There had been an incident long ago where a child had seen me in the reflection of one of the windows before they’d broken out, and the last thing I wanted was to scare them off with an act of stupidity. I waited, forcing patience as he walked over and peered through one of the decayed, broken windows.
“Looks in pretty bad shape,” the third one said, shielding his eyes and scanning the interior. “Wait.”
He’d spotted the lumps on the floor, and excitement quivered within me.
“There’s something inside,” he said.
“Harris, you’re not going in there. Just leave it alone.”
“What is it?” the second said, coming up on his side.
“Don’t know. Looks like old clothes, or maybe a sack or something. See?” and he pointed through the window, his hand and half his forearm inside.
I concentrated on the tree behind the woman: tall, probably three times my prison’s height, half of its leaves yellow and orange and red, a few littering the ground around its trunk. I caught the dance of the branches as a faint breeze swayed them, shaking at its leaves.
“There is something,” the second one said. “Let’s go check it out.”
“Leave it. There’s something bad about this place.”
It turns out the third didn’t have the awareness, it was the woman.
“It’ll be fine,” and the third one tried the door.
True to his guess, the door was swollen by the countless seasons of rain and snow. It took the both of them, the second shoving from above while the third turned the knob and shoved his shoulder against it. They groaned and pushed until finally the protest of wood on wood gave and they both fell inward, slapping against the dirt floor.
The second one laughed as he helped his friend up. “That thing is rotted out. God only knows how long it’s been since someone was inside.”
“Are you alright?” The woman asked.
“I’m fine,” the third said, brushing himself off. “We better be careful not to touch the walls, or the whole thing may come apart on us.”
“True that,” and the second headed further into the room.
“I’m staying out here.”
“Sam, we’re not going to camp here, just check it out. We’ll be two minutes, promise.”
Over the last century I’ve learned how to minimize my presence, how to sink into the background to keep from scaring off possible prey. It took me several decades to learn this, causing me no end of suffering and frustration in the beginning. In point of fact, it’s only been in the last three decades I’ve managed to snare the bulk of my parole.
Curling up in the far corner, fading into the background as best I could, I watched out of my periphery vision as the two men entered. I was half focusing out the window — not directly at them. They scanned the room, both turning on flashlights in the gloom. There was a momentary pause in my direction. I looked away, sure they would bolt and run out the doorway like so many others.
The third held his eyes in my direction for several moments, but thankfully the second shuffled forward toward number Eleven. “Look at this, Harris. Is that a bone?”
He knelt down, and the third followed his course. He prodded the dried mass on the floor with the end of his light. Looks of confusion flickered on both of their faces: they had no clue what they were looking at, and how could they? I’d scored my last victory over four years ago, and having fed off of everything left over the only real remains were weathered and bug-devoured. Even most of the bone was masticated.
Except for the rounded piece of skull, which the second uncovered with the head of his light.
Had they taken more time to investigate the other room they might have uncovered the small hole in the floor. It was near the corner of the main room, and it led down into a smaller room. During my imprisonment I have learned many skills, including how to create lights to lure in those from a distance, and how to show myself at opportune moments.
Another, more rewarding talent lies in being able to move physical objects. As with my senses it took me until the turn of the century to learn how to move an object at all, but once I discovered I could do it I exercised those mental muscles until I could move all kinds of weights. The advantage lay in being able to move identifiable items like a flashlight from the deceased on the floor, rolling it across the boards to my hidey hole near the back.
In such a way I was able to remove all evidence from the previous eleven, so as not to spook numbers Twelve and Thirteen.
Except for the locket from number Four. Ancient, and gotten by accident, it had belonged to a young girl. Made from real gold, it caught the sunlight just right even buried in the grime and debris. It was the one thing which could make me chuckle: reminding me of an elaborate fishing lure, metaphorically used to tease the next one on my list.
“Whoa,” came from the second as he spotted it.
Reaching into the dried remnants of clothing and dead beetles he pulled up the locket. Carefully taking it in his hand he brushed it off, showing it to his partner. Between their eyes flashed many ideas about what it might be, and whether it might have monetary value. “Hey Sam, come look at this!”
Like fishing, the moment always came when you feel the tug of a line and make the decision on when to try to hook your prey. Pull too soon and dinner could surely escape, neglect to pull fast enough and the hook might not catch.
I debated waiting. To get the third in their group was almost too good to pass up, but I was afraid I might not be able to concentrate with all of them inside. I would flay myself if I accidentally allowed them all to escape.
“That looks old,” the third said. “Like really old. See the craftsmanship on it — that was handmade. Wait, see if it opens up. Sam, get in here and take a look at this!”
I cursed, but made up my mind. I slammed the door closed.
The two inside snapped their heads behind them, bewilderment flowing through their faces.
