Our House
A short story
“Quickly,” Pietro said, tugging Denver’s hand. Their wedding rings clanged like church bells.
Denver glanced at her stocking feet and hoped the stairs wouldn’t creak. If they did, the interlopers would certainly hear and find them. She didn’t know who they were, what they wanted, where they came from, or how they got into the house. She did, however, know that she and Pietro must hide. Must hide.
Pietro whispered, “This way. Up the stairs to the attic. We can hide there.”
“For how long?”
“I wish I knew. Till dawn? Noon tomorrow? They can’t stay here forever.”
Denver hoped that was true. She shuddered. “I’m afraid.” Her legs froze in place.
“Quickly, babe. Tiptoe.” Pietro removed his shoes and pointed to Denver’s pumps. She slipped them off.
Photographs of Denver and Pietro at the beach, hiking, riding a Ferris wheel—happy times—lined the staircase wall.
Cracks ran across the paint between the photos. Denver recalled talking with Pietro about repainting their house—it was long overdue—but that was a big job, and besides, after a time, you didn’t notice such things. Except when overcharged senses made everything brighter, louder, sharper.
The diamond window in the front door refracted the moonlight, casting a rare night rainbow on the first stair steps.
As Denver reached for the handrail, Pietro shook his head. “The handrail’s loose and might make noise.”
Denver nodded. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“Hang in there. We’ll be in the attic before you know it.”
“Promise me we’ll be safe there.”
“They won’t dare visit the attic in the dark.”
“They’ll see us when we pass by the bedroom.”
“The door’s shut. They’re on their phones.”
“Okay.” How can he be sure they’re using their phones?
“Now, babe. No more procrastinating.”
“My heart is racing. We’re a mile from the nearest neighbor. There’s nobody to rescue us if—”
“Babe, we gotta do this now.”
She tiptoed, the balls of her feet never touching the ground, her hand gliding above the handrail. Denver shivered from worry and fear—but she was also in the throes of shaking off that fear. With each step, she trembled less, and her breathing steadied.
The air, sour only seconds ago, now smelled of coconut and pineapple, as if a tropical wind flowed up the stairs with them.
Denver’s pupils, which had been pinpricks despite the dim light of night, flared wide.
She gasped when they reached the second-floor landing. Her knees wobbled, and she fell to the floor with a loud thunk.
As Pietro hoisted her up, Denver’s jaw dropped.
“Who’s there?” called a male voice from the bedroom. “I have a gun!”
Denver turned toward the bedroom door. “I know you do,” she hissed. “But your gun doesn’t matter. Your gun is useless.”
I remember everything now.
“I’ll use it. I swear if you don’t leave, I’ll kill you.” The man’s words slurred, vowels and consonants a drug-addled mash.
Denver ran her hand over her forehead, stopping in the middle when she touched the rim of the bullet hole. She then slipped her hand under Pietro’s shirt and found the two bullet holes in his chest. He had no heartbeat. Of course, there was no heartbeat. Pietro hadn’t had a heartbeat since yesterday when the two junkies murdered them in bed.
The sound of glass shattering had woken them at two a.m. By the time they understood what happened in their cabin in the middle of Idaho’s nowhere, it was too late. The intruders were in their bedroom.
Pietro pulled the chain of his night table lamp.
The man wore a jumble of poorly drawn gun and knife tattoos on his neck and arms; the woman, thin with a gaunt face and muscular arms, had a black rose tattooed to her neck. They were both in their mid-twenties, both with short, greasy hair—his black, hers blonde. Their bloodshot eyes darted randomly around the room. They reeked of tobacco, cheap bourbon, and sweat.
They stood at the foot of the bed.
Simultaneously, the intruders pulled pistols from their waistbands, a malevolent dance they’d done many times before.
The man waved his revolver between Denver and Pietro as if playing eeny, meeny, miny, moe. He breathed shrill, staccato breaths.
“Take our money,” Pietro pleaded. “Please, take it all. My wallet’s in my pants over there.” Pietro pointed a quavering finger toward the chair on the far side of their bedroom.
A lightning fork slammed against the window, bathing everything in an eerie blue light. Jagged tendrils slipped through the cracks between the window and its frame, striking Denver and Pietro, sparking their blood deep in their veins and arteries, a billion explosions they could not see.
The tattooed man said, “We will. But we’re going to have some fun first.” His finger tightened around the trigger, his smile expanding as he squeezed it.
Pietro leaped on top of Denver the instant before the man fired two bullets into his chest.
The woman silenced Denver’s screams with a round to the head.
“It’s them,” Denver said, pressing her palms against the bedroom door. “They’re still in the bedroom, probably crashing or getting high on their next fix. I hear them talking, but I also feel their essence. It’s like the vibrations in a thunderstorm.” She raked her fingernails along the door, embedding long scratches in the paint.
A howl erupted from her throat.
“You remember.”
“I do. It took a while because I got one to the brain.” Denver kissed Pietro’s cold cheek. “It was sweet of you to distract me by pretending we needed to hide until my mind accepted our death. You could have told me I was dead, but—”
“You weren’t ready to know.” Pietro squeezed Denver’s hand and looked toward the bedroom. “What do you want to do to them, babe?”
“A lot.”
If you enjoyed Our House, I think you’ll also like my short story, The Better Pill.
Very good!
That was disturbing.