haven. The phone. The fucking phone upstairs. Damn, he wasn’t moving fast enough. He took two steps at once, almost fell, reclaimed his balance, and hopped onto the landing. He ran into his bedroom and locked the door behind him, huffing and puffing.
His mouth was moving frantically now, praying for survival.
Well, it was more of hoping than praying. He had never understood how or why one should pray. Had never believed in it. As he grabbed the receiver up and set to dial 9-1-1, he hoped that the night-duty dispatcher would act really fast and bypass all the nonsensical rituals of asking countless questions, save them for another day.
When he put the phone to his ear, his mouth gaped open. The phone had gone dead—thanks to his destructively mysterious night visitor, who must have tampered with the phone line.
But why was this happening to him? Or better put, how was it happening?
He trembled as a thousand and one questions flitted around his head, each of them unanswered, each of them bringing him chronic migraine.
Did he leave the front door open when he had made the repeated returns to his apartment earlier? Did he forget to lock the goddamned door? He couldn’t remember. Nor could he recall if he’d opened the main front door to gain entrance the last time he had come back inside, or if he’d just gone in straight without a let or hindrance . If the latter was the case, then the intruder must have had a free access, too.
Donnie shivered again. And burst into tears. He would soon die tonight, and he didn’t even know it until now.
When he was done crying like an overgrown toddler, he wiped his eyes, set the phone back down on its cradle, and moved closer to the door. Putting his ear to the crack, he listened.
The absolute silence of the apartment frightened him.
Cold beads of sweat speedily formed on his forehead.
He stayed by the door and continued to listen, until the veil of serenity got torn apart by the squeal of tires against the pavement.
******
The Outcast watched Donnie scurry up and away into the living room, swinging the door shut behind him. He didn’t chase. Not yet. Doing so would make him lose the taste of the bite. He wanted the taste to last, because he enjoyed the taste better when it lasted longer. Of course, he wanted the game to be furious but not necessarily fast. Right now, he wouldn’t chase. He would only wait.
He pried the door separating the foyer from the living room open, peeped in briefly, realizing that Donnie had run upstairs—just as he had imagined Donnie would do.
Fantastic.
Swiftly, The Outcast walked out of the building into his SUV. He drove about forty yards into the moonless woods (he didn’t use the headlights, never used any lights at all while driving, didn’t even have one), killed the engine, and walked back to Donnie’s place, doing all of this as fast as he could.
Back in the living room, he hid and waited.
In the shadows.
For about five minutes after the car had sped away, Donnie didn’t move. He listened further.
The beads of sweat on his forehead had grown bigger, and the bulbous accumulation plopped onto the floor, watering down the tiny pool of blood at his feet. Blood from his broken nose. It was bleeding and throbbing like nobody’s business, but he had chosen not to take notice of it. And he definitely wasn’t ready to renege on that choice now. A bleeding nose was the very least of his troubles.
Why didn’t he have a gun? The thought rushed to him all of a sudden, and he felt really stupid to have not considered it all this while. A smarter man, a visionary, would have planned ahead to forestall any danger on a night like this.
He looked around for something he could adopt as a weapon. The best thing at his disposal was a metal coat hanger. Not a stellar offer by a long chalk, but he grabbed it, anyway.
Switching off the light to make himself less of a target, he unlocked the door and opened it,
His mouth was moving frantically now, praying for survival.
Well, it was more of hoping than praying. He had never understood how or why one should pray. Had never believed in it. As he grabbed the receiver up and set to dial 9-1-1, he hoped that the night-duty dispatcher would act really fast and bypass all the nonsensical rituals of asking countless questions, save them for another day.
When he put the phone to his ear, his mouth gaped open. The phone had gone dead—thanks to his destructively mysterious night visitor, who must have tampered with the phone line.
But why was this happening to him? Or better put, how was it happening?
He trembled as a thousand and one questions flitted around his head, each of them unanswered, each of them bringing him chronic migraine.
Did he leave the front door open when he had made the repeated returns to his apartment earlier? Did he forget to lock the goddamned door? He couldn’t remember. Nor could he recall if he’d opened the main front door to gain entrance the last time he had come back inside, or if he’d just gone in straight without a let or hindrance . If the latter was the case, then the intruder must have had a free access, too.
Donnie shivered again. And burst into tears. He would soon die tonight, and he didn’t even know it until now.
When he was done crying like an overgrown toddler, he wiped his eyes, set the phone back down on its cradle, and moved closer to the door. Putting his ear to the crack, he listened.
The absolute silence of the apartment frightened him.
Cold beads of sweat speedily formed on his forehead.
He stayed by the door and continued to listen, until the veil of serenity got torn apart by the squeal of tires against the pavement.
******
The Outcast watched Donnie scurry up and away into the living room, swinging the door shut behind him. He didn’t chase. Not yet. Doing so would make him lose the taste of the bite. He wanted the taste to last, because he enjoyed the taste better when it lasted longer. Of course, he wanted the game to be furious but not necessarily fast. Right now, he wouldn’t chase. He would only wait.
He pried the door separating the foyer from the living room open, peeped in briefly, realizing that Donnie had run upstairs—just as he had imagined Donnie would do.
Fantastic.
Swiftly, The Outcast walked out of the building into his SUV. He drove about forty yards into the moonless woods (he didn’t use the headlights, never used any lights at all while driving, didn’t even have one), killed the engine, and walked back to Donnie’s place, doing all of this as fast as he could.
Back in the living room, he hid and waited.
In the shadows.
For about five minutes after the car had sped away, Donnie didn’t move. He listened further.
The beads of sweat on his forehead had grown bigger, and the bulbous accumulation plopped onto the floor, watering down the tiny pool of blood at his feet. Blood from his broken nose. It was bleeding and throbbing like nobody’s business, but he had chosen not to take notice of it. And he definitely wasn’t ready to renege on that choice now. A bleeding nose was the very least of his troubles.
Why didn’t he have a gun? The thought rushed to him all of a sudden, and he felt really stupid to have not considered it all this while. A smarter man, a visionary, would have planned ahead to forestall any danger on a night like this.
He looked around for something he could adopt as a weapon. The best thing at his disposal was a metal coat hanger. Not a stellar offer by a long chalk, but he grabbed it, anyway.
Switching off the light to make himself less of a target, he unlocked the door and opened it,
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