“Bill, bill, resident, bill…delivery?” Dayva furrowed her brow and stared at the delivery slip. “‘Sorry we missed you.’ Flowers from Jason.”
After tossing the mail on top of her keys, Dayva stalked into the kitchen. "Great! flowers. What’s next? Chocolates and a midnight serenade?"
The cupboards, per usual, were bare, as was the refrigerator. A lonely packet of Poptarts sat in the cabinet over the sink, mocking her with its scant nutritional value. The toaster pastries were most likely stale, but at least she wouldn’t be hungry for an hour or so. “They think there are two servings in this package,” she mused as she tossed the empty wrapper into the garbage.
As she climbed to the next floor, Dayva finished her toaster pastries, then entered her bedroom. The spacious chamber was her retreat. Framed photos of her friends and family adorned the walls. Stuffed animals flowed out of her closet. Over stuffed pillows covered the head of her bed. A maple bureau stood off in one corner with a small television and a VCR on top of it.
She went to the bureau, took out a flannel nightgown, turned on the television. Dayva listened intently to a telemarketer who explained that she could make up to $100,000 a year through real estate sales that sounded slightly less than legal.
Glancing at her nightstand, she noticed a picture of Jason that she had taken at Paragon Park last summer. I would swear I had tossed that into the drawer. I should have just thrown it out, Dayva thought as she picked it up.
His blond hair fell wildly across his forehead in untamable sweeps. Eyes that seemed impossibly blue, peered out at her. His light summer tan was visible even in the slightly over exposed photo. A well-defined shoulder was visible at the edge of the frame.
Dayva fell backwards onto her bed holding the photograph. With arms outstretched, she held it above her head as if it were the newest copy of TigerBeat. She stared longingly at the picture. "No matter how good the sex was, or how nicely our bodies fit together, or how muscular and flexible he was, it was not worth the price," she reminded herself sternly. Without looking, Dayva pitched the photo across the room. The breaking glass was musical: a sound of freedom.
She carefully pushed herself up to a sitting position, her feet hanging just above the floor, so that she could see where the glass lay. The mess had nicely contained itself near the doorway.
Sliding off of the bed she said, “Now, what to watch before going to sleep tonight?” She squatted in front of her bookshelf, staring at her collection of films. “We have ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’, ‘The Hills have Eyes’, and ‘What Goes Bump?’ as our choices.” Dayva sat on her heels for a moment, contemplating her choices.
“‘Nightmare’ and ‘Hills’ are both classics, but ‘Bump’ has the cheese advantage.” Again she listened to the silence. It was wonderfully devoid of Jason’s fervent attempts to convince her that the films she liked were nothing more than garbage that caused nightmares and psychotic outbursts. “‘Bump’ it is.”
She slipped the video out of its well-worn case and into the player. A few moments later, shutting out the light, she snuggled down with her head near the foot of the bed, a feather pillow tucked under her chin. The blue-gray glow of the set partially illuminated the room. The flickering light, combined with the dim red glow of the digital clock next to the bed, made her stuffed animals look menacing.
On the screen five barely pubescent teens - who were most likely twice the age they appeared to be - sat in a well lit, cozy living room. They discussed recent disappearances in town with a callousness that would have been horrifying had it not been the result of too few acting classes.
A bright flash of light. Flaring pain. A voice, screaming. A teddy bear’s glass eye connecting with her head. Screaming. CHEATING BITCH! A fist. Blood. Scarlet roses staining the pale carpet. FUCKING WHORE! Another fist. More blood. Crying. A child’s voice. Please, no more, I didn’t. FUCKING LYING SLUT! Another blow to the face. Creeping darkness. Screaming. A foot in the ribs. The emergency room. Questions. Who did this? Did you know the attacker? Check her for signs of rape. I need to go home. He’ll be worried about me. Please calm down miss, you’re safe here. We want to help. THEN LET ME GO HOME! You’re in no condition. NOW! FIX IT NOW SO I CAN GO HOME! Returning home. Stitched. He’s waiting, angry. DID YOU SEE HIM THERE? WAS YOUR HERO THERE TO RESCUE THE POOR LITTLE FUCKING MAIDEN? A raised fist.
Dayva pushed herself up off of her bed and vomited into the barrel on the floor. Wiping her mouth on the back her hand, she glanced at the clock. I only slept forty-five minutes?
The teens were at the house. It towered above them, looming like a large bat lying in wait. Dayva cuddled back into her pillow and stared intently at the flickering box.
The teens swaggered toward the house, up its stairs. According to the film’s scant history, in the last several weeks no one who had been within five hundred yards of the house had been found alive, or even in one piece, but for some reason these kids had decided that they would be the ones to dispel its demons.
“Idiots. Look at how young that house is. It hasn’t any demons or spirits. There hasn’t been enough time passed for it to accumulate any!”
Dayva smiled at the statement. “You’re right, you know.”
“Of course I am. What was that line? Something about it being one hundred twenty-eight years old? More like ten years old. You know, I might buy its age if the house didn’t look so much like a card board cut out.”
Dayva laughed as her company taunted the film; he pointed out its flaws as if he’d watched this movie as many times as she had. “You have a great wit,” she said as she started to turn around to face him.
“No, don’t turn around, you’ll miss the best part.”
Dayva watched as Heidi, a buxom blonde with little sense, was stabbed through the throat. Her scream was cut off by the blood bubbling through the wound in her neck. Her hands flew to her slender throat to try to stop the bleeding. A second later the knife was poking through her abdomen just below the sternum. A swift, jerking movement pulled the blood coated tip between her collarbones. She fell to the floor with a barely audible thump, but her attacker had already fled.
“I don’t remember that part,” Dayva said to her visitor. Her voice quivered as she spoke.
“Oh, must have slipped your mind. You remember how the next one bites it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s beheaded.”
“Not just beheaded! It’s an art; it happens so slowly. He can’t scream for the same reason Heidi couldn’t. His vocal chords are destroyed, but he tries because he’s alive and in pain. Not to mention the fear.”
“Uh, I think-“
“Do you ever wonder why they don’t know?” the visitor cut her off.
“Don’t know what?” Dayva’s skin began to crawl. Not seeing her guest was unnerving, but she was compelled to stare at the screen. She was afraid of what might be perched on the bed behind her.
“They don’t know he’s coming. Can’t they hear him?” The guest’s voice sent shivers down Dayva’s spine. He was holding back. Just below the surface, Dayva could hear barely concealed glee and contempt. “Can’t you hear him?”
“What?” she squeaked. Her breathing had become slow, irregular.
“He’s just outside the door. Do you hear his weight creaking the floorboards? He’s contemplating the knob. Should he touch it? Caress it before he turns it? Or perhaps,” the guest paused, listening to the assailant, reading him through the door, “he should burst through the door breaking it into kindling.”
Dayva strained to hear. At first there was nothing, then she heard a small creaking sound. The house settling?
“Deny the noise you just heard. Tell yourself it was the house settling. Then, you can round that last corner like our friend Heidi…”
She stiffened. He was right. The house wasn’t old enough to settle that loudly. She turned to the nightstand and began to reach for the phone.
“Go ahead. Call the police. Call out for help. They’ll come, but they’ll arrive just a shade too late.”
She could feel his smile pressing into the back of her head. He was immune, but she was doomed. Her attacker stood just a few feet away and her only defense was to cry out like a small child and hope that Daddy heard her in time to save her from the boogey man. She grabbed the phone and dialed the emergency number.
“There is no where to go. No where to hide. No one to help,” her guest informed her in a flat and uninterested voice.
The door shook. First, the doorframe splintered, then cracked and broke. The door flew open, hinges breaking. A man burst into the room, his blond hair matted to his face with dirt and sweat. Incoherent screaming filled the room. Glass and wood crunched under his booted feet.
The picture was in the nightstand this morning…
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