Rolling to my side produces a sigh, but it barely helps ease me into sleep. Images flash over my eyelids and prompt me awake, the pale impressions lingering in my subconscious whenever I surface from my fitful naps. I’ve hardly gotten any rest when my eyes focus on something in the doorway of my bedroom.
It’s a figure.
Amos.
Who else would be an absolute creep and watch me while I sleep?
Without blinking—without even moving or breathing—I study the darkness that ebbs and flows around the figure’s shoulders. Its hand grips the handle of the door, perched so rigidly that it almost appears to be a statue. Is it a statue? A ghost? Have I finally lost my mind?
My suspense snaps when the figure slowly backs into the hallway, shutting the door so quietly that it’s almost as if it was never open at all. Staring at the closed door is all I can do for several minutes when the figure disappears. And then, my hand slaps the bedside lamp.
Light blankets the room, showing me that nothing stands in the doorway. But something was standing in the doorway just moments ago. Could it have been my mother? No, the figure was far too tall. Besides, Mother isn’t like that. Her ire comes in the form of skillfully executed passive aggressive jabs.
While I’m sitting up, something flutters at the edge of my vision. A small business card made of thick, expensive paper with embossed black print flips over on my sheets, catching my attention. I pluck it from my bed and read the inscription.
“Fatherless. Powerless. Helpless. Lifeless.”
My fingers quiver as my eyes widen.
Who the fuck was just in my bedroom?
My legs carry me without hesitation to the dresser on the other side of the bed. In seconds, the cool pearl handle of the Derringer is in my palm, smooth ridges conforming to the shape of my hand. There are no bullets in it, of course, but the box is in the underwear drawer. It would only take about one minute for me to load the gun.
Two minutes pass in silence. Then three. Loading the gun takes less than a minute. The safety remains on as I pad toward the door and lean against the wall, reaching shakily for the handle. Cold air stings my lungs as I pry open the door slowly and peer into the dark hallway. None of the shadows are moving. I grip the Derringer, the pearl handle warming under my anxious fingers.
You can do this, I tell myself. Remember what Daddy told you about shooting. Both eyes open. Only point when you’re ready to kill.
My stomach roils with the memory of how that man coughed up blood before I dumped his body into the lake. No faltering. Just instinct. Will I have the same reaction here in my home?
Sweat decorates my brow as I walk on my toes toward my mother’s bedroom. She’s at the opposite end of the hallway, but she’s close enough that I can sprint if I need. Another suspicion surfaces of her potentially having something to do with the shadowy intruder. It can’t be her. The figure was far too dense, so it was most certainly a man.
Reaching her door takes a matter of seconds, yet it feels like ages when I finally arrive. I push the door open and hold my breath while I peek into the room, somehow expecting to see my mother gutted like a fish with her favorite gems shoved down her throat. Too many horror movies have planted ideas in my head, which is funny considering my life is more of a horror film than anything anyone could ever produce.
But my mother isn’t slit from nose to navel. She’s on her back with her arms spread on either side of her, mouth parted in sleepy peace. Soft snores rise from her nose and she mumbles something, twitching as she rolls to her side. The space beside her is empty.
I guess Amos didn’t spend the night.
Returning to my room feels strange. I didn’t find an intruder, but there was certainly someone who had broken into the house. The business card is proof of that. It wasn’t my mother because she’s not gigantic like that shadow, and it isn’t the style of Amos to do anything so creepy. Sure, he’s a fucking creep, but he’s not a stalker.
Once the Derringer is safely tucked under my pillow, I check my phone, noticing a text from Tomas that demands a phone call. My heart lurches in my throat as I click on his name and listen to the line trill.
The line clicks and he says, “Baby doll, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Something weird happened.”
“God, I was so fucking worried, sweetheart.”
My eyebrows dip together as I relax on the bed. “You were…worried?”
“Something weird is happening in Kansas, Toto.”
“You mean like normal?”
He chortles. “We can’t talk about it now. You should sleep.”
“How am I supposed to sleep after that…?” I shudder, thinking about the shadow watching me. How long had it been standing there? “God, I hate it here. I have so many questions.”
“We’ll talk in the morning. I promise.”