear the frantic prayers spilling from her mind, begging for deliverance from this nightmare.
But in the back of his mind, Chris knew the awful truth—prayers couldn’t save her now.
° ° °
Stanley poured the last of the scotch into his glass, the amber liquid trembling as it hit the crystal. He re-lit his pipe, the familiar scent of tobacco curling around him like an old, dangerous friend, and settled deeper into the worn leather of his recliner. The television flickered with chaotic images, the wind tearing through his neighborhood like a vengeful spirit, scattering debris and shoving trees to their breaking point. He watched with a kind of out-of-body fascination as the camera panned right outside his own house. The police investigating the car that his guests had abandoned in such a hurry, others trudging through the storm, knocking on doors and searching yards. The footage slid past his own yard, where a jagged line of missing shingles on the garage roof caught his eye. He snorted softly—just another thing to fix if he survived the night. “It never ends, does it?” he muttered, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, adding the repair to the mental list that never seemed to get any shorter.
His gaze drifted down to a newly placed rug, a dark, plush thing that covered the stain, the place where Dorothy had agonized her last breath. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Who would question a tattered rug? He pressed the edge with his toe, testing it, reassuring himself. No one would know. No one could know.
The news crew showed a line of men spill out of the hipster’s house next door, moving with purpose across the yard, straight to his front door. Normally, he’d be fuming about anyone trampling over his lawn instead of sticking to the paved walk, but tonight was different. He could let it go—had to let it go. He caught the knock at the door just seconds before he saw them reach his porch on the TV screen. Running on a delay, he mused darkly, feeling a chill creep up his spine as he levered himself out of the armchair, joints cracking in protest. He shuffled towards the front door, a gnawing certainty in his gut that the group of shadows the hipster’s dog had barked at in the backyard was now peering through his windows, eyes hungry and alert, ready to pounce if their prey presented itself.
“Good evening, Jimmy,” Stanley greeted as he swung the door open, his voice betraying none of the icy dread clawing at his insides. There they were—four of Lakeside’s finest, decked out in full tactical gear, their faces set in grim determination. He forced a smile, nodding at four familiar faces. “Jake, Franky, Tony—hell of a night, huh? You boys are keeping it tight, aren’t you?”
“Evening, Mr. Lovec. We’re doing our best,” the ranking officer replied, extending a hand towards Stanley, though his eyes were already sweeping the room, calculating. “Mind if we come in and take a quick look around?”
“By all means, Jimmy, come on in,” Stanley said, his voice just a shade too cheery, as he ushered the officers inside. “I take it the search isn’t going too well, huh? Any sightings of them yet? I’ve been glued to the news, but they haven’t mentioned a thing.” He lifted his glass to the television in a casual gesture, but the scotch sloshed over the rim, splattering onto the carpet. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “Mary’ll have my hide if I stain her carpet.”
The officers fanned out into the living room, their eyes darting around the dim corners, scanning every shadow. Officer Jimmy casually raised his nose in the air, catching the scent of something unusual, something that didn’t quite belong. “No luck yet,” he replied, his voice low, distracted. “No one’s seen a thing. We’re thinking they’ve holed up in someone’s house around here, but so far… nothing.”
“All this rain can’t be helping,” Stanley said, shaking his head in what he hoped was convincing sympathy.
“No, sir, it sure isn’t,” Jimmy muttered as he craned his neck to peer into the hallway. His gaze flicked back to Stanley, and his voice softened, “Mrs. Lovec around?”
“Sleeping,” Stanley replied casually, and the smile he forced felt tight on his lips. “Poor thing’s down with a nasty cold. Autumn colds—they’re the worst, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they sure are,” Jimmy agreed, though his eyes were still wandering, his expression unreadable. He sniffed the air once again. “My daughter had one a couple weeks back. Just miserable.” He paused, his tone almost too casual. “Mind if I poke my head in to say ‘hello?’”
“Sure, sure. Be my guest,” Stanley said, waving a hand towards the hallway, his smile tight. “But make sure you tell her I tried to stop you from going in. I stepped in there earlier when all hell broke loose on the television. Thought she’d get a kick out of seeing the neighborhood plastered all over the news. Hell, I thought it might even cheer her up. But no, she damn near had a conniption. Told me the next time I even cracked that door open, the house better be on fire, or I better have a gun to my head. So yeah, just make sure you tell her I put up a good fight trying to keep you out—hopefully, that’ll save me a whole lot of grief later.”
Jimmy chuckled, but the sound was hollow, almost forced, and Stanley caught a flicker in the kid’s eyes that made his stomach drop—something not right, something that gnawed at the edge of his mind. “No need to worry, sir. I don’t think there’s any reason to disturb her right now,” Jimmy said, his voice too steady, too smooth. “I’ll let my mom know she’s under the weather. Mom’s always ready with a pot of soup when someone’s sick.” He paused, eyes darting around the room, and Stanley noticed how they lingered in the shadows, as if expecting something to lurch out of them. “But just to be safe,” Jimmy added, his tone dropping into a near-whisper, “do you mind if we take a quick look around the house? Quietly, of course. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked up tight.”
“Sure, Jimmy, go ahead,” Stanley replied, but his voice felt disconnected, like it belonged to someone else, someone calmer. “I think there’s some leftover sandwiches in the kitchen if you boys are hungry. Help yourselves.” He turned, leading the officers toward the kitchen, each step feeling like it was taking him closer to the edge of a cliff. His eyes flicked to the basement stairs, just for a moment, but it was enough to send a chill skittering down his spine.
About the Author:
Mystery and thriller author K.C. Kissig writes from his home in Northeast Ohio, drawing inspiration from family life with his wife and two children.
