By the time the afternoon had given way to dusk, the gray clouds overhead were masterfully framed with deep violet hues announcing the oncoming night. Freida was sleeping soundly on the windowsill, her tail flicking erratically every so often with some dream she found herself entranced within, and once or twice she even would let out a little squeak of some muffled meow. The house on Abbott was chattering with the rain that insisted upon falling upon the shingles of the roof, and the streetlamps seemed to be the only respite from the otherwise dreary landscape of the neighborhood that only saw a few automobiles coming home from their work commutes.The bottom of the house--Bartrum’s half--was glowing with gentle light through the water-streaked windows. There was a fire in the little stone hearth, and there was a kettle of water on the stove, waiting patiently for someone to ignite the gas and to warm it up.
Bartrum hadn’t put a record on the turntable just yet, and the silence that filled the lower portion of the house was a living, breathing beast. The television was off, and the tiny dining table was neatly set for two, awaiting occupants to settle into the little creaking oak chairs that were on either side. There was a hum of soft, muted sound from both the refrigerator and the radiator, and Bartrum had lit only the single pendant light that hung over the dining area, casting long shadows everywhere around the scarlet glow of the fire out from the hearth. The key cover to the piano was closed, and the front door was locked, the key hanging on the hook beside the frame.
He had felt it in the air since the week prior--the shifting of smells and certain moments of strange heat--Abbott was altering. Not in the physical sense, of course; in fact, to the untrained eye, the neighborhood appeared as it always had. Children went off to school each morning, automobiles moved to and fro, neighbors trimmed their lawns and complained about the constant barrage of rain with one another in their plush robes and slippers as they plucked up their soggy newspaper from the ends of their drives. The trashmen came and collected bins, a few motivated mums pushed prams as they jogged by, occasionally a dog barked at a squirrel high in the boughs of the trees that lined the sidewalks.
There didn’t seem to be much of a change to those who never spent any time looking for it. Bartrum, however, was hardly able to focus on anything else.
The energy that moved along under the pavement, the deliberate cautious groans from the walls of his home--these things, among many others, had sent his nerves alight since the night of the ordeal with his front door. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for it all, even though Bartrum had asked. The air pressed down heavier in ways in his home that alarmed him to certain thoughts that he had avoided for what felt like centuries, and he didn’t particularly like to dredge them up in the hours when he was alone. His anxieties about what would happen should he go searching for reasons to believe that there might be certain occurrences going on that were waking up after eons of dormancy; shaking off the years like cobwebs and looking around blearily at the newness of the world that they found themselves emerging into.
But perhaps it was the anger of the weather, or perhaps it was the way that Bartrum had felt watchful, patient eyes on him all the day prior at the bank, at the sandwich counter in the deli, and on his commute both to and from work. It could have been the sleepless night he endured after arriving home, rummaging through his basement and searching for the few things he knew would be the most important for her to have once she learned of it all. Freida had been by his side through it all, her great golden orbs sparkling in the torch’s light that he had carried down with him to scour through the cardboard boxes in his excavation. Once or twice she had meowed violently, jolting him from his work, and he would freeze so acutely in the darkness of the damped concrete crawlspace to find her staring directly up the staircase, eyes fixed and unblinking, ears working like radars in the silence.
Stolen novel; please report.
She had been a good help in keeping an eye out for trouble, that was certain. What would become of her after it was all over made his eyes sting with tears.
He stood in the kitchen, his backside leaning against the counter, his arms folded over his handgun. He gazed out the window heading north up Abbott, eyes dancing between the pinpricks of light cast by the streetlamps. Although he knew that there was very little he could do about the situation once it all began to unfold, his handgun gave him a bit of calm strength, even as his fingers quaked upon the metal of the barrel. It had been a while since he had shot it, but surely his muscles would remember how to take aim once push came to shove. Besides, he didn’t have much of a choice now, anyways.
As he scanned the darkened streets, he felt a last beat of hope that Hannah might come strolling through the rain in her little yellow coat, and all would be well. He had asked her to hurry back, yes, but it was too late now even for him to pretend that she hadn’t been held up somehow. Or maybe--and he shuddered as he let the thought flow through his mind--she may have already been intercepted. A cold sweat was on Bartrum’s neck, and he brought a palm behind his head to wipe it away with a shake of his fingers. She was a remarkably smart girl--he knew this quite well--and she was capable of holding her own. Even with all that he had done for her, Hannah had proven time and time again that she was cunning enough to be quick.
But would she know to be quick enough?
Freida saw them first. Her ears went stock straight as she bolted to her four furry feet, her whiskers quivering as she gazed out the window heading southward from Little Brook. Her hide prickled, and her eyes were transfixed into the darkness; a warning. Bartrum swallowed hard, rechecked that his handgun was indeed loaded, and gripped the body of it hard as he pushed forward from the counter, standing firmly on his two shaking legs.
As they approached the house, the groans of the walls seemed to amplify under the storm. The light over the dining table flickered briefly, and Freida leapt from the window sill and raced to the piano, leaping atop it and standing tensed at attention, all her orange fur puffed out in agitation making her look like a sentient circular flame.
Bartrum went through it all in his head once more, trying to focus himself--trying to remember how important it was that he remain calm. She would be home sooner or later, and the shock of it all surely had the potential to rupture her. He counted his breathing--he had done everything he could to prepare for this--and he noted the soft sounds of booted footfalls in puddles cutting through the rain in his front yard. He prayed that he had hidden it well enough so that they would leave it behind, and that she would be wise enough to know to seek it out when the time came for it to come out into the open.
Their footsteps on the porch had Bartrum’s heart leaping into his throat. He took one step forward towards the door, both hands on the grip of his handgun. The house seemed to be breathing all around him. Freida was still as a statue, watching Bartrum with eyes that glowed like chips of moon from the dim light of the sitting room. He knew she couldn’t understand him, but he did take heart in the fact that he was not going to be entirely alone in the end.
A single sharp knock at his door had his pointer finger encircle the cool metal of the trigger. The house waited with him, frozen, as the familiar smell of ash snuck its way into his senses, the fire having died completely in the hearth by then. The deadbolt began to creak, and then slide--slowly, painstakingly--from the lock, loosening as if being turned from the inside.
The door unlatched, and they entered. The house on Abbott rang with the vibration of gunshots.