I opened my eyes; the room was empty.
Then, again, but with footsteps.
I turned my head to look at my bedroom door. The darkness produced the shape of a railing, the doors across the hall, a small hallway table with withered flowers forgotten in a vase. The glow of the downstairs light creeping, just barely presenting at the top of the stairs.
Footsteps at the end of the hallway, and a stronger chittering like the clicking was just warming up.
My heart leapt as fast as I stood. My fists gripped the sheets of the bed, as if to steady me. Should I run? The stairs were there. Buthow far were they from that point? They could be right outside the door, just out of sight.
I stood, walking heel to toe to prevent much distress to the creaky wood.
Once at the doorframe, I savored my last breath and stepped out into the dark. In my peripheral vision, I saw the light from downstairs, but also a new shadow in my home.
At the end of the hallway was a window, blocked by a lean frame and the flash of eyes.
All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears before the sound of a click, a flame producing, and the cherrying of a cigarette. The silhouette leaned against the window, head tilted back to release a steady trail of smoke.
What will you do?
I was still, knowing that any movement might provoke him. He could kill me right here, and I suspect I wouldn’t be found until everyone turned in for bed, if he was kind enough to leave the body for them.
His hand snapped out, and an object flashed.
I caught it in the air with only a distracted glance. He was still there as my hand stayed raised, something sharp poking my palm. No movement from the shadow, just the brightening and dimming of an ember. My hand lowered slowly; it was a handkerchief.
Carefully, without peeling my eyes from him just yet, I opened the silken emerald folds to expose one long, porcelain fang placed in the middle.
I had seen this before; the owner of both fang and fabric. I stepped back, faltering on the first step.
Suddenly, a hand choked me with my own shirt collar. I grasped at his wrist—out of fear or preservation, I did not know which.
Only then did I see Silas’s face.
That alone was enough to light my rage.
A scream from the ground floor and the clamoring of chaos sent me over. I dug my nails into his wrist and flung my weight backward, the two of us tumbling down and smacking against the wall before the last couple of steps.
He landed flat on his back, and I straddled his waist, my knuckle digging into his face twice before he bit down on my wrist.
I flung myself back, shrieking as his teeth dug into the skin, dragging a slash in my wrist as I pulled away. He lunged at me, but before he could grab anything more than my skirt, he slumped forward into my lap after a blow from behind.
Phoebe held the butt of her rifle up; a bit of black blood smeared on it from his head.
We caught our breaths, choking back every exhausted breath.
We used the snow from outside to ice our wounds. No one was seriously hurt. I bore the worst of it. I wrapped my arm, the slash no longer bleeding, but the skin slightly raised.
Some of the girls huddled upstairs. Mary was helping to ice any bruises. Phoebe was downstairs dealing with the situation as best she could.
Clamoring ensued from downstairs, then escalated into shouting.
Rebecca knocked on the doorframe of my room, everyone—including myself—looking to her. She jolted her head in the direction of the stairs, holding out the axe hilt first.
I took a deep breath, rubbing my arm before standing. I took the axe from her and descended.
I couldn’t hear much of the commotion through the sudden rise in heart rhythm drumming in my ears. More shouting, then a crashing of metal.
Within the living room, my long-overdue nightmare.
