Page 118 of Sinister

Outside, the storm unfolds in an unending dirge, muffling all small sounds and making it hard to trace out the exact outlines of the noise I have just heard. I strain my ears as much as I can without actually leaving the safe confines of the kitchen.

I try to catch any further sounds—do I hear footsteps? Are the curtains rustling in the dark patch behind the slim-necked ceramic pot near the French windows?—but all I hear is the rain.

My instincts are still on high alert, so at last I give in and take a hesitant step toward the living room.

Usually, I don’t notice it, but the house feels unnervingly large for just one person; every furnishing and meticulously curated décor item casts a distorted shadow.

Get a grip, Valentine, my inner voice mutters in my head, and I am just starting to relax when I hear it.

Another sound—this time clearer, like something being moved or, more horrifyingly, a door being creaked open with the utmost care.

My imagination runs wild with images of gnarly, homicidal intruders, the kind that make you realize, “Oh, no, that last frightening, ominous call came from inside the house!”

“Hello?” I call out, my voice trembling. “Is someone there?”

Real smart, Petra, my inner voice chimes in almost immediately. What did you expect them to say? ‘Here I am, come and find me!’?

Of course, my question is answered with silence.

I can’t ignore the urge to see for myself. I start tiptoeing toward the living room, praying to whatever occult primeval spirit was now acting in place of my guardian angel that the floorboards wouldn’t creak under my weight and give away my position.

I pretty much made a beeline toward the bathtub once I reached home, so there hasn’t been time to switch on the lights or start a fire under the antique mantelpiece.

The dim lighting from the small lamps scattered tastefully around the room amplifies the penumbral quality of the space, its simmering menace.

Some movement at the far end of the room catches my eye; it does look like the curtains breathe and sigh in the wind. But is anyone lurking behind them? I pause and turn in that direction, looking out into the well-maintained garden beyond the full-length glass doors.

My heart is hammering away so loudly in my ears that it’s a wonder I can hear anything else.

And there it is. Movement near the lush velvet hangings, just at the edge of the sliding doors. My knuckles are now white from the tension of my fists being balled up by my sides.

The wind roars and rages outside, but a pool of unnatural quiet has been spreading within these walls.

Another faint sound, a rustle and swipe as if of feet creeping stealthily across the floor. “Who’s there?” I ask in a firmer tone.

No response. I inch closer to the sliding doors, noting how the garden lamps cast haloes on the walls.

This time, the curtains move in a more pronounced way.

Startled, I step back and ask, “Who the fuck is that?”

Of course, there is no answer for this polite query either.

But something more fearful happens: A gust of wind pushes back the heavy cloth over the tall outline behind it.

The scream dies in my throat as my mind races. Thankfully, my legs start moving before my mind can catch up, and I take off running toward the safety of my room.

Fear narrows my focus, and every sound is blown out of proportion as I race down the corridor between the kitchen and the flight of stairs leading to my bedroom on the first floor.

Yet it feels like I’m caught in the sticky maws of some nightmare where I can’t run even when I try my hardest. Though I am no slacker and would define my general fitness level as “decent,” some lumbering fear seems to slow down my steps.

As I finally manage to reach the first landing at the base of the second flight, I make the critical mistake of glancing back, half-expecting to see the shadow following.

But there’s nothing.

Thwack! I turn around and collide with something solid. Staggering back, my heart leaping into my throat, my eyes lock onto the last person I expect to see here.

“Sin!” I cry out loud. “What the fuck? It’s really you?”