“Sons of bitches… no good, ass lickin’ sons of bitches….”
Her feet thudded against the floorboards as she stomped to the window and her left fist clenched as she fought the urge to shattered the rippled glass with a punch. Her entire body seemed to be drawn in now, as if she were compressing into a seething ball of sinew and veins. How much time had she pissed away talking to an empty room? Even now, they were probably laughing at her as they scuttled through the woods, calling her an old fool, a stupid hick who could be tricked so damn easily.
Every ounce of her concentration was focused on the edge of curtain that was trapped under the sill and the little flakes of paint that had fallen when they’d pried it open. She was only peripherally aware of the footsteps pressed into the snow that covered the roof outside… the same footsteps which led to the edge of the rusted gutter. At that moment, if she’d had it within her power, Mary would have set the curtains ablaze with nothing more than the heat and intensity of her gaze. She would have beamed all of her hatred and anger into a roaring column of fire that would have reduced the cheap fabric to nothing more than ash.
“Oh, I’m gonna find you, oh yes I will. I’ll find you and you’ll only wish ya hadn’t escaped. I’ll track ya down and….”
The house filled with music so suddenly that Mary jumped just as if someone had snuck up behind her and tickled her ear. . It was the familiar pop and crackle of the phonograph, the almost Spanish-sounding horns and acoustic strumming of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire. But the last record she’d listened to had been Boxcar Willie. Which meant someone had to have changed albums. Someone had to have turned the record player on.
Someone was in the house.
And she had a pretty good idea who.
Mary giggled as she crept toward the door and her eyes twinkled as brightly as the knife she held before her. The damn whelps should have left when they had the chance. Now, they would pay dearly for making her play the fool. Oh yes… they’d pay with their lives.
She passed through the short stretch of hallway quickly but then slowed her pace as she descended the staircase. The steps creaked and groaned every time she’d place her foot upon one of them, but the blaring music would mask the sounds anywhere else in the house. But it was still best not to rush. Did they really think her feebleminded enough just to go rushing into an obvious trap? Did they really think she was that stupid?
So she continued down the steps as slowly as a sleepwalker, her eyes scanning the doorways for even the smallest hint of movement. This would be the best kill yet, the sweetest blood she’d ever spilled.
By the time she was halfway down the stairs, Ring of Fire had faded out only to be replaced by the plodding bass of Walk The Line. But still no signs of life in the house. No traces of her pray what-so-ever.
Her heart pattered within her chest and her breath was so shallow that it was practically non-existent.
“Mary Gruber….”
The whispered voice seemed as if it were right beside her and Mary spun quickly as she jabbed the knife into the darkness between the railings of the banister. The blade, however, passed harmlessly through the empty air from where the voice had originated.
She froze in place and watched for a shadow moving in the darkness. But there was nothing. Almost as if it had been the voice of a ghost calling her name.
From behind her, a child-like giggle bubbled through Cash’s ominous baritone and she pivoted sharply with the knife raised above her head, ready to strike. But again… nothing.
She took the stairs even more slowly than she had before, swiveling her head in all directions before committing herself to the next footfall. Though her heart was now thudding so heavily that she could feel it pounding against her chest and adrenaline made her feel as if she’d had one sip of whiskey too many, she reminded herself to stay calm. To stay focused and alert.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a dark blur as it streaked past the doorway to the back bedroom. By the time she snapped her head toward the movement, it was too late to tell if it had been the man or the woman. But it had definitely been one of them.
In the living room, the record had become stuck and a single line kept repeating over and over: because you’re mine, because you’re mine, because you’re mine….
Four steps from the bottom of the stairs, Mary paused. The knife now felt warm and slick and she switched hands again while she wiped her moist palm against her dress. Somehow, it felt as if her windpipe were growing smaller. Like there was some sort of valve attached to her throat that was slowly being turned, allowing less and less air to flow into her lungs.
And still, Cash continued to chant on.
Because you’re mine, because you’re mine….
The repetition rubbed her like sandpaper on a raw wound. She clenched her teeth and flinched every time the scratchy record looped back. Why the hell couldn’t it just finish the damn song?
Something soft and warm slide over her bare ankle and a sharp shriek burst from the old woman’s mouth as she hopped backward.
A hand.
It had definitely been a hand. The brush of fingertips against bare flesh, the slight tickle of unexpected contact.
But where had they gone? There was no movement from the other side of the stairs, no trace that anyone had ever been there at all
These people moved like phantoms, like evil spirits made of nightmare and fog, slipping in and out of reality as if it were no more solid than a memory.
Mary tried to listen for sounds but the recurring snippet of song drowned out everything . Other than the swish and thud of blood coursing through her temples. Other than her own, irregular breathing.
In a flurry of movement, she ran down the remaining stairs as quickly as she could and pressed her back flat against the wall. She held the knife in both hands now, as if it were a talisman that could protect her from dark and malevolent magic. Edging along the wall, she made her way toward the entrance to the living room. Bent nail heads snagged and ripped at her dress like the clawing fingers of demons… but it didn’t matter now.
Because you’re mine, because you’re mine, because you’re mine….
All that mattered was getting that damn record to stop playing. To regain her sense of hearing so she would have one more tool with which to defend herself. And there was no doubt in her mind now that was what she was doing.
The hair on the back of Mary’s neck bristled as she craned her neck around the doorway and peered into the living room. She’d expected a face to appear in front of her like an apparition… but the room appeared to be empty.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped around the corner and braced herself for the impact that was certain to follow.
But nothing happened.
She’d taken three steps into the room when she heard the whisper behind her again.
“Mary Gruber… :”
So close that she could feel the warmth of the breath on the back of her neck. Or was that just her imagination?
This time, however, she didn’t spin around. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. They were playing with her, toying with her head, and she’d be damned if she gave them the satisfaction of hearing her gasp again. She would spin around and no one would be there… so why even bother?
Instead, she padded quickly across the room until she stood in front of the sewing desk that the record player sat on. This close to the speakers, it sounded as if Cash had taken up residence in her head and she flung open the transparent lid that covered the spinning vinyl disk. With a quick swipe of her hand, the needle raked across the album and there was finally silence.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of second as she relished the blessed stillness of the house and immediately realized her mistake.
Her eyelids snapped open and she saw his reflection in the opened lid of the phonograph. A cruel sneer was spread across his face and, even though he appeared as transparent as a wraith, she could see a cold light glint in his eyes. His hands were formed into claws and he was reaching out for her, mere inches from the back of her neck but still so silent she never would have known he was there had she not caught his reflection.
