• K. Lucas

Home Alone

I awoke to the sound of pounding on the door. It took a moment for my brain to shake off the fog enough for me to realize what was happening. I reach for my husband but the bed beside me is empty. Looking at the clock on my night table, I see that it's two in the morning. He's still not home. He works swing shift and is normally home by now.

The pounding comes again, louder, more insistent. Anxiety rushes through me, flowing from my chest to my limbs like hot lava. I check my phone to see if there's any messages but there's nothing.

Is it him at the door? Maybe he forgot his key. The house is pitch black but I decide to leave the lights off. I tiptoe downstairs to the entryway. I try to peek out of the small window next to the door, but i'm unable to see anything. If it was him, surely he'd be calling my name. This stranger wasn't saying a word, just pounding on the door, over and over.

I'm afraid to say anything. I'm home alone, which only makes me more terrified of what will happen if this person decides to break in. If I call the cops, will that be too rash? My heart pounds in my chest as I frantically think of what I should do. Finally, I decide to just say something. I call out, "Who is it?"

The voice that answers me is definitely not my husband. A woman speaks so low that, straining to hear, i'm forced to put my ear against the door. She says, "Please open up." What the hell? She sounds completely calm like she hasn't a care in the world. Almost robotic.

Confusion in my voice, I say, "Do you need me to call 911 for you?" I strain to hear but it seems like there's no answer. I want to open the door and cuss this lady out for waking me up but i've seen too many movies to be that stupid.

The pounding has stopped thank God. Shrugging, I head back upstairs. I climb into bed and then send a quick text to my husband, "Some lady was pounding on the door. Wanted in. I offered 911 but she went away I guess. When will you be home?" The moment I hit "Send," I hear a vibration from across the room.

My heart races. I stare into the dark room with wide eyes, seeing nothing. I reach to turn on the bedside lamp as a cold sweat begins to break out on the back of my neck. When the light turns on, I see that i'm not alone. A young woman is standing in the far corner of my bedroom with deep gashes on her arms and face. A drop of blood drips from one of her open wounds to the carpet. A scream rises in my throat as she holds my husband's phone out to me.

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