Clepta
It came from somewhere in the house.
Creak.
I snapped to attention almost immediately, focusing my ears on the source of the sound. For a time, all was quiet. And then it came again.
Creak.
My mind began racing. Was it just the dog? The house settling? I held my breath.
Creak.
Thump.
I was sure of it now. A footstep.
I scanned the walls, but my eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the darkness of the room. Was there a weapon? Something I could grab?
The limited light from the streetlamp outside was distorted through the raindrops on the windowpane; the soft amber glow danced and splashed like an oil fire on the pale wall.
Clump.
They were on my floor.
Thump.
Creak.
They were growing more rapid in succession; more confident. Did they know where I was? Were they after me?
Clunk.
Squeak.
It was a door. They were searching. It wouldn’t be long now. I edged my way out into the hall. The hardwood underfoot groaned.
They paused.
“Fuck,” I swore under my breath. For a moment, neither of us moved. I dared not breathe.
Somewhere in the house, the refrigerator kicked into life with a distant whirr. The rain softly pattered on the roof.
Thump.
Thump.
Creak.
Thump.
I flung myself into an open doorway, finding myself in a deserted guest room. The whitewashed walls were devoid of any decoration, and the single bed rested in the corner; the sheets made with near military precision.
Along the wall opposite the door was a small closet door. I ducked inside, losing myself in the forest of coats and forgotten flannel shirts.
Under the door crawled a narrow beam of light. I could hear him, breathing heavy. He was shifting on his feet, unsure of himself.
Clump.
Thump.
Clump.
I could feel him, hovering outside the closet door. His breaths were deep and irregular. The flashlight beam grew underneath the door. I clung to and old winter coat; clutching it so hard I thought my fingers were going to break.
Click.
The flashlight turned off.
Clump.
Thump.
Clump.
His footsteps softened until he left the room, out into the hall; the hardwood creaking under his weight.
I counted to one hundred in my head before opening the door. I cautiously inched forward onto the carpeted floor, slowly shifting my weight with each step. The house was quiet.
I peeked out into the hall, and was blinded by the flashlight.
BOOM.
I was thrown to the floor. Something had hit me, and it hurt.
“I GOT YOU BITCH. I GOT YOU.”
He came into the room, triumphant. He flicked on the overhead light, illuminating my blood which had painted the whitewashed wall in spattered crimson.
I struggled to talk, and found myself unable. I felt deflated. Something was crawling across my skin. Warm and wet. I looked down at my chest, where the rapidly spreading blood was already oozing and bubbling. It soaked through my shirt and began to pool on the floor.
I hurt. The pain was crawling through every inch of my body; flashing and throbbing. Pulsating; like a hammer falling heavier with each heartbeat.
“I got you.”
He stood victorious, flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other.
My breaths no longer brought anything. I was growing lightheaded. My mouth and throat were beginning to fill; thick like syrup. I tasted iron. I wanted to gag, to spit it out. More came.
“I got you.”
On the floor, my ill-gotten gains laid just out of my grasp. A small baggie of pills and a wallet.
I tried to speak. I wanted to beg him for help. I couldn’t. I merely coughed, splattering blood on my face and chin. My mouth was full. My vision tunneled. My chest constricted with each breath, rising less and less with every attempt.
The rain intensified, clattering on the old terracotta roof.
“I got you.”
I wanted to go home.