Endings, Linda Richards [desktop ebook reader .txt] 📗

it will be locked, but I try it anyway, surprised when it opens. Inside, I understand though. This isn’t someone’s home. It is a grand old house, maybe long abandoned. It smells that way, anyway. Something of damp. And dry rot, though I’m not fully sure what that smells like. Somehow my instincts know, anyway.

I don’t try the lights, but I suspect they won’t work. I risk my flashlight app, though, because I want to be able to explore in the dark. In the flashlight’s dim illumination, I can see that even though there are some furnishings, the place is not what anyone would call furnished. More like the party house you go to when you’re a teenager. Or the squat house that is closed for demolition. Whatever the case, as I ramble through room upon room in the old mansion, I feel absolutely alone.

And then I don’t.

I’m not sure what the shift is, but I feel it. I am alone … and then I am not. I strain into the darkness to try to isolate what I’ve felt. A motion, almost like a whisper of sound. It is the kind of place where one might expect ghosts, but I don’t believe in them.

I creep forward, pushing away the unease I feel. Telling myself I’m being foolish. Encouraging myself.

I suddenly have a clear image of the ludicrous thing I have done here. It is a moment of pure unreality. Like it isn’t happening at all. Like I’m sitting on a couch in some comfortable living room, watching TV. And I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, saying to the faceless partner next to me, “What is she doing? That foolish girl! Why did she go in there by herself ? Argh! I can’t look.”

And yet it’s me. I am the foolish girl. Moving slowly through the abandoned house. In the dark. Feeling the stirring of a creature. Yet, faced with it, I understand the foolish girl—all those foolish girls—better now. There are times in life where you simply have no choice.

And here I am.

As I move through the house, my eyes adjust to the full darkness and, with the help of my weak little flashlight app, I can make out edges of grandeur. This isn’t just a big house. This is the sort of high-rent pile where robber barons of a certain era parked their wives to keep them from finding out about their mistresses.

From the spacious foyer, there is a large living area to my left, a dining room to my right, and a spiral staircase that sweeps up. Having circumnavigated the entire foyer, I stand in the center of it, deciding. I hear no sounds and nothing to inform my decision, so I head up the staircase if for no other reason than I can’t think why I should not.

I creep up slowly, single step after step. I am being cautious in the dark. Watchful of my feet, but also listening for any type of noise. I don’t hear anything.

At the top of the stairs, a long hallway goes off in either direction. When I look to my left, I see a dim light at the end of the gallery. I taste blood and realize I’ve bitten down on my tongue. Hard.

I stand there, at the top of the steps, briefly motionless, feeling like a deer and the headlights are bearing down.

A part of me—the grown-up, sensible part—thinks I should turn around, go back down the stairs. Maybe even back to the safety of the car; the dog. But forward seems safer than back. There is a reason for the light. I don’t want it behind me and begin to inch in that direction. I am afraid, but I remind myself that’s why I’m here. On the one hand, I am afraid to find him. On the other, it’s the only thing I want. I draw the gun from my bag, prepare it for action, and start inching forward again.

It’s a long way from the top of the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. At least, it seems that way to me, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. It’s like some special kind of yoga, that’s what I tell myself. One that tests every part of my resolve and stealth. It tests everything that I have trained.

And I tell myself that this is it. This is the thing I have worked for all of this time. I coach myself to silence. I remind myself of every single thing I have learned. Finally. I have him almost in my sights. I won’t make the same mistake this time. I am shaking slightly, but I know it is with excitement as well as fear. William Atwater dies today. I make my heart into a stone.

When I finally reach the end of the hallway, I hold myself back from entering the room. I will myself to perfect stillness. Suspend, even, taking deep breaths. The ones I take are measured, practiced. It’s a kind of meditation, this waiting for the perfect moment. Kundalini yoga: take a deep breath and hold it. Hold it until you can’t. Then breathe deeper still.

In my breath-suspended state, I listen from the deep, shadowy darkness of the hallway; I listen for sounds of motion or activity. I don’t hear anything. And then I do. Breathing: rapid in, rapid out. And a skittering. Like claws on wood. I imagine a giant rat.

I know I can’t stay there, hidden in shadows, in the hallway, any longer. It comes to me suddenly that nothing moves forward until I do. And so I enter the room, gun held in front of me, two-handed and ready for anything. Or so I think. But I am not prepared for what I see.

The first thing I am aware of are the puppy’s golden eyes. They brighten when he sees me, and his tail wags hopefully, but that’s all that is in him: less than what is usual. He