look in the mirror, you slip out your backdoor, cast a furtive look at the Johnson’s windows
to make sure that nosy prude Sarah isn’t watching, and hop the fence that separates your
backyard from Lauren’s.
You approach the sliding glass door with forced calm and smooth out your jeans and tank
top before knocking. Second after excruciating second ticks by but nothing happens. You
knock again. Still nothing. You grin wondering what kind of game he’s playing. You take the
spare key from underneath the doormat and let yourself inside.
James and Lauren Goodwin’s house is simple but cozy with nothing decorating the walls
besides various pictures of the two of them on vacation, at their wedding, on their honeymoon.
You’re standing in the living room, which consists of a large, comfortable couch, a tasteful
coffee table with some magazines strewn about it, a small side table next to the couch with a
pile of unopened letters and a letter opener on top, and a television. Natural light streams in
through the glass door making everything look wholesome and clean.
“Jimmie?” Your voice tears through the silent house like a bullet. “Where are you?”
After a few heartbeats, you hear a creak in the floorboards upstairs — coming from the
bedroom. Your grin widens as you make your way towards the stairs.
When you reach the second floor, you notice a strange scratching sound coming from the
bedroom at the end of the hall. The door is closed and something inside is clawing at it
viciously.
“James?” you ask nervousness creeping into your voice as you approach the door cautiously.
“Is everything ok?”
A new noise accompanies the scratching. A ghastly, blood-freezing moan that fills your heart
with a black terror.
“James, what’s wrong?” you demand voice trembling. “Are you sick? Should… should I call
someone?”
The moaning gets louder, the scratching more frantic. You back away towards the stairs.
“I — I have to go now, James. But I’m gonna get you some help! And — and then everything
will be fine… Ok, James?”
The moaning becomes a hideous snarl and now fists are pounding against the door. You
scream and fly down the stairs into the living room. You hesitate before leaving, listening to
the relentless pounding upstairs, wondering what to do.
Should you call Lauren? The police? How will you explain how you came to know something’s
wrong with James? What reason did you have to meet with your best friend’s husband
Summer/Fall 2015
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