Niteblade – March 2009

Through her eyelids, she could dimly sense the flickering light of the candles she’d put around the bathroom. One of them was vanilla. She moved the wineglass in her right hand under her nose and sniffed the peppery and fruity scent that came off the last little bit of shiraz left. She’d had enough wine to feel tipsy, and in the warm water she felt like she was floating, disconnected from everything. Jerrod was still an angry wound in her mind, but she was able to float above it, look down on it from a distance. She could feel tears start up, but these were not the wracking sobs of earlier in the day. Rather, they were the quiet tears of sympathetic grief for Jerrod himself. She’d lost him. But he’d lost everything.

Melanie put down her glass, let her head sink halfway under water, and fell asleep.

When she awoke, the bathwater was cold and she was shivering. Her head was still mostly under water, and she was surprised she hadn’t drowned. Before she sat up all the way, though, she heard a faint rhythmic sound. As a small girl, she’d put her head underwater in the bathtub and snapped her fingers to make the low lub-dub of a heartbeat. This was like that, only fainter, and less regular. It sounded like someone pacing back and forth.

She sat up suddenly, water streaming out of her hair and ears. There was someone pacing back and forth in her living room. The faint sound of rubber soles on her hardwood floors was unmistakable. The only person who had a key to her apartment was Walter, and he had never come over without calling first. He only used the key when she was out of town, to water her plants and pick up her mail. But there was no one else it could be.

Climbing out of the bath as quietly as possible, Melanie crept to the bathroom door. She grabbed her towel off the rack and wrapped it tightly around herself. The door was open a crack and she crouched next to it, shivering and dripping on the floor, trying to hear who was out there. Whoever it was wasn’t making much noise. Just the slow sound of footsteps, punctuated by pauses when the person stopped at the wall.

Melanie looked around her, trying to find something that would make a useful weapon. There were no windows in her bathroom, the walls did not adjoin any of the other apartments. No one would hear her yell. Her cell phone was in her bedroom, and due to an oddity of architecture, the bathroom and kitchen were on one side of the living space, and her bedroom was on the other. She pushed at the door to try and get a look down the hallway and the ninety year old hinges squealed like banshees. The sound of pacing stopped. Melanie held her breath. Okay, don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s probably just Walter. She pulled the towel tighter around herself, stood up straight, and said in her most serious voice, “Who’s there?”

The person coughed. It could have been Walter’s voice, or not. It was impossible to tell. “Ah,” the person said in a low, male voice, “I’m sorry to barge in.”

Melanie let out her breath. It wasn’t Walter, but sure didn’t sound like a robber either. Maybe it’s one of the police, she thought. Maybe they caught the guy who killed Jerrod and this officer came in to tell me. This idea was so comforting that she ignored the little voice saying the police don’t just come into people’s houses uninvited.

She pushed the door open a little further and peeked out. A man was in her living room, but he wasn’t a cop. He was big and sort of shapeless in an old green army coat, staring back at her with a cold, blue gaze. Her pulse raced. She knew this man; she’d given him her bagel that morning.

Melanie tore her gaze away from him long enough to do a quick survey of the room. If I screamed, she thought, I don’t think anyone could hear me. If I go six feet to the left, I can get into position to dart straight to bedroom and the phone. Maybe I should just scream. Will he try and silence me if I do? I really ought to try it. Her throat, however, was too tight for that. What do I do? She repeated the thought like a mantra.

The man blinked, a slow, deliberate blink.

Melanie took a deep breath to steady herself. Play for time, she thought. “Ah,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

He didn’t respond, only continued to stare.

“How long have you been here?”

“You were asleep when I arrived.”

“How do you know?”

The man looked away.

The mental image of this man looking in on her while she slept, naked, flashed before her. Her throat got tighter and her mouth went dry. “Look,” she managed to croak, “what do you want?”

“I want you to get out of my head. I killed that cop for you. Please get out of my head now.”

Melanie’s mouth dropped open but no sound came. The man’s expression looked pained and confused. Melanie suddenly realized that she was standing in her living room with an insane cop killer while she was wearing only a bath towel.

I need to call the police, she thought. How do I get to my phone? Should I tell this guy that I’ve already called the police? Try and frighten him off? No… he’d have heard me on the phone if I had. Besides, he might get violent if I threaten him. What do I do? She began the mantra again. What do I do? What do I do? Think, Melanie.

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